by Ann Gimpel
His best friend Jimmy, a fellow detective, called it the luck of the Irish, told him he was lucky he found out about her cheating before he married her, instead of the Old-Fashioned Way.
“You know,” Jimmy remarked, “you come home to Your House unexpectedly, and find Your Wife doing the nasty with some guy in Your Bed.”
He’d dodged the bullet on that one. If she cheated on him while they were engaged, she would cheat when they were married. However, at the time it sure hadn’t felt like being lucky; it felt like having his guts dug out with a dull spoon.
Eventually, he’d admitted to Jimmy he didn’t always pick the right woman.
Jimmy had rolled his eyes and said, “Not always? How about never. My friend, you couldn’t pick a good woman if your life depended on it.”
Martin’s solution had been just to stop looking for a woman. Easier that way. Lonelier, but easier. So he’d lost Bethany. She kept the ring, and he kept the house. It was a nice house. Nicer than the girl.
Glancing at the white Toyota Camry station wagon parked in the driveway, Martin was surprised. In this neighborhood, he’d expected to see the obligatory SUV parked there, or at least a minivan. After all, Katy seemed to be the home of the oversize vehicle and the soccer mom.
The Camry was pulled far down the driveway, close to the garage near the back door. It probably meant the wife was home. He really wished she had been gone so he could have put this off just a little longer. This was one part of his job he really hated, and it happened too damn often.
Martin got out of the car and headed up the walk to the front door. He stepped up on the porch and rang the bell. The sound of kids came through the mahogany-stained wooden front door. A large oval of etched and frosted leaded glass window let in light, but wasn’t clear enough to see through. As two kids raced down the hall, he could make out their shapes and their red heads.
The boy got there first, opened the door, took one look at the tall man standing there, and then yelled over his shoulder, “Mom! Someone is at the door!”
The little girl arrived and put her hands on her hips.
“Matthew Jacob Reynolds,” she fussed at him. “You know you are not supposed to open the door unless you know who it is.” She turned to yell over her shoulder. “Mom! Matthew opened the door to a stranger!”
Martin suppressed a smile as the kids argued, oblivious to the fact that if he had meant harm he would have been in the house before they knew what was happening.
The smile fell from his lips as saw the woman walking toward him, wiping her hands on a towel. She was probably only five foot five, with long, dark red hair. Her green eyes took him in. There were dark circles under them, but she smiled at him. Her jeans hugged the round curve of her hips, and her tank top dipped enough to show just the smallest amount of cleavage. Martin felt his mouth go dry as his body reacted to her.
Anne Reynolds came down the hall and suppressed a smile. She stopped an arm’s length from him and spoke to the kids.
“Matt, Caroline, go back to the den, please.” They looked disappointed for a moment, and then the race was back on to see who could reach the den first.
Anne stood in the door and looked up into Martin’s face as if searching for something in his eyes. He hoped what he felt wasn’t being reflected in them.
“Mrs. Reynolds?” he began the official notification. “Is your husband Jacob Reynolds?”
Her eyes flickered for a moment to the back of the house. “Yes, I’m Anne Reynolds, Jake’s wife.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Jake’s dead, isn’t he?”
Martin studied her troubled face. Reading faces had meant the difference between life and death more than one time for him.
“Yes, ma’am.” He spoke softly. “May I come in? I’m Detective Martin O’Connell, with the Harris County Sheriff’s office.” He showed her his badge and ID, and she looked at it for a few moments.
Anne nodded, stood to the side and let him pass, and then she closed the door. He followed her to the back of the house where the kitchen and den were located. Signaling him to wait, she picked up the phone from the kitchen counter.
“Connie, I need to send the kids to you for a while.” She listened as Connie answered. “I’ll call you when you can send them back. No, Jake isn’t home, but it’s about him. Thanks.” She hung up, put the phone back on the counter, walked over to the den, and shut off the television using the remote.
“Hey, kids.” Her voice sounded steady. “I need you to go see Miss Connie. She has a treat she wants to share with you.”
The kids got up and raced back down the hall and out the front door. As the door shut, Anne sunk onto one of the couches in the den. Martin sat next to her.
“Was it a traffic accident?” She searched his face. She clasped her hands together as if to keep them from fidgeting.
He cleared his throat. “Ma’am, your husband was found dead this afternoon, in a room at the Katy Inn. He’d been shot.” He paused to let this sink in.
Anne sat and stared at him as if she didn’t understand his words.
“Ma’am, did you understand me?” Martin asked, concern showing in his voice.
“Yes. The woman he picked up last night killed him.” It was a statement, not a question. Her voice was flat and lifeless as she stared at her now-still hands.
Martin looked at her. There is more going on in this house than I’d imagined. Maybe the wife did do it.
“You knew he was at the hotel last night?” He leaned back to get a better look at her. He’d been sitting too close.
Anne looked up and shook her head. “No, I just assumed when he didn’t come home last night he was with someone. But I didn’t know where.”
“You knew your husband was with someone at a motel last night?”
“Jake’s has been cheating on me for over a year. About three months ago, he started to spend the night out.” Her body sagged against the couch.
“Have you ever heard the name Kathy Grayson before?” He read the name off his phone.
“No, he never told me their names, and he rarely saw any of the girls a second time.” She paused and turned incredibly sad eyes to him. “Was she pretty?” she whispered.
Martin answered before he thought about it. “Not as beautiful as you.” He blushed and looked over her head. Damn. I shouldn’t have said that.
Anne looked up, gratitude on her face. He attempted to regain his professionalism.
“How do you know about his girlfriends?”
Anne paused. “Jake told me about all his women. He enjoyed telling me.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He wanted to hurt me, you see. He hated me. So he’d compare them to me and tell me why they were so much better than…” She stopped and swallowed, as if unable to continue.
Martin couldn’t believe his ears. The sick bastard must have been nuts. If she were my woman—damn, where did that come from?
He cleared his throat. “So he didn’t tell you their names?”
“No, he didn’t care about names. He only cared about humiliating me. So he would pick up a different girl, have sex with her, and then tell me how she was better. Pretty sick, huh?” She tried to smile, but her eyes refused the attempt, and she broke eye contact.
“Mrs. Reynolds,” he started.
“Call me Anne, please.”
“Anne, your husband was found dead along with the girl he was with last night. They were both shot to death.” He watched for her reaction.
“She’s dead too?” She sounded puzzled. “Was it a robbery?”
“There doesn’t seem to be anything taken from either victim.”
Anne thought for a minute and then sighed. “That means I’m a suspect, right? You think I did it, don’t you?” She sank back against the cushions of the sofa.
“We’re very early in the investigation process, Anne, and we haven’t reached any conclusions. Everyone involved will be questioned,” Martin assured her.
“I guess I shouldn’t have told
you about Jake’s women. It makes a very good motive.” She sat up straighter and turned to him. “Detective, I didn’t kill my husband. I stopped caring about him eight months ago. My only concern has been for my children. They adored him and he adored them. He was a good father and, until a year ago, a good husband.”
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