Body of Evidence

by Stella Cameron

  Emma’s head stung where he’d hit her, but she kept her hands away from it. She sat on the edge of a chair shaped like a manta ray. The lighted glass shelves and the brilliant pieces displayed there shone behind Orville in the otherwise dimly lit room. She felt him waiting for her to respond, to give him another opening to revile Denise.

  “You’re not to speak to that man Duhon again,” he said.

  Let him rant.

  “Do you hear me?”

  Now he could accuse her of ignoring him. So be it.

  “Dammit, Emma, I had to break away from an important meetin’ to come and rescue you.”

  “I didn’t need to be rescued,” she shot back at him. “Go back to your meetin’. It’s nowhere near time for it to be over. Before you go, though, you should get it straight that Denise was just a member of Secrets, not the one who started it or kept it goin’. That’s Angela. Denise was so busy she couldn’t even get there very often.”

  “You’re tryin’ to work me up,” he said, his voice rising. “I’m runnin’ for governor. I’m startin’ early because I’ve got a long way to go, a lot of useful contacts to make—and a lot of palms to grease. I have important things to do, and you’re not goin’ to get in my way. You are never goin’ to hold me back. Do you understand?”

  She was quiet again.

  “I’ll have to rethink lettin’ you belong to that club. You spend too much time there.” He snorted. “Secrets. Why not just hang out a flag that says, Man Haters Welcome Here?”

  “Because it’s not a club for man haters,” she told him quietly. “Quite the reverse. Secrets of a Successful Life is the whole name. It’s about women givin’ support to other women. It’s a gentle, safe place to spend a few hours.” She’d told him all this before, but he never listened to her.

  “Sure it is,” he said. “But I’m pretty sure I don’t want you goin’ there. Time was when you never answered me back. You knew your place. That was before you had a bunch of disgruntled women puttin’ ideas in your head. You aren’t a business-woman in some big city—payin’ her own bills—you’re a Southern wife of a prominent man, and I’m your only work. That was the agreement. And that shop isn’t work. It’s a playpen.”

  Emma got up. “I need to shower and change.” Every word he spoke to her came loaded with a mean hate. When they’d met and he’d persuaded her to leave school, the talk had been all about love, home, a family. And she’d believed he meant what he said. “Excuse me, Orville.” She turned to go.

  “Don’t you leave this room until I say so.”

  Her legs trembled inside. “I’ve been meanin’ to ask you. I hear you’re part of a group that calls itself Pat’s Pack. I suppose you get together at Patrick Damalis’s place. Would that be an all men’s club?”

  His expression darkened. “I don’t know where you heard about that, but I intend to find out. A few guys get together to discuss business. Now keep your nose out of my affairs.”

  “Gladly. I reckon I can be out of here in a few hours.” Now her heart bumped. She shouldn’t have mentioned Pat’s Pack—someone else might get into trouble for talking to her about it. “I could probably leave tonight. After all, there’s pretty much nothin’ that belongs to me here.”

  “Includin’ your car,” Orville said, his nostrils flaring.

  “The car is mine, remember? A birthday gift from your father.” She’d opened a safety deposit box, and the papers for the Lexus were safely stowed there, together with a few other small treasures, including a stack of savings bonds her grandmother had left her.

  He came closer, and Emma had a struggle not to fall back. “Where would you go? You don’t have the money to leave town.”

  In that he was right, but she knew how to work hard. “I’ll move into Mom and Dad’s place for now. And I’ll get a job.” She glanced at the cream-colored grand piano Orville had bought just prior to their marriage because he loved to show off her musical talents. “Someone will be glad of a hardworking waitress. Maybe I could play a bit here and there, too. I used to when I was at school in New Orleans, and people liked it.”

  “You’d go out to that dump where you grew up? It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

  “My parents’ home is no dump. I love that house, and that’s where I’ll go.”

  He pushed his shoulders back and raised his head so he could look down at her. “You’re afraid of bein’ alone. Particularly at night.”

  Emma laughed; she couldn’t help it. “Don’t you think I’ve gotten over that by now? You leave me alone every night.”

  “Damn you,” he ground out. “I’ll make sure you can’t get a job and embarrass me all over Pointe Judah…. It’s that man, isn’t it? Mr. War Hero and businessman. What kind of business would that be? Think he’ll arrive on his white horse to turn your nights into hours of sweaty sex? You fool. He thinks you’re rolling in it—that’s why he wants you. Have you thought about that? You didn’t tell him all you get is a very good allowance unless you have a child, did you? Or that you don’t even get the allowance if we split up?”

  She shook her head, hating him more with every second.

  “’Course you didn’t. I’ll go after him, y’know. He’s the one in the wrong, and I’ll make him pay for it, then pay some more. He’s gonna wish he never set foot back in this town.”

  “Listen to yourself,” she said, helpless to steady her voice. “You’re makin’ things up. Threatenin’ a man I never really knew when we were in high school. A man I saw for the first time in years and almost didn’t recognize. Go ahead, make a fool of yourself. That should help your campaign.”

  Orville sat down and let his hands hang between his knees. “I’ve got to think.”

  “I’ll leave you to do that, then.”

  “Don’t go…please. Stay with me.”

  He looked up at her, and she couldn’t tell if he was really calm or just hiding his anger. “Emma, I don’t want a divorce—ever.”

  Because his image needed her. “You were the one who brought the subject up.”

  “I was angry, is all.” He looked at her with the mournful eyes he could accomplish at a moment’s notice. “Remember how it was when we met?”

  “Oh, please. That’s hardly even a memory.”

  “To you, maybe.” His eyes glittered, and she thought he might actually be crying. “To me, you were a dream come true.”

  The perfect political wife in the making.

  He held a hand out to her, and she looked at it.

  “Please, darlin’,” he said, beckoning her closer. “I don’t know what comes over me sometimes. Just seems I say things I wouldn’t if I thought them through.”

  Emma’s soft heart had been a liability throughout this marriage. She went to his side, but she crossed her arms. She couldn’t bear the idea of holding a hand he freely used to punish her.

  Orville looked up at her with pleading in his eyes. “I’ve got a temper,” he said. “But don’t you know the reason I got so mad tonight was because I was thinkin’ how I’d feel if it was you they found murdered out there?”

  No, she didn’t.

  “It would break my heart to lose you—under any circumstances. This campaignin’ is gettin’ to me. I want the office because I know I can do good, but the wranglin’ and the process is killin’ me.”

  “Give it up, then,” she said promptly. Emma doubted she could find too many people who would believe Orville Lachance wanted to be governor to do good for others.

  A different light flared in his eyes, but he quickly smothered his fury. “It’s my duty,” he said. “Just as it’s your duty to be at my side. Your duty because we’re man and wife, and I wouldn’t be whole without you. Stick with me, darlin’. I haven’t been myself, I know it, but give me more time. And if you still want to, we’ll see someone about gettin’ help with havin’ a baby.”

  She couldn’t respond to him. For months he’d behaved as if she physically repulsed him. And she’d lost her baby ten years earl
ier.

  “Emma, I’m givin’ a party on the fourteenth. I know it’s short notice, but I also know if anyone can pull it off perfectly, you can. Can’t you see how much I need you? And you need me? You need someone strong in your life, and that’s what I am.”

  “How big a party?”

  “Not big—but important. Donors with deep pockets. Maybe thirty couples, so it would be nice right here. I can get the list to you in the mornin’.” Yet again he looked at the time. “I want things lush. Impressive. We’ll woo the big bucks right out of their bank accounts.”

  “Get me the list,” she said, out of fight for the present.

  “You won’t forget to put your name on the invitations?”

  She really had shaken his self-assurance, at least a little. “The invitations will be appropriate. I do need to know exactly what you have in mind, so e-mail me, please.”

  He was on his feet. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m so grateful we know how to get through a little bump like this. I’ll work hard to make sure we don’t misunderstand each other again. We’ve got a long way to go in this race. Get yourself the sexiest dress on the planet.”

  Emma didn’t look at him. He honestly thought he was persuasive. All that mattered were his political ambitions, and as long as she understood that, she wouldn’t inconvenience him.

  Scuffling sounded from the area of the front door. The knock that came would have gone unheard if she and Orville hadn’t been so close.

  “Let me deal with this,” Orville said, frowning. “Stay back so you won’t be seen—for your safety.”

  He went to the door, and Emma stayed exactly where she was.

  Clustered together outside stood Angela, founder of Secrets of a Successful Life, Frances Brussard, Holly Chandall and Wendy Saunders. The last three were members of the group.

  Emma couldn’t believe Angela had left her home. She rarely, if ever, went out. Statuesque, with long white-blond curls and an exceedingly pale face webbed with severe burn scars on one side, she bowed her head and said, “Mayor Lachance, please forgive us for interrupting you, but we came to comfort Emma. And ourselves.” Angela’s vocal chords had been damaged during the fire, and her voice sometimes faded away if she was nervous. She pulled locks of blond hair farther over her scars. All four women wore the loose pink robes members of the club wore to be comfortable at meetings. The robes were kept at the club, and seeing them here like this meant the women were so upset they’d forgotten to change out of them.

  For the first time that evening, Emma sobbed. She beckoned her friends into the house, and they crowded around her, joined arms and pressed close—and cried. She thought of Orville watching them, then didn’t care.

  “We know what happened,” Angela said, her blue eyes puffy. “It’s cruel fate that you were the one to find her.”

  “That’s what I thought at first,” Emma said. “But it was better for me to be there than just strangers.”

  Holly Chandall rushed out her words, as she always did. “Rusty thinks Denise must have been working on a story about someone who didn’t want to see their name in the paper, so they killed her to stop her from writing the article.” She had tied a pink and white scarf around her auburn hair, turban style. Her deep brown eyes were wide with anxiety.

  “Sounds obvious but reasonable to me.” Frances, with her bunches of black cornrow braids decorated with colored beads, had a level head but lousy taste in partners. “Wendy thinks we should go to the police and tell them what we think. Just in case they haven’t thought of that angle.”

  “They’ve thought of that angle.” Orville’s voice intruded. “You’ve probably come to the same conclusion as the authorities. It’s the only one that makes sense.”

  “Most likely you’re right,” Wendy said. “I don’t know why I always think someone else might miss the obvious.”

  Emma caught Angela’s eye, and understanding passed between them. They knew why Wendy doubted a lot of things.

  “Ladies?” Orville cleared his throat. “I do thank you for coming to make sure Emma’s all right. She isn’t, of course, but she’ll be okay, and your concern has helped her. Be careful to lock up when you get home. Get some sleep. Tomorrow we’ll probably all face a lot more questions. Did y’all come together?”

  Angela’s expression lost any trace of softness. Her thin, high brows rose even closer to her hairline. She pulled at her hair again and nodded at Orville. “We came in my van, thank you.” Her robe swirled around her. A deeper pink than the others, it was made from heavy silk rather than cotton. Her burns, caused by a kitchen fire many years before, extended to her hands, and she wore pink crocheted gloves without fingers. Her nails were long and painted.

  Orville held the front door wide open. “Good. Now you be careful drivin’ back. Give your dear mother my best wishes, please, Frances.”

  The women left with faint goodbyes, and Emma saw her husband for the patronizing chameleon he was.

  “I guess they mean well,” he said once the two of them were alone. “Why the ugly pink dresses?”

  “We wear them at meetings.” Emma hated explaining any of this to him. “We like them. They’re comfortable, and they’re a sign of our solidarity. And pink makes any woman look better.” She smiled at him.

  Orville paused before returning her smile with one that came loaded with what might be pity. “You don’t need extra pink to make you pretty,” he said.

  With his chin held up as if he were listening for something, he stood where he was. What felt like minutes passed before he said, “You’re the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

  He had to know how forced he sounded, how awkward they were together. “Thank you,” she said, looking away. “I guess I’ll finally get that shower I keep talkin’ about.” And a chance to start grieving in peace for a dear friend.

  “Good idea. Then you turn in, darlin’. I suppose I’ll be answerin’ some questions I won’t like when I get back to the meetin’. They’ll have been waitin’ for me all this time. I’ll try not to wake you when I get back.”

  4

  In the bathroom of the master suite, Emma stripped and stepped under a pulsing stream of hot water. She let it beat down on the top of her head, turned, and hoped the jets would ease the knots in her back.

  She washed her hair, winced when she touched the bump Orville had caused, and hurried to finish.

  How dare he say she needed him because she was afraid to be alone at night? It was as if he’d stopped noticing her at all years ago, about when he’d started being a casual resident who passed through his home to get clean clothes and hand out orders. Tonight would be another night alone, and she wanted to spend it in the house where she’d been born.

  Back in the red-and-white bedroom, Emma threw on a clean T-shirt with black sweats on top.

  The phone rang, and she jumped. Her hands flew to her cheeks. “Settle down,” she muttered, and picked up on the second ring. “Hello?” She listened to electric silence. “Hello?” she repeated.

  “Damn you,” she said and hung up. My, she was brilliant. That could have been the killer. If so, she’d just made sure she antagonized him.

  Soon a canvas tote held all she needed for a night away. She wrote a note of explanation to Orville, said she would be back in the morning and ran downstairs to tape it to the front of the refrigerator. Since the first thing he did when he came in from the garage was get a beer from the kitchen, he was bound to find the note.

  She gathered a few grocery essentials and put them in a bag.

  Her hair would be a mess, because she didn’t want to stop and dry it. But, as Orville had reminded her, she would be alone, so there was no one to impress.

  The back of the Lexus was filled with boxes of merchandise for the store. She would need to get there fairly early in the morning. Sandra Viator worked with her and had a sales-woman’s heart—she also had an eye for making the shop appealing and for drawing people in. People read the name, “Poke Around,” in
incongruously perfect script surrounded by beribboned country bouquets, fancy packages, cups of hot coffee and grinning alligators, and smiled. Sandra and Emma got a fair amount of traffic from people who were too curious not to go in.

  Sandra was Emma’s best friend; she was also married to Carl Viator, partner and close ally of Orville. The four of them socialized together, not so much now as they had, but Carl and Sandra had witnessed Orville’s bad treatment of Emma often enough. Carl tried to look out for Emma without making Orville mad, and Emma could tell Sandra anything. Emma didn’t want to think about life at Poke Around without Sandra.

  It wouldn’t happen, because she wouldn’t have the business once she was divorced.

  Emma hopped into the vehicle and jabbed the button to open the garage door. Her sweaty fingers fumbled the keys. The call had bothered her, but most of all she wanted to be in her childhood home, well locked in and comfortable in her old room.

  The garage door didn’t open.

  She pressed the button harder. Not a thing.

  Emma got out of the vehicle, went immediately to set the alarm inside the house, then locked the door to the garage. Since they rarely used the alarm, Orville would be in for a surprise unless he acted quickly. But he would just have to understand the precaution.

  She hurried to the Corvette, where the keys were usually left in the ignition, and got in. The keys hung there. Emma plunked her finger on the opener button.

  The garage door slid upward.

  She closed it again.

  Driving the Corvette was out of the question—Orville would go ballistic. She remembered the control panel she’d never had a reason to use, went to find it inside a metal door set flush with the garage wall, and peered at the switches. Throwing a switch to engage the vacation mode would keep a door shut. The one for the door behind Emma’s car had been set to the vacation position, and pulling it back wasn’t easy.

  You had to want to keep a garage door closed—or get it open.

  Obviously Orville had decided he would make sure she didn’t go out. He never had given her any credit for intelligence.