Dumbfounded, Jake felt his eyes widen. "Are you saying that Marshall is fuc—"
"That's exactly what I'm saying," Mike interrupted with another furtive look toward Dean's office. "Got a brass set, doesn't he?"
Or a death wish, Jake thought, stunned. Dear God, if Dean ever found out, he'd kill him. He'd rip him limb from limb. Jake shook his head, attempting to absorb it. "Where'd she get the pictures?"
"She wouldn't say. But they were time-stamped from last night. Around eight," he added.
Around eight? But how was that— Jake frowned as the pieces clicked into place. His dinner reservation had been at eight and she'd been there, at the restaurant. Waiting for Marshall while he'd been shagging the Sheriff's wife. God, what a bastard, he thought again. He told Mike about seeing her at Zeus'. "So you know what that means?"
Mike nodded, shooting him a shrewd look. "It means she didn't take those pictures."
"Right. She couldn't have."
Mike arched a brow. "You think she's hired a private investigator?"
Jake shrugged, unsure. "It's possible." But knowing Jolie, he doubted it. He didn't see her putting that much trust into someone she didn't know. If he had to hazard a guess, he'd say Sadie—or maybe even Rob—was helping her out.
Only one way to find out, Jake thought.
Mike regarded him with a shrewd smile. "Your hair looks like shit, Jake."
Jake grinned. "You think so."
"Definitely. You could use a trim."
He agreed, nodded absently, and turned to leave.
"Keep me posted," Mike called.
"You got it."
An hour later Jake walked out of Sadie's salon with a neat cut and the information he'd been interested in. Even if Sadie wasn't Jolie's best friend, The Spa was the first place to go to get the low-down on what was happening around town. Information was disseminated from within those walls with a frightening efficiency that would no doubt rival some of the FBI's best channels. Odd that the only woman who was capable of keeping a secret owned the place, Jake thought with a wry smile. Thankfully, in this instance Sadie wasn't interested in keeping one from him. In fact, she'd been very eager to share.
Just as he'd suspected, Sadie had taken the pictures—the ones of Jolie and of Marshall. In addition, she'd confided that she'd taken many more, that Jolie was amassing quite a case for her divorce and her husband's subsequent take-down as a partner of Marshall Inc.
While she hadn't filled in every blank, she'd shared enough to let him know that things were considerably worse than what he'd ever suspected, and the genuine worry he'd heard in every word she'd uttered had compounded his own. The more he'd learned, the madder he'd become, and as such, he'd cruised around town until he'd managed to put Chris in his cross-hairs.
Chris hadn't been at home and, on a hunch, Jake had cruised by the Sheriff's house. Sure enough, Marshall had parked his flashy little-dick compensation three houses down.
Jake had waited for him to come out of the house, then fell in behind him. Marshall had stopped by the bank, by the post office, and had presently disappeared into a convenience store.
Jake parked in front of the door and smiled. He'd been waiting for just this sort of opportunity. He stayed in the truck until he saw Marshall move to the register, then calmly slid from behind the wheel. Just as Marshall reached for the door handle to leave, Jake pushed open the door—with a little more force than was technically needed—and it slammed into Marshall's face, knocking him backward off his feet.
Blood spurted from his nose and the coffee he'd been carrying had landed on his chest, scalding him. He rolled around on the floor, flopping like a fish out of water, howling with pain.
The clerk behind the counter squealed in belated alarm, grabbed a stack of napkins and hurried toward him.
Grimly satisfied, Jake stood over him. "Sorry," he said unrepentantly, his voice hard and menacing. "You should be more careful, Marshall. Accidents aren't fun and you don't appear to have a high tolerance for pain."
"Are you threatening me?" he asked, his voice an outraged nasal-like wail.
Jake cocked his head. "Merely stating the obvious. That looks like it might be broken. You should probably have it checked out." He picked up a package of M&M's, slipped a buck to the clerk, then smiling, made his way back to his truck. Not as satisfying as breaking the bastard's nose with his fist, Jake conceded as he pulled out of the parking lot, emptying M&M's down his throat, but it'd do.
CHAPTER SIX
Armed with a marinated vegetable salad in a pretty cut-glass bowl—a good southern girl didn't show up for a party, meeting or any gathering of females for that matter, without having the consideration to bring food—Jolie stood on the front porch and, insides quivering, waited for someone to answer the door. The multitude of cars in the drive, not to mention the excited chatter coming from inside, told her that she had the right address. She'd successfully found the secret meeting place of the Future Widows' Club.
And after Chris's performance last night, the idea of being a widow had begun to sparkle with the shiny sheen of a brand new toy.
Evidently too hung over to work, he'd never made it into the office the day before—which had been a good thing because she'd managed to shuffle some things around and had netted another five grand for her cause—but he'd mustered the energy to go somewhere and had stumbled home at the relatively early hour of ten o'clock. His nose was broken, his eyes black, which had complimented both his mood and his soul, if you asked her, and he'd been fully prepared to finish what he'd started the night before—until she'd dangled the complaint she'd filed at the Sheriff's department in front of him.
For the time being, his desire to stay out of jail seemed to be greater than his desire to hit her, but in all honestly—like Sadie had pointed out—she didn't know how much longer that would hold true. He was becoming increasingly reckless, beyond caring. He'd been a hateful ass, so rather than laying into him the way she'd wanted to, she'd excused herself to the bathroom and gleefully used his toothbrush as a toilet bowl cleaner again. Petty revenge, but she happened to enjoy it.
The door finally opened, revealing the taller woman Jolie remembered from the trio at the restaurant. She wore lots of high-end jewelry and a stylish black hat over her short dark bob, one that would have looked nice with a sleek black dress, but hardly matched the trendy pink sportswear ensemble she had on.
"Ah, you made it," she said with a warm smile. Her gaze dropped to the bowl and her dark brown eyes gleamed with approval. "And you brought food. Come on in, dear," she told her, waving her inside, "and we'll get you settled. I'm Meredith by the way. Meredith Ingram."
Somewhat bemused, Jolie managed a smile and followed her into the foyer, where the chatter she'd barely heard outside rose to a delighted buzz. Meredith had stopped and was currently pilfering through a box, one filled with an assortment of little black hats. She decided on one, then swung around and, to Jolie's surprise, settled it over her head. "Oh," Jolie said. "Er … thank you."
Meredith studied her critically, made a face and shook her head. "Too round," she said as she whisked it off. "As you'll hear in a few minutes, finding the right hat is one of the first tasks on your list to prepare for widowhood—" she rummaged some more, pulled out another one and plopped it on her head "—but it can be a real pain in the butt, I tell ya, to find the perfect one." She inspected this one with the same thorough regard, then smiled. "But this one works nicely. It's a little big, and certainly not just anyone could pull it off, but with your hair and coloring it's très chic. Prim and Proper down on the square carries it and it's a steal at under forty dollars," she confided, as though sharing a trade secret. "Let's put your dish on the serving table and I'll start introducing you to everyone."
Petering on bewildered, Jolie trailed behind her deeper into the lovely antebellum house. To the left of the foyer was a long living room and, just beyond it, separated by French doors, was the dining room. A dozen or more women were in each room, all of t
hem wearing casual clothes and black hats. They were huddled in circles, chatted and laughed amiably, and the sheer pleasure they garnered from each other's company pushed Jolie's lips up into a small smile.
"Here we go, dear," Meredith said as she moved a plate of canapés aside. "Just set your dish here and I'll get a spoon from the kitchen." She turned and was nearly knocked down by a small, plump woman racing by on a motorized scooter. The shorter woman from the restaurant, Jolie realized with a start.
Meredith staggered and put a hand against her heart. "Dammit, Bitsy, you nearly ran me over," she snapped. "Go park that thing before you kill somebody."
Bitsy eeked to a stop and, multiple chins quivering, beamed at her. "Sorry, Meri," she said with a chuckle. "I'm still trying to get the hang of it." Her eyes rounded with delight behind her small purple glasses as her gaze fell upon Jolie. "Oh, you came!" she cried happily. "I'm so glad." She leaned in and inspected Jolie's cheek, which still bore the bruise, and tsked softly under her breath. "Heard about that, the bastard. Well, not to worry," she said briskly. "You're in the right place now. We'll get you trained up good until you can put that rounder out on his thieving philandering hide, or until he kicks it," she added grimly. "Whichever comes first." She gestured toward the table. "Go ahead and fix a plate, then come sit down. We're about to start." She tooted the horn and her head jerked backward as she shot off.
Smiling fondly, Meredith let go an exasperated breath. "The great fraud," she confided. "She doesn't need that thing. She's as healthy as a horse. She's just pissed because her kids wouldn't let her have a Harley. Now she's threatening to buy one of those mini-motorcycles." Meredith rolled her eyes. "As if that would be any better. She's blind as a bat."
Jolie chuckled, watching as Bitsy nearly upended an occasional table.
"Go ahead and load your plate, hon," Meredith told her with a glance at the table. "And be sure and try the petite fours before Bitsy spots them—she has a tendency to hide the whole plate, then take them home after the meeting. Sophia makes them and they're divine." Meredith hurried away, presumably to get a serving spoon for Jolie's salad.
Rather than risk insulting anyone, Jolie managed to put a small dab of each dish onto her plate, ladled up a glass of punch, then nervously made her way into the living room and found an empty chair against the wall. She'd just popped one of the petite fours Meredith had told her to try into her mouth when Sophia sat down beside her.
"I'm so glad to see that you've decided to join us," she said, her face wreathed in a welcoming smile. She pulled a small pale pink booklet with a black hat and gloves logo on the cover from a tote bag and handed it to her. "This is your handbook," Sophia said. "It has a to-do list for becoming a full-fledged member—things like getting your hat, your outfit, additional life insurance and whatnot—as well as our official rules and regulations. For obvious reasons, we're a secret society, but I know you're going to want to tell Sadie about us. Since she's capable of keeping a secret, that's fine, but it would be best if you didn't mention it to anyone else, okay?" With another warm, commiserating smile, Sophia laid a hand on her knee and gave her a pat. "Trust me, sweetie. Things are about to get better. We're here to help you."
For reasons which escaped her, in that instant the weight and toll of the past two years seemed to come crashing down on her—for the first time since this all began she let herself fully acknowledge how terribly awful things had been—and though she'd only met Sophia a handful of times, Jolie suddenly wanted to drop her head onto the woman's round shoulder and sob with relief.
Because she got it. She understood.
Not to belittle Sadie in any way—Jolie knew she genuinely worried about her—but there was simply no way she could understand how wretched Chris had made her feel. She couldn't because she had a husband who doted on her, who loved her fully, completely, and without the smallest bit of reservation.
Jolie bit her lip, blinked back tears and cast a glance around the room. But these woman … she had something in common with them, and she fully believed Sophia, believed that, with their help, things would get better.
Jolie swallowed. "Thank you," she said, her voice tight.
Sophia gave her knee a squeeze. "You're more than welcome." She smiled. "Now let's get this party started." Sophia stood and made her way to the front of the room.
"Good evening, ladies," she called above the still-chattering crowd. Smiling, she waited for them to completely quiet before continuing. "Welcome to another Future Widows' Club meeting. Before we begin Confessional, I'd like to take a moment to introduce a new member." Her gaze swung to Jolie. "This is Jolie Marshall. For those of you unaware of Jolie's story, it's a sad but familiar one." Her lips curled with droll humor. "She married the wrong man. He's a thief, a liar, a cheater—" Her voice hardened "—and, as you can see by the bruise on her cheek, a bully as well." She lifted her shoulder in a negligent shrug. "He's a bastard."
The women all smiled knowingly, sending her encouraging smiles and woebegone glances.
"And, as such, she needs our help. We've all lived with one—and some of us still are—and we know what it's like. We know how to help her. Now let's take a moment to introduce ourselves, state our status, and offer condolences." She looked at the woman seated directly to her right. "Margaret, let's start with you and form a line."
To Jolie's continuing surprise, all the women stood up and began to form a line in front of her. The woman named Margaret smiled and offered her hand. "Margaret Bendall, Future, looking forward to your loss."
"Lynn Willis, Official, may the worms feast on his privates."
"Cherry Hawkins, Official, may the devil rot his evil soul."
"Gladys Kingsley, Future, may he burn in hell." On and on it went. One after another the women moved through the line as though this were a true wake and she a true widow, sharing their own particular condolences for the premature death of her bastard husband. Jolie felt her smile growing wider as the line wrapped up, felt her heart growing lighter with each sincere shake of her hand. It was magnificent, wonderful, and more cathartic than she could have ever imagined.
"Of course, you know Meredith, Bitsy and I," Sophia said when they'd all taken their seats once more. "We're the founding members and have since planted our miserable husbands." She shot a look at Bitsy. "Or, in the case of Bitsy, had hers cremated."
Bitsy grinned. "Ashes to ashes," she said. Her twinkling gaze found Jolie's. "Made excellent cat litter."
A shocked chuckle bubbled up Jolie's throat.
"All of this is in the handbook, but we meet once a week, here at Meredith's house."
"The neighbors think we're playing bridge," Meredith interjected smoothly.
"Now, so you understand, our group doesn't in any way wish to offend poor widows who had good marriages and actually miss their husbands. But we're not like those women. Our men were—are—horrible. Looking forward to their deaths is what made—and makes—our lives bearable."
"Here, here," someone called.
"Doing the things in your handbook—fellowshipping with other widow-wannabe's—it's how we cope, how we survive. So like any proper funeral," Sophia continued, "we always bring a covered dish, we wear our hats—they're fetching morale boosters," she said with a fond pat of her own. "And the Future's always confess the progress they've made in bettering their future position as a widow. Be it finding the perfect pair of gloves to go with The Outfit, adding additional life insurance, updating a will, or investing in a pre-burial plan. Any proactive effort is recognized, so when you come back next week, we'll need a full report."
"Finding the outfit is a bitch," one of the ladies, Lynn, if memory served, piped up. A murmur of agreement moved through the room.
"And there's a list of insurance companies that'll offer the highest payout and insure without a physical in the back of your handbook," another added. "You'll still need a signature, of course, but that's easy enough to get with a little muscle relaxant added to his scotch." She incl
ined her head and lowered her voice. "See me when we're done, honey, and I'll hook you up."
"Do you have a will?" Bitsy asked.
"Er … yes," Jolie answered, trying to absorb it all. "We had to have them for the business."
"And you know where it's at?"
She did. It was in a safety deposit box in Moon Valley Savings and Loan. Jolie nodded.
Bitsy beamed at her. "Excellent."
"Okay, then," Sophia said briskly. "Let's begin Confessional. We'll start on this side." She gestured to her left.
Margaret sat back in her chair. "Well, as you all know, Ed's cholesterol is through the roof."
The woman next to her nodded sagely. "Nothing like a good massive heart attack to do the job."
Margaret's eyes danced with mischief. "Yeah, well. I've been dumping his egg substitute down the drain and adding a mixture of real eggs and whole milk to the carton."
A diabolical "oooh" of pleasure moved through the room.
"Very crafty, Margaret," Sophia told her. "Excellent. What about you, Gladys?"
Gladys cocked her head. "Oh, I haven't been able to do anything like that. Robert's healthy as a horse, meaner than hell." Her gaze turned a wee bit sly. "But I did finally talk him into buying a burial package. We've got an appointment next week to go down and pick out caskets, vaults, and plots."
Everybody in the room beamed at Gladys as though this was an absolute coup. "Oh, wow," Meredith breathed happily. "Gladys, that's fantastic."
The woman seated next to her—Lois if Jolie remembered correctly—nudged her. "Those pre-burial plans are great," she confided. "Just think. You get to plan the funeral in advance, so that's just one less thing you have to do when he kicks it. Gets you one step closer to independence and it's a lot of fun," she added earnestly. She leaned in closer, smiled. "I've got Howard lined up. The minute he finally checks out, I'm ready, honey. I'm sitting on G, waitin' on O."
Jolie felt her eyes widen and another chuckle vibrate the back of her throat. She sat back and listened as the other club members matter-of-factly talked about the efforts they were making toward their widowhood, and was struck by the camaraderie among the group. There was a chemistry here, a bond that defied description, and though she'd only been a member for an hour, she already felt like she belonged. She couldn't wait to get home so that she could flip through her handbook and start doing some of the things the ladies had talked about. It was liberating, empowering, awesome even, this incredible sense of purpose she now felt.
THE FUTURE WIDOW'S CLUB Page 5