“What do you mean?” Emily asked, as she picked up her fork to dig into her fish.
“It’s been a long time since the special day we’re honoring today. I thought it would be fun to talk about it. Do you girls remember that day we first met?” Camille glanced around the table. “And why you were there?”
“Of course,” Isabel answered, munching on one of her oven fries. “You were holding a cooking class at your catering shop and we came to learn how to cook.”
“You were all such newbies,” Camille chuckled, picking up a forkful of sea bass. She had just opened her catering and event-planning business in a small warehouse space and had offered a series of cooking classes to start bringing in money and to meet potential new clients. Her idea worked brilliantly and it pushed her business forward to success. Those classes also brought this circle of women together and they had grown to become best friends.
“I remember that I took the class to learn how to cook somethin’ other than my mama’s down-home recipes,” Maggie recalled, sprinkling a little dressing on her salad. “I had hopes of impressin’ and snaggin’ me a successful man, but it hasn’t quite worked out that way.” Maggie offered a mock pout. She was still single, much to her chagrin. But her little boy was now grown and had recently enlisted in the navy, and she was financially independent and providing for just herself.
“Evan and I were newly married,” Emily recalled, “and I wanted to learn to cook for his sake. I was the worst cook ever, and you really helped me, Camille. Of course, I was so bad it wouldn’t have taken much to make me better,” Emily admitted, which drew laughter from the girls.
“And what about you, Isabel?” Camille asked.
Isabel set her burger down and cleared her throat while she wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Alex wanted me to take the class. He loves to cook and he’s quite good at it. With him being a lawyer and me working at the FBI, we both work pretty long hours. I took the class for him, so we could have fun cooking and creating dishes together on the weekends. It’s hard to believe it was five years,” she patted her tummy, “and fifteen pounds ago.” A nervous giggle escaped her lips.
“Hey, wasn’t there another woman in that first class with us?” Maggie asked.
“Yes, Abby something?” Emily said.
“Abby Randall,” Isabel replied. Her memory was sharp and clear. As a financial analyst, she had a habit of paying close attention to details.
“Yes, poor Abby,” Camille said.
“What do you mean, poor Abby?” Emily and Maggie said in unison, then turned and grinned at each other.
“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Camille sat up straight and leaned forward.
“Heard what?” Maggie’s interest appeared to be piqued, obviously expecting a tidbit of juicy gossip.
“Now, don’t tell anyone you heard it from me, but she and Bob are getting a divorce.” Camille leaned back a little, as if to let the information sink in.
“Divorced? Abby and Bob always seemed so happy,” Emily commented. “I ran into them a few times around town, at a restaurant or at the store. They seemed like things were going well. I wonder what happened.”
“Well, I’m not one to gossip, but I ran into her one day at the mall and we chatted for a few minutes,” Camille explained, picking at her sea bass. “Abby had taken classes from me several times, so I probably knew her better than any of you. She told me she thought they were blissfully happy and everything was going along beautifully. They have three children, you know, a nice home, and lots of friends—she said their life was perfect. Then one day, out of the blue, Bob told her he had fallen in love with another woman and he wanted a divorce. I’m sure it just broke that poor woman’s heart.”
“How can that happen?” Emily asked. “I mean, how can you think everything is perfect, and then out of the blue your husband doesn’t love you anymore?” At the mention of another woman, her mind went to the note she’d found in Evan’s pocket just an hour or so earlier. She shook her head to get rid of her burning desire to know who Delia could be.
“Abby said he traveled a lot for work, so he obviously did whatever he wanted to while he was away,” Camille surmised, “and then pretended to be the perfect husband and father while he was home. I guess he just got tired of pretending.”
She paused and her expression became sullen. “Now that I think about it, my Jonathan travels a lot for work too. You girls don’t think that could happen to us, do you?” Camille’s upbeat and carefree tone turned serious and she sounded genuinely worried.
“No, Camille,” Maggie replied, putting her hand over Camille’s. “You need to stop talkin’ like that.”
“My word, you and Jonathan are perfect together. I don’t believe for a moment he would do that to you, or your children,” Isabel told her. “Please, Camille, just kick that horrible thought out of your head right now.”
“I agree, Camille. That’s just plain crazy talk,” Maggie added.
Emily didn’t say anything. She was caught up in her own thoughts, wondering if something like that could have happened to her and Evan. Like poor, unsuspecting Abby, Emily had thought she and Evan were blissfully happy too, but now she was having doubts. And if it could happen to her and Evan, it could also happen to Camille and Jonathan, couldn’t it?
Even in the refreshing spring breeze, sitting in the open and expansive outdoors, Emily felt like she was suffocating under all the talk about unfaithful husbands, and she felt compelled to cut and run. “I’m sorry to cut this lunch short, ladies.” Emily abruptly stood, pulled a twenty dollar bill out of her wallet, and laid it on the table.
“But you’ve hardly touched your lunch,” Camille said in surprise.
“I need to meet those clients I was telling you about. I’ll talk to you all soon.”
Looking stunned and speechless, Maggie, Camille, and Isabel stared in silence as Emily dashed a quick glance behind her then hurried away.
Chapter 2
Emily regretted having to lie to her friends, but she simply had to get out of there. All that talk about seemingly happy marriages and possibly unfaithful men was more than she could stomach. After that conversation, she was even more driven to discover who this Delia woman was.
At least it was true that she did have an appointment to show homes later that afternoon, but since she had a couple of hours to kill before then, she’d decided to head over to Evan’s old office. One way or another, for her own peace of mind, she had to find out if her late husband had been cheating on her.
Emily pushed open one of the large wooden doors and entered the lobby of the historic gray-stone building that sat on Main Street in the heart of Paradise Valley, a quaint, picturesque town situated just to the north of Boise, Idaho. After walking down a short hallway, she stood before the door to her late husband’s office. The opaque window in the door still bore the lettering Evan Parker, Private Investigator.
Fidgeting with the key in the old keyhole, it finally gave in and unlocked. She pulled in a deep breath to steady herself as she entered, standing still for a moment, surveying the room. She had not been to this office since Evan was killed in it. The murder had gone unsolved, and she had been left to wrestle with the unknown.
Heart-wrenching memories came flooding back to her, and she was momentarily paralyzed by them. Evan had been found shot to death here, in the corner by the file cabinets, a single gunshot to the back of his head. The local police had no suspects and no prospects.
There had been a fat stack of cash with a rubber band around it found in a locked drawer of his desk, totaling five thousand dollars. Since the money was still there, the authorities figured it wasn’t a robbery, but it did cause them to wonder why he would have that much cash with him. Emily wondered too—on more than one occasion.
Since Evan had been shot at fairly close range, with no sign of a struggle, the police assumed the killer must have been someone he knew. They had questioned every one of his clients after finding their names when
they searched his computer and the file folders in the cabinet.
The police had even investigated Emily to rule her out. Fortunately, she was having dinner with the girls at a restaurant when it happened, so she was almost in the clear. There was always the possibility, the detective said, that she’d hired it done. Maybe her paid killer, the detective suggested, was someone posing as a new client that just hadn’t made it into Evan’s records yet.
In time, the police decided Emily probably had nothing to do with her husband’s murder. So, with no real clues, old Joe Tolliver, the town’s only detective, eventually gave up and filed it away as a cold case. The pile of cash was eventually released to Emily.
It wasn’t that Paradise Valley could not afford to hire another detective, because it had grown into a largely affluent community. In the last ten years or so, it had become known for its million-dollar homes built along the Boise River, and there were an ever-increasing number of five- and ten-acre horse property subdivisions gobbling up the surrounding farmland.
The reason for having only one detective was simply that the mayor and city council members saw no need to waste the taxpayers’ money. Paradise Valley hadn’t had a murder in more than twenty years—until Evan was killed.
Focus, Emily ordered herself, remembering why she was there. Her mission was to find out who this woman, Delia, was.
Sitting down at Evan’s old metal desk, she rummaged through it, searching for anything that had this woman’s name on it. She came up with nothing. Then she went through all the folders in the file cabinet. Again nothing. She checked the calendar in his computer and even did a total search of the hard-drive for the name—still nothing.
Her eyes moistened and her throat tightened a little when she noticed the framed photo on the desk. It was a picture of her and Evan, smiling and snuggling in happier days. Picking it up, she lovingly traced his face with her finger. Her heart missed his sandy brown hair and piercing blue eyes.
Emily spied the cross-directory phone book on top of the file cabinet and gently set the picture down. She grabbed the directory and flipped it open on the desk. Digging around in her purse, she found the slip of paper that showed Delia’s phone number. She laid it down next to the book.
Scanning the pages as she ran her index finger across them, she located the number in the directory and read the name Delia McCall. The name sounded vaguely familiar. “Delia McCall,” she muttered several times, but she couldn’t place it. So she decided to be brave and dial the number. She needed to know this woman’s connection to her husband.
The phone on the desk had been disconnected long ago, so she made the call from her cell phone.
“Hello.” The woman’s voice was low and sultry.
“Is this Delia?” Emily asked nervously
“It is. Who is this?”
“This is Delia McCall?” Emily asked again, her heart thudding in her chest.
“Yes. Who is this?” the woman insisted.
“This is Emily Parker, Evan Parker’s wife.”
“Oh, Emily, yes, Evan had mentioned you.” Delia’s voice changed to a lighter tone.
“Evan mentioned me?” Emily was stunned by her comment. She wondered why her husband would be talking to this woman about her.
“Yes, several times.”
“I have to know, Ms. McCall, what was your relationship with my husband?” Emily held her breath for the answer.
Delia stuttered and stammered, obviously caught off guard. Was she hiding something?
“Well?” Emily pressed, irritated by the woman’s evasiveness. If it had simply been a business relationship, why would she not just come out and say it? She decided to ask what she was really wondering. “Were you having an affair with my husband?”
“What? Oh my, no.” Delia laughed. “Is that what you thought?”
“Well...”
“No, Emily. Evan was doing some work for me, but it was supposed to be hush-hush.”
“What kind of work?”
“I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. Can we meet somewhere? I’d be more than happy to answer all of your questions.”
“When?”
“Say, this evening around eight o’clock, at that Moxie Java over on State Street?”
“All right,” Emily reluctantly agreed. She wasn’t sure why this woman was acting so mysteriously, but maybe she could shed some light on what happened to Evan.
Emily clicked off her cell phone and tossed it back in her purse. She decided it would be best to get out of that office as quickly as possible before more memories came back to haunt her.
* * *
Emily drove home and grabbed her mail out of the mailbox before going inside. On top was a letter from the landlord of the office building that housed Evan’s office. Tearing it open, she found a past-due notice stating she needed to pay the back rent plus a sizable late fee.
Her real estate commissions had been enough to keep her personal bills paid since Evan’s death, but this extra fifteen hundred dollars a month for the office lease was putting an additional burden on her that she was having a hard time paying. With Evan and his income gone, finances had become uncomfortably tight.
Kicking her shoes off, Emily grabbed a diet soda from the refrigerator and moved to the breakfast bar. She set the small stack of mail down and perched on one of the stools. Holding the past-due notice in her hand, she took a long drink of soda and glared at the words stamped in red—PAST DUE.
She missed her husband for a lot of reasons, but right now it was for financial ones. Wondering what she was going to do, her thoughts drifted to the single asset she knew she could liquidate, her ace in the hole, but she had hoped it would not come to that.
The asset was a three-carat, emerald-cut diamond ring that her grandmother had left her when she passed away a few years ago. Her grandmother had married well the second time, and the extravagant ring had been a gift from her husband. After his passing, his children from a previous marriage were left most of his large estate, but Emily’s grandmother was able to keep their home and her jewelry.
Emily had been thrilled to receive the ring before her grandmother passed on, but because the ring was old, the setting needed to be cleaned and the prongs tightened. So, she’d kept it safely hidden away until she could have it polished and perhaps re-set in a more modern setting. While her husband was alive it was never a priority, but things change.
Evan used to kid her about keeping the ring in a plastic artichoke in the vegetable drawer of their refrigerator. She’d tried to explain to him what she saw as the brilliance of it. The fake vegetable blended in naturally with the other items in the drawer, she would tell him. Plus, if there was ever a fire, the contents of the refrigerator would not burn. He understood, but he still thought it was hilarious.
Now that her husband was gone and her real estate business was suffering from the housing crisis, she thought about selling the diamond to a jeweler. As much as she hated to think of parting with her grandmother’s ring, she did need the money. She should at least have it appraised to see how much it was worth.
Emily went to the refrigerator to retrieve it. She pulled out the vegetable drawer and there laid her faux artichoke, nestled among the fresh tomatoes and asparagus. She unscrewed the stem and turned it over, prepared to catch the ring as it slid out.
“Where’s my ring?” she cried in shock. She jiggled the artichoke, but it made no sound. She vigorously shook it upside down into her hand, but still no ring.
Who could have taken it? No one knew it was in there. When could it have gone missing?
She tried to remember the last time she saw it and realized she hadn’t checked on it since before Evan died. Evan—he was the only other person who knew it was there—but no, he would never have taken it and not told me...or would he? No one else knew it was there!
Her thoughts jumped to the stack of cash the police had found in his desk the night he died. Had he pawned her ring and that was what he
got for it?
Heat rose up in her cheeks and she broke out in a cold sweat as she slumped down onto a chair at the kitchen table. With the ring gone, how she was going to pay the past due office lease and the mounting expenses in the months to come? Her heart ached at the thought that her husband may have stolen from her. She didn’t want to believe it, but it certainly appeared that way.
* * *
Emily strolled into the Moxie Java coffee shop right on time at eight o’clock. A handful of customers were scattered around the tables, but she was looking for a woman sitting alone. As she stood at the counter ordering her tea, she spotted an attractive middle-aged woman sitting in the corner at a table for two. She was impeccably dressed with beautiful dark wavy hair down to her shoulders.
Emily paid for her drink and then headed toward her. “Delia?”
“Yes. You must be Emily. Please, sit down.” Delia motioned toward the empty chair across from her.
Emily sat down and laid her large handbag on the floor beside her. Her stomach twisted and she fidgeted with her cup.
“I recognize you from the lovely photo on Evan’s desk.” Delia took a sip of her latté.
“I appreciate your willingness to talk to me and answer my questions.”
“I’m happy to do it, Emily. I just want to say how sorry I am for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Emily bobbed the teabag up and down before using the spoon to squeeze the water out, placing it on the napkin beside her.
“Don’t you hate that phrase—sorry for your loss? It just seems so blasé. What I’d really like to say is that I am sorry that such a fine man died so early and for the pain you had to go through.”
“I appreciate—” Emily started to say.
Delia held up her hand. “No, please, let me finish. And I’m sorry for how he died and that no one has been able to figure out who did it so the matter can be put to rest.”
Emily wished Delia had stopped after sorry for your loss instead of going on, which only made her feel awkward.
“Thank you for saying that, Ms. McCall,” Emily said.
The Scent of Lies Page 2