THE FUTURE WIDOW'S CLUB

by Rhonda Nelson

  He nodded. "All right. Mike gave me the abbreviated facts, but I need you to start at the beginning and tell me everything, okay?"

  Jolie chewed her bottom lip and with difficulty, found her voice. "He was home when I left, in the shower."

  "What time did you leave?"

  "Er … a little before six. I was running late."

  "Did you notice anything odd when you left? An unfamiliar car? Anybody walking a dog, or hanging around?"

  She thought back, trying to picture the scene when she'd walked to her car, then shook her head. "No, nothing, but I … I didn't really look. I was in a hurry."

  Jake shifted. "Mike said you didn't think you'd locked the door."

  That was the thing that really bugged her, Jolie thought. She was almost certain that she hadn't. In fact, she rarely locked the doors. There'd never been a need. Moon Valley had always been a safe place, one virtually untouched by the ugly violence of bigger cities. "I can't say beyond a shadow of a doubt that I didn't lock the door, but I'm 99.9% sure that I didn't. I'm not in the habit of it."

  He arched a brow. "But it was locked when you got home?"

  "Yeah." She moistened her dry lips. "I thought he'd been out."

  "And what time did you get home?"

  "A little after eleven. After my meeting, I called Sadie and dropped by her house to visit with her and the girls. Rob was pulling a double shift. She was lonely and…" Jolie hesitated, then she looked up, met his gaze and managed a ghost of a smile. "And I didn't want to come home," she admitted truthfully. "It's no secret that my marriage hasn't been a happy one."

  Another flash of unreadable emotion lit his gaze, but he quickly blinked it away. "So you unlocked the door. Then what?"

  Jolie thought back, replayed the memory, but had a hard time focusing on anything prior to finding Chris. That image—the absolute horror—was so stark it made everything else seem muted and unimportant in comparison. She closed her eyes tightly, hoping her lids would erase the vision.

  Evidently sensing her train of thought, Jake cleared his throat. "You came in the living room," he coaxed softly. "Tell me what you saw, Jo. What you heard, what you noticed."

  "I, uh…" Jolie scrubbed a hand over her face. "I noticed that Chris wasn't on the couch. He usually is, if he's home."

  "Then what?"

  "Then I heard the shower," she said woodenly, feeling the dread creep into her belly, infect her bones. "I thought it was odd because he'd been in the shower when I left. He showers in the morning as well, so I thought three showers? What's he gotten into this time? And I set my purse down and walked back to his bedroom."

  "The master bedroom?"

  "His bedroom," Jolie repeated. "We didn't share a room. Haven't since a few months into the marriage. Like I said," she repeated. "It's no secret we weren't happy."

  Jake chewed the bottom corner of his lip and nodded, silently encouraging her to continue.

  She cleared her throat, hugging her arms around her middle to stave off the chill residing there. She looked out the window, dimly noting the throng of cars parked in front of the house, hearing the ice-maker in the kitchen kick on, a wholly ordinary sound compared to the surreal, gruesome reality playing out around her. "The clothes he'd worn this afternoon were on the floor and his wallet was on the dresser. The bathroom door—" Jolie stopped short, resisting the image. She didn't want to see it again, never wanted to see it again.

  "Was it open or closed?" Jake asked gently.

  "Open."

  "Had it been open?"

  "No," she said, giving her head a small shake. "It had been partially closed. Just barely open. I'd glanced in there as I was leaving." She let go a shuddering breath. "There was no steam and… And it was cool." Nausea welled up the back of her aching throat. "Then I saw his leg. It was hanging out of the shower door and there was … there was b-bloody water on the floor."

  Jake massaged the bridge of his nose. "Did you go into the bathroom, Jolie?"

  She shook her head and forced herself to look at him, hoping that if she focused on his face she could push the other image away. She let go a stuttering breath. "Just to the door, close enough to realize that he was beyond help. Th-that he was dead. I saw the hole in his chest."

  "What did you do next?"

  She plowed a hand through her hair, tugging until it hurt to feel something besides the bizarre numbness that had invaded every nerve ending. "I got the cordless phone from the bedside table, then ran outside and called 911. I stayed on the porch until Mike got here. I didn't want— I couldn't be alone in here."

  Jake nodded, seeming to mull over everything she'd said. He glanced up and caught her gaze. "You said you'd been to a meeting. What kind of meeting? Who were you with?"

  Jolie let out a tired sigh. "I was at— I was with—" She blinked, stopped short and stared at him as a stark truth emerged through the fuzzy confines of her brain. She couldn't tell him where she'd been, she thought faintly. It was against the FWC rules.

  Furthermore, even shell-shocked as she was, she had enough wits about her to realize that telling Jake she'd been to a Future Widows' Club meeting, of all places—when her husband lay dead in the next room—was going to sound … incriminating.

  Her heart tripped and a new kind of fear, one borne of self-preservation, rocketed through her veins.

  She'd undoubtedly be an initial suspect, Jolie thought weakly as more implications clawed their way through her foggy mind. She'd read enough suspense novels to know that, and had watched enough Law and Order to know how this would play out. She was closest to him, had the most to gain.

  Oh, God. The life insurance. The outfit. The pre-burial plan.

  She was going to puke. Or faint. Either way, she needed to be closer to the floor. She leaned forward.

  Jake wore an odd frown and his gaze had sharpened. "Jolie, who were you with?"

  "She was with us," Sophia said briskly as she hurried into the room. Looking harried and sympathetic, Meredith and Bitsy followed in her wake. "Jolie's part of our bridge club. We get together and play once a week."

  Jolie wilted with relief. She'd never been more thankful in her life to see another person.

  "We just heard, dear," Sophia said, coming around the sofa, shunting a startled Jake aside. She sat down next to her, draped an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. "We're so sorry," she soothed. "I hope you don't mind, but I called your mother. She should be here any minute."

  Jolie nodded. The thought of her mom made the backs of her eyes burn. She'd missed her so much, but being around her after Chris had stolen her money had made Jolie feel so terrible, so unworthy, and so at fault she hadn't been able to stand the guilt. Until the debt was paid, it had been easier to avoid her. She knew her mom saw through the ploy, knew that she worried more about the money than her mom did, but that hadn't lessened the sizable weight of responsibility she'd felt.

  "Is there anything we can do to help?" Bitsy asked. She tutted sympathetically. "Do you need a place to stay?"

  "I hate to be rude," Jake interjected, "but you can help by leaving. You're not supposed to be here, ladies. This is a crime scene."

  "But we just got here," Bitsy protested, shooting Jake a wide-eyed look.

  "Nevertheless, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave."

  Bitsy looked distinctly disgruntled, but Meredith merely nodded understandingly. "Of course. We just wanted to comfort Jolie."

  Jolie thanked them, sending Sophia a significantly grateful look. "I'll go to Mom's," she told Bitsy. "But I appreciate the offer."

  Smelling like cold cream and fabric softener, Sophia gave her another squeeze. "We'll be in touch tomorrow then, dear, okay? Don't worry. We'll help you get through this."

  To the casual observer those words seemed innocuous, but Jolie knew they held a double meaning, one she desperately appreciated. She managed a grateful nod.

  Sophia stood, and Bitsy and Meredith fell in next to her. "Sorry to be in your way, detective," Sophia told J
ake with a sweet smile. "We just wanted to be here for our friend." The three trooped out as coolly as they'd trooped in and even Jolie recognized that it looked odd.

  Jake shot her an inscrutable look, one that led her to believe that he wasn't completely buying her story. "You play bridge?" he asked.

  "I'm learning," she hedged, making a mental note to brush up on the particulars. She'd be in big trouble if he asked her any questions regarding the rules of play. She'd never been much of a card player, a fact he was perfectly aware of, she knew.

  Jake continued to study her, then after a prolonged moment in which she'd suddenly developed a keen interest in the pattern on the sofa, he finally nodded. "You were learning to play bridge at—" He looked up, waiting for her to fill in the blank.

  "Meredith Ingram's," Jolie said, quietly relieved that they were moving on.

  "What time did you get there?"

  "At six."

  "And about what time did you leave?"

  Jolie squinted, trying to remember. "Around eight, I think."

  Jake chewed his bottom lip, giving another thoughtful nod. "Then you went to Sadie's, right?"

  "That's right. I called her from my cell and she invited me over."

  "What time did you leave her house?"

  "Around ten-thirty. The news was going off."

  "And you came straight home?"

  She nodded, sliding her nerveless palms against her thighs in a vain attempt to warm them up. "I did."

  Jake leaned back and passed a hand over his face. "Are you up to doing a formal statement tonight?"

  Initially she'd planned on getting it over with, knowing the chances of her being able to sleep were slim to none. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Chris's lifeless body behind her lids. It was awful. But now that she'd begun to overcome the shock, she thought it would be best if she had a little time to think about things first. She needed a plan. Her involvement in and recent actions with the FWC were going to make things very … difficult. Now that was an understatement, Jolie thought, suppressing the hysterical urge to laugh.

  She shook her head, struggling to pull it together. "If it's all right, I'd rather just go with Mom when she gets here. Could I come by in the morning?"

  Jake inclined his head. "In the morning will be all right, but we really can't leave it any longer. We're gonna need to search the house and surrounding area."

  "That's fine," she said, thankful that her Club handbook and the pre-burial plans were safely stowed in her purse.

  Jolie stood and gestured tiredly toward her bedroom. "If we're done for now, I'll, uh … I'll go ahead and pack a bag."

  "Make sure you get whatever you're going to need for the next couple of days," Jake told her. "You'll need to stay out of the house until we're finished up here, okay?"

  That was fine with her. Other than a few personal mementos, she wasn't interested in taking anything out of this house. Wouldn't care if she never came back. It had never been a home—more like a prison.

  Jolie nodded, then made her way down the hall to her bedroom. She packed enough clothes and toiletries to last for a couple of days as he'd suggested, then made the return trip to the living room.

  Looking pale and worried, her mother stood talking with Jake when she walked in. Jolie's heart squeezed, and the tears she'd been holding back finally welled up. Everything she'd been holding back came to a head, and in that moment she might as well have been five again with a scraped knee. She didn't want to feel guilty or responsible, didn't want to be brave or in charge or anything else for that matter.

  She just wanted her mother.

  Fran Caplan's lined face folded into a sympathetic frown when she saw Jolie. She abandoned Jake, hurried forward and wrapped her in a tight hug. "Oh, honey," she said softly as Jolie quietly sobbed into her shoulder. "Don't worry. Everything's gonna be fine, okay? Let's get outta here," she murmured softly. "You don't need to be here, Jo. Let me take you home."

  Home, Jolie thought, envisioning lavender gingham and a canopied bed, worn hardwood and high ceilings. Finally.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Feeling equally useless and helpless, Jake watched Fran do the one thing he'd wanted to do since the moment he'd walked back into the living room and sat down with Jolie—comfort her.

  Every broken cry, every slight shake of her slim shoulders chipped away at the professional demeanor he'd tried to keep in tact. He had to do things correctly here, had to make sure that every I was dotted, every T crossed.

  With his and Jolie's past history he knew Dean would try to pull him off the case and appoint another detective, but Jake firmly intended to fight for it. One, he'd taken the call, so technically it was his case, and two—his gaze inexplicably slid to Jolie and he swallowed—she needed him.

  Particularly since something was off with her alibi.

  Jake didn't know exactly what yet, but knew she was hiding something. Hell, even the most unseasoned detective would have picked up on the way she'd mangled that particular question. Even if she hadn't cut her answer off mid-sentence, the frozen look of alarm that had captured her pale features had been enough to cause major concern.

  Furthermore, he knew Jolie, was familiar with every nuance of her face—every expression—and the one he'd seen when he'd asked for her alibi was equivalent to "Oh, shit." Jake felt a smile catch the edge of his mouth. She'd worn the same look when she'd accidentally dropped his first badge off the side of the fire tower, one of their favorite old haunts. Or the time she'd backed his truck into the barn. She'd been "helping" him haul hay, had insisted that she could do it.

  Fran caught his gaze as she absently patted Jolie's back and mouthed a thank you to him. For what, he didn't know. She gestured toward the door. "We're going to go now. You can get in touch with her at the house if you need to, Jake."

  Jolie turned around. Her face was wet with tears and red with embarrassment. She hated to cry, always begrudging the presumed weakness. She used her sleeves to wipe away some of the damage, then pulled in a bolstering breath. "I'll, uh… If there's nothing else I should do tonight, then I'll see you in the morning."

  Jake nodded. "We're good," he assured. "Go with your mom."

  Fran took Jolie's bag and, murmuring soothing noises, ushered her outside. Jake watched her go, feeling the weight of impending disaster settle on his shoulders. At some point in the near future the other shoe was going to drop. He knew it. Could feel it.

  "She's not doing the official tonight?" Mike asked.

  After starting guiltily, Jake turned around. He hadn't heard him walk in. "Er … no. She wasn't in any shape," he said, releasing a pent-up breath. "She went with Fran tonight and will come down in the morning." He cocked his head toward the back of the house. "How's it going in there?"

  "Todd's processing. Leon's getting worse. He needs to go home, but can't until the bathroom's done."

  "What about Dean?"

  Mike shot a quick glance over his shoulder, then looked back at Jake. "Oblivious," he said with a long whoosh of resigned air. "We've got to tell him."

  A rectal exam would be more fun, Jake thought, grimacing, but Mike was right. It had to be done. "You've got the pictures?"

  Mike nodded. "They're in my car, locked in the glove box."

  "Get 'em," Jake told him. "Might as well get it over with."

  Mike's mouth settled into a grim line as he strode past him and Jake silently echoed the sentiment. This sucked, but there was nothing for it. Dean had to be told, and the sooner the better given the current circumstances. If Marshall had been destined to have his dick cut off, it was probably better that it had happened post-mortem. Had Dean found out about the affair before the bastard had gotten himself killed, Marshall wouldn't have been so lucky.

  Manila envelope in hand, Mike walked back into the house. "Where do we want to do this?" he asked, glancing around the open living room. "He might not appreciate us whipping these out in front of Leon and Todd."

  Jake considered the
kitchen, but deemed it unsuitable for their purposes. He looked down the hall. "How about one of the other bedrooms? That'll give us a little privacy."

  Mike bobbed his head in assent. "You wanna go get him, then?"

  Want to? Hell no. But he would. "Yeah, I'll do it," he said resignedly.

  Jake made his way back to the master suite. Dean and Leon—who did look worse, Jake noted—were standing outside the bathroom door, both of them watching Todd do his job.

  "Twenty years on the job," Leon was saying, "and I've never come across anything like it. What sort of killer emasculates a man, Dean?"

  The Sheriff merely shook his head. "A severely pissed off one, I'd say," he sighed.

  Jake cleared his throat. "Sheriff, a word please."

  Dean looked up, excused himself and followed Jake down the hall. "Mike and I need to talk to you."

  "Yeah, I need to talk to you as well," Dean replied. "Look, Jake. You know I can't leave you on this case. You're too close. It's too personal."

  Jake felt every muscle clamp with dread. He'd been expecting it, of course. Still, he'd hoped that Dean would let it be. "Er … that's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about." He continued through the living room down the hall that led to the other end of the house.

  "Where's Mike?" Dean asked.

  "Back here. We, uh…" He looked back over his shoulder. "We wanted a little privacy."

  Dean nodded, seemingly baffled, but followed him all the same. They found Mike in one of the spare rooms, Jolie's, Jake knew instinctively. The faint scent of vanilla hung in the air and the room was littered with small reminders of her. A jewelry box—one he'd made for her in shop in their junior year, Jake noted, mildly surprised—and various perfumes, lotions and creams lined the dresser. A couple of books, a candy dish of Hershey's kisses, a tube of chapstick and a ponytail holder lay scattered on the bedside table.

  A pair of black pumps had been kicked carelessly off next to the door and her bathrobe had been slung over the end of the four-poster bed. It was the only part of the house that remotely resembled her, that suggested that she lived here as well as Marshall. The rest of the house had a modern feel—sleek chrome and glass, lots of white, gray and black, trendy artwork—but not this room. It was warm, had heart. An old quilt covered the bed, mismatched plates had been grouped together on one wall and framed pictures of family and friends covered the top of the chest of drawers.