Good Little Wives

by Abby Drake

  She moaned a soft moan now, then stuffed a pillow between her legs, wishing Elise were there.

  They’d fucked that afternoon. Hot. Fast. So wet that Caroline thought she’d expire from dehydration. It was the first time in her life that she’d lost control.

  After that, once a week (God, only once), they met at Elise’s apartment in the city and spent several hours doing what they did.

  It was love, well, Caroline knew that. Beyond that, it made no sense at all.

  She hadn’t been there since the holidays, since she’d given Elise a diamond “E” from Tiffany’s wrapped in a silver bow, since they’d talked about arranging a January respite in the Bahamas.

  She’d left Elise’s apartment feeling warm and alive. But as she’d stepped out of the elevator and began to cross the lobby, a gray-haired man approached. He had small eyes and a mole next to his nose. He brushed a light layer of snow off his worn nylon coat.

  “Vincent DeLano is one of my clients,” he said. “He’s in search of some capital for a new venture. So he hired me to find out if you have any secrets—the kind your husband might not want let out of the bag. The secrets of the wives are usually far more enticing—and valuable—than those of the husbands. Don’t you agree?”

  She did not say a word, just stood like a Degas, poised between steps.

  He smiled, or rather, he leered. “I didn’t expect the mother lode. To find out that you’re not only cheating, but that your lover is my client’s daughter.” His mole quivered along with his smirk. “Which I think changes the parameters of who should pay whom.”

  She made the deal, paid him for his silence.

  Then she’d broken things off with the love of her life, to protect Elise, to protect Jack, and more, to protect herself and her place as champion over her world.

  And now Caroline’s cheeks were wet with tears. She ached for love; she ached for her. Why couldn’t they be together, now that Vincent was dead?

  Twenty-four

  They were back, but this time Lauren couldn’t breathe. Maybe she was having an anxiety attack the way Bob had. Thank God the doctor had wanted to keep him in the hospital overnight. Thank God Bob wasn’t there.

  “We understand you had an affair with Vincent DeLano,” Detective Johnson repeated as they stood in the foyer, predator facing prey.

  She cursed herself for telling Dana. Dana must have tattled. Lauren had told Caroline only that afternoon, and no one else knew.

  “Mrs. Halliday?” the cop next to the detective asked. “Is it true?”

  Florence told them to get out.

  The detective said, “If we leave, Mrs. Halliday will come with us.”

  Lauren tightened the ribbon around her ponytail. The ribbon was pink today, a perfect complement to her spun silk dress that had been crisp that morning but, like her, was tired now.

  The cop turned back to Lauren. “Would you like to call your lawyer?”

  Her lawyer? Her lawyer would be Bob’s lawyer. No, of course she wouldn’t like to call him. “Florence,” she said, “Get Mrs. Meacham on the phone.” Caroline would know what she should do.

  “Is Mrs. Meacham your attorney?” the detective asked while Florence hustled away.

  “I don’t need an attorney,” Lauren said. “I did not kill Vincent.”

  “But you’re friends with Caroline Meacham.”

  “Well. Yes. Of course.”

  “Did Mrs. Meacham ever give you the name of a hit man?”

  In spite of the tremor now tremoring all through her, Lauren laughed. “Excuse me?”

  “A hit man. You know. Someone who is hired to murder someone else.”

  “I know what a hit man is, Detective. And no, Caroline didn’t give me a name. I didn’t need one, and I doubt she’d need one, either. Mrs. Meacham would not kill anyone any more than I would.” Once again, her words sounded surprisingly steady, strong, convincing.

  “Did Mrs. Meacham have an affair with DeLano, too?”

  She paused.

  She paused some more.

  She tried to swallow his words, but they regurgitated.

  Caroline?

  And Vincent?

  Florence saved the day, or at least a few seconds of it, when she waddled back into the foyer. “Mrs. Meacham is not available,” she said.

  The detective nodded. “Would you like to come with us now?” he asked Lauren matter-of-factly. “Or shall we wait until your husband gets home?”

  Just then Dory appeared in her bathrobe and bare feet, little Liam suckling her breast. “I’ll go with you,” Dory said, and Lauren didn’t stop her because this whole ordeal had just become too much for her to bear alone.

  “All right, it’s true.” Lauren sat on a cold plastic chair in the interrogation room that really was the lunchroom because how often did the New Falls police need to interrogate?

  They’d allowed Dory to sit at the far end of the room next to the vending machines. She did not flinch at Lauren’s confession.

  “It was over months ago,” Lauren continued, her voice now small, the way she felt. “Then he started seeing Yolanda.” She touched the Formica table, then withdrew her fingers. Criminals, after all, must have left germs.

  “Were you upset by the breakup?”

  “It was my idea.” There was no need to say that he’d started seeing Yolanda before he’d stopped seeing her.

  “Why?”

  “It was morally wrong, Detective. I am a married woman. He was married, too.”

  “To the first Mrs. DeLano.”

  “Kitty,” she said. “Yes.” She sat there another intolerable moment, anticipating the question: And Kitty was your friend?

  Instead he cleared his throat and asked, “What do you know about Mrs. Meacham’s relationship with Vincent DeLano?”

  She forced her lips into a smile. “I didn’t know she had one.”

  “She never mentioned that she’d like to see him dead?”

  “No. She thought he was despicable, though I really don’t know why.” If Caroline had slept with Vincent, she deserved some of this torture, too.

  “What about anyone else? Has anyone you know been acting strangely since the murder?”

  She wriggled, trying to get comfortable. But the cold plastic chair now felt like a big pile of resentment. Why had she been singled out just because she’d been in love? “This is a small town, Detective,” she said. “What’s considered strange in other places isn’t always thought of as strange here.”

  The cop didn’t reply.

  “Take last night,” Lauren continued. “Bridget Haynes was driving around in her husband’s silver Mercedes. It was nearly midnight. I called to ask if everything was all right. Randall lied and said yes. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

  The man didn’t answer, but simply said, “You’re free to go for now.” He motioned to another cop, who stood up, scraped the metal legs of his chair across the floor, then escorted the ladies from the room.

  “Dory,” Lauren said on the drive home, where they would go together because Dory and the baby seemed to live there now without Dory’s husband, “I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “Forgive you? For what? For having a little fun in your life? You had fun with Vincent, didn’t you?”

  Lauren smiled a half smile but held back the raunchy, heated details. “I’ll have to tell your father now. In case everything comes out.”

  Dory shifted Liam to her other breast. Lauren felt a twinge of envy for the mother-baby love of which Bob had deprived her.

  “Can I be there when you tell him?” Dory asked. “Can I please watch my father fall apart?”

  Lauren said no, that would not be appropriate. But she felt secretly vindicated, pleased that at least one person seemed to be on her side.

  After chemo, Bridget had made it into the house undetected. She was exhausted from stress, exhausted from worry, exhausted from the fact she’d barely slept the night before thanks to the man she’d once loved.

>   She’d been so exhausted she’d forgone the stairs that led up to the bedroom and lay down on a wicker sofa on the back porch, trench coat and all. The next thing she knew, Randall was gently shaking her shoulder.

  “Bridget?”

  She awoke to see his face shadowed by Detective Johnson. Quickly she sat up, blinked a few times, then tried to tuck the marabou-feathered slip-ons under the couch.

  “I guess you remember Detective Johnson?” “Mais oui,” Bridget replied, extending her hand, remembering what she wore, and praying no one would offer to help her take off her coat. “Qu’est que c’est? I am sorry. I was napping.” She fluffed her curls, moistened her lips. “You have more questions?” she asked with her best imitation of a coquette.

  “Only one,” the detective asked. “Where did you go last night?”

  Bridget laughed. “Moi? Why, I was home last night, wasn’t I, chéri?” She threw Randall a sunny, confident look.

  “Actually,” he replied, “I believe you went out around midnight. Your friend Lauren called because she’d seen my car. She wanted to be sure everything was all right.” He sounded more bewildered than angry.

  Still, she might have killed him if the cops weren’t there. Then again, maybe she should kill Lauren. Would Caroline still have the name of that hit man?

  She laughed again, her thoughts awhirl as if trapped in the spin cycle of a washing machine. “How forgetful of me. The truth is, I did step out for a few minutes.”

  Detective Johnson and his partner and Randall simply stared.

  “Shall we go into the living room, messieurs? I’ve had a trés terrible day, and we can sit more comfortably there.” It was twenty paces into the living room, twelve more to the couch, not nearly enough time and space to conjure a good excuse. “Please, everyone, sit down. I’m sure we can clear this up vite, vite.”

  They waited for the truth. Luckily she had an option.

  “Randall, chéri, sit next to me.” She patted the cushion; Randall sat. Detective Johnson sat across from them; the other cop stood by the door, in case she tried bolting, she guessed.

  She cast her eyes down to the hardwood floor. “I did go out last night, but not because of Vincent or his murder, if that’s what you think.”

  “We’re following up on anything that indicates unusual behavior,” the detective said.

  “Oui. I suppose in New Falls it is ‘unusual’ for a woman to go out at midnight and leave her husband home.” She waited for the silence to heighten the drama. Then she raised her eyes in search of pity, and prayed that Randall would forgive her for what she was going to do.

  “I have cancer,” she said.

  Ba-boom.

  The announcement blew like an unexpected mine during peacetime.

  “What?” Randall shouted, though perhaps he didn’t realize that he’d shouted.

  She closed her eyes and prayed again that if there was a God, He or She would allow her this teeny, manipulative transgression. “I have cancer,” she repeated, taking Randall’s hand. “Forgive me for not telling you, chéri. I did not want you to worry.” But her prayer went unheeded: His toupee looked enormous.

  She turned back to the cops. “It’s cervical cancer. I’ve had surgery and radiation and my family has not known. Today I began chemotherapy.”

  “At midnight?” Randall asked. He was confused, of course.

  She shook her head. “I went to see my good friend Dana Fulton. She’s the only one who knew. I’d told her because her mother had cancer, too.” She lowered her eyes again. “I was anxious about the chemotherapy. I could not sleep; I went to Dana’s. She drove around with me.”

  It seemed convincing, even to Bridget.

  Detective Johnson stood up. “Well, Mrs. Haynes. I’m sorry about your trouble. But I’m sure you understand we’re investigating a murder. So we’ll just go check out your story with Mrs. Fulton.”

  Bridget jumped—too quickly?—to her feet. “Are you going right now?”

  “Well. Yes.”

  She nodded. “Good. Then I’ll go with you. Let’s get this over with once and for all so you won’t have to trouble us any more.”

  Twenty-five

  Bridget didn’t have a clue how she would be able to signal Dana about what she’d told the cops. She only knew she must keep Luc’s name out of this. She’d already hurt Randall enough.

  Randall followed the police car, and Bridget rode with him.

  “Is it true?” he asked.

  “Oui. It is cancer, Randall. But I will be all right.”

  “I wish you’d told me sooner.”

  She looked at him, at the tears that now coated his eyes. It was impossible not to feel love when someone loved you so much.

  “Je suis si désolé,” she said quietly. “I was trying to protect you.” She stared back out the windshield at the taillights of the police car and hated that she’d been such a fool.

  “You’re the only one who knew,” Lauren said to Dana. “I trusted you, Dana. I trusted you and you told on me.” Her hands were on her hips, her small, oval face thrust forward, her cheeks pink, mottled with fury. She looked like a high school cheerleader whose boyfriend had gone to the prom with her best friend.

  “Lauren,” Dana said, “please try to understand. Someone killed Vincent. The police need to know anything that might be pertinent. Doesn’t it bother you that his killer is still out there?”

  “The only thing bothering me is that my friend betrayed me.”

  “Lauren, I’m not the only one who knew about you and Vincent. Steven knew.”

  “Steven? Your Steven?”

  “Yes. That’s how I found out. And there must be others. Plenty of our neighbors go to Harry’s Bar when they’re coming or going from the city. Plenty of our neighbors could have seen you at the Helmsley.”

  The doorbell rang. Dana rushed toward it. If Sam emerged from the family room where Dana had sequestered him when Lauren arrived, someone might catch a glimpse of his giant posters, his confluence of clues that pointed fingers all over town.

  Good Lord, it was the cops.

  And Bridget.

  And Randall.

  Dana smiled a tight smile. “Greetings,” she said. It was too bad Caroline and Kitty weren’t there, too. Maybe they could fill in some of the question marks in the other room.

  They went into the living room. Dana closed the French doors.

  “Mrs. Halliday,” Detective Johnson said when he noticed Lauren.

  “Detective.”

  Dana offered wine. Bridget was the only one who accepted.

  After everyone but the cops had taken a seat, Detective Johnson asked, “Where were you last night, Mrs. Fulton?”

  “Last night?”

  “It’s okay,” Bridget interjected. “He knows about my cancer and the chemo. He knows I came to see you because I was upset.”

  “You have cancer?” Lauren asked.

  Detective Johnson held up his hand. “Please, ladies. Allow me to ask the questions.” He pitched a look at Bridget. “And please, don’t answer for Mrs. Fulton.” He turned back to Dana. “Last night,” he repeated. “Where were you?”

  Dana shrugged. She did not know how their trip to Manhattan could relate to Vincent’s murder. It was Bridget’s private business, after all. Already too much of their privacy had been leaked. “Bridget came to see me, just as she said.”

  “Because of her cancer?” Lauren asked. “Why didn’t I know about it?”

  “No one knew,” Bridget replied. “Not even Randall.”

  Randall nodded.

  “Did you know about Vincent and me?” Lauren asked suddenly.

  Bridget smiled. “Of course. Everyone knows about you and Vincent. Really, that’s old news.” She sipped her wine, set down her glass, and stood up. “Thank you for clearing up my whereabouts for these nice gentlemen,” she said to Dana. Then she turned to her husband. “Randall? I’d like to go home now and get out of these decadent clothes.” She unbelted her tre
nch coat and revealed the ruby silk pajamas, distraction, of course, her intent.

  The cops, indeed, were distracted.

  Randall stood up and said, “Okay, let’s go.”

  That’s when Steven opened the French doors. Instead of announcing, Hi, honey, I’m home, he asked, “What the heck happened to my family room? And why is it that every wife in New Falls seems to have murder on her mind?”

  He thought it was a joke, of course. Steven had no idea what Dana and Sam had been doing while he’d been away; he had no way of determining if these were facts of the real crime, or notes for a criminal justice paper. He also didn’t know that the people in the living room had not gathered for friendly cocktails.

  “Murder is my business,” Detective Johnson said as he stood up. “Glen Johnson with the New Falls Police Department,” he said, shaking Steven’s hand. “You must be Steven Fulton.”

  Steven shook, nodded, then turned his eyes to Dana, who did not know what to say. Sam stepped in behind him and said, “Sorry, Mom. I couldn’t hear what was going on from the family room. I snuck outside and listened at the window.” He pointed to the window at the far end of the room that had been opened to the fresh spring air. All eyes swung toward the window, then back to Sam. “I guess that’s when Dad came home.”

  “And I guess this is when we are leaving,” Bridget said, with a flourish of her trench coat as she attempted to cover the silk.

  “I’m right behind you,” Lauren said, “and I want details about this cancer before you get into your car.” She rushed out after the Hayneses and shut the front door.

  “Well,” Steven said, “apparently I know how to clear a room. Gentlemen? Will you join me in a bourbon?”

  “Thanks, but no,” Detective Johnson said. “I think your wife has seen enough of us for a while.”

  “On the contrary,” Dana said, because it seemed there were no more secrets, except where she’d gone last night with Bridget, and she would not tell them that. “You might be interested in seeing the data our son has compiled.”