Our Husband (a humorous romantic mystery)

by Bond, Stephanie

  The sight of her closet never failed to cheer her up. All those poles and shelves and racks for her hats and jackets and minis and shoes. A far cry from the cardboard box that held the dingy jeans and hand-me-down T-shirts she'd worn as a teenager. Her wardrobe was now dazzling—shiny, sparkly, spangly, shimmery. More clothes than she'd ever dreamed of owning.

  Then she frowned. Billy Wayne said black. Did she have anything black? Walking her fingers through the hangers, she finally found a black dress she hadn't worn in forever. Mac said it was a bad stage getup—too many zippers. She pulled the hanger over her head and held the dress against her as she pivoted in front of the white reproduction antique dresser mirror.

  It mostly covered her, and leather was a nice, expensive fabric. And it would match her black knee boots. She tossed the dress on the bed, then wound her hair in a topknot as she walked toward the shower.

  "I'm sorry, Raymond," she murmured. "But my daughter is going to have the chance to go to Harrah's Women's College and major in bio-something or other."

  Chapter 17

  When she was little, Natalie had believed nothing was beyond the healing power of the bay window seat in Rose Marie's bedroom. Her bedroom now. Swathed in pale blue and yellow fabrics, and heaped with feather pillows, the little nook had seemed like an island of possibilities, optimism, and refuge. Apparently, however, Rose Marie had taken the magic with her.

  She sighed and watched her breath fog the window, then disappear. Fog, disappear. Fog, disappear. The pane of glass beneath her cheek was cold, but not as cold as her skin. Or her heart.

  Or, according to the police, her blood.

  The media had gleefully taken up the gauntlet. A cold-blooded female doctor living in a town called Smiley poisoning her bigamist husband with an herb from her garden? A news producer couldn't have scripted a more perfect tale. She'd been spared national headlines only because a young rock icon had overdosed in Miami, and a prominent politician's son had been arrested in a raid on a gay bathhouse in San Diego. In the tri-state area, however, her arrest was the story of the year, perhaps the story of the decade. And for the Smiley Tribune, circulation three thousand one hundred, it was the story of the century.

  It helped, of course, that the newspaper's star reporter lived next to the perp, able to provide photos of the front of the house, the side of the house, the back of the house, the neglected garden, and even the "homicide herb" as the Strophanthus had been dubbed. Nurseries reported a run on the homicide herb, and a state drug agency had launched an investigation into the safety of the obscure plant.

  Since her arrest the day after the search, she'd learned three things. One, that she knew next to nothing about the legal system. She'd been reduced to soliciting advice from Tony, of all souls. Her hopes they might someday have a common interest hadn't included being Mirandized.

  Two, that she was even less photogenic than she had imagined. Based on the wild-eyed, stern-faced pictures of her in the papers Masterson had gathered for his files, even she would be hard-pressed to acquit herself.

  And three, she would never again tempt fate by questioning whether her life could possibly get worse. Raymond's secret debt, then his bigamy, then his death, now the murder charge... devastation was relative to a person's perspective. The threat of bankruptcy paled miserably in comparison to the threat of the electric chair.

  Her shoulders jerked with a hysterical little laugh—this simply could not be happening. Not to her. Not after playing by the rules her entire life. The injustice was incomprehensible.

  A knock on the door sounded, but she couldn't summon the energy to answer Tony.

  "Nat. Nat?"

  The door squeaked open and she lifted her head. She'd never before seen her brother so tentative.

  "You want something to eat?"

  She couldn't imagine ever regaining her appetite. "No, thanks."

  "Jesus, Nat, you're a bone rack. How about some coffee? I just made a pot."

  And he wore half of it down the front of his white V-neck T-shirt. She smiled. "Maybe a cup."

  "I'll be right back."

  "No, I'll come down." She slowly unfolded her boneless body. "I need to leave this room sooner or later."

  "You outwaited the reporters. They're finally gone."

  "For good, I hope," she said, limping on numb feet.

  "They'll lose interest as soon as Masterson gets the charge dismissed."

  She allowed him to assume some of her weight on the way down the stairs. "I don't suppose he's called with that little nugget of good news, has he?"

  "Not yet. But Sara called again."

  Natalie sighed. "Poor thing. I'm calling her right now."

  "Call her from the den," he said. "I'll bring your coffee."

  She stared after him as he disappeared into the kitchen. The transformation was nothing less than amazing.

  "We're out of almost everything," he called. "I thought I'd go shopping if you're feeling better."

  Shopping? Well, well. Perhaps her brother just needed to be needed.

  She picked up the phone and chased down the cord—Tony must have tired of its endless ringing. After securing the plug, she dialed her office number. Sara answered, breathless. "Drs. Carmichael and Skinner, can you please hold?"

  "Sara, this is Natalie. Why are you answering the phone?"

  "Dr. Carmichael! I've been worried sick about you! Gloria went down to chase off the reporters blocking the doors, so I'm manning the phone. How are you?"

  "I'm fine," she lied.

  "But the papers—"

  "Don't believe everything you read and hear."

  "The police were here, turning your office upside down, asking all kinds of questions."

  "This is all a huge misunderstanding."

  "But Raymond, was he...?"

  "Murdered?" She sighed and pulled a hand down her face. "The autopsy results were reviewed and the results were the same—ouabain poisoning. All I know is I had nothing to do with it."

  "But was Raymond...?"

  "What, Sara?"

  "M-married already?"

  Natalie swallowed. "And since."

  Her nurse burst into tears. "Oh, Dr. Carmichael, how could he?"

  "I'm still trying to sort through things myself."

  "Is there anything I can do to help? Anything at all?"

  A rush of affection clogged her throat. "Just hold down the fort for Dr. Skinner until I can work through this mess." Getting back to her office to unimpact earwax for cookie-bearing patients was her sliver of light at the end of the tunnel.

  "Dr. Carmichael..." Sara cried harder. "Dr. Skinner and I, we don't see eye to eye—he wants to bring back Mrs. Skye to assist him. And I... my sister called me about an opening at the new hospital in Riley."

  The light flickered, then vanished. Natalie's shoulders fell. She couldn't blame Sara, though, with a child to support. She might not get back to her practice for weeks. If ever.

  Sara sobbed. "The pay is good, and the benefits, well... I don't want to move, but I need the security. Please understand."

  She cleared her throat, and tried to sound normal. "What about Joey?"

  "Your situation was a wake-up call for me, Dr. Carmichael. I'm doing fine all by myself, just me and my boy."

  She wanted to tell Sara that all men weren't untrustworthy, but at the moment, few came to mind. And she conceded that her nurse was only being her practical self where her job was concerned. If she did reopen the practice, it seemed likely that the locals would stay away in droves. She suspected Kevorkian had cornered the market on patients who preferred an M.D. with a rap sheet.

  Sara sniffed mightily. "I'm so sorry."

  Natalie closed her eyes. "Don't be. You're right to think about your family, and you have my blessing, Sara."

  "Oh, thank you, thank you. I'll talk to Dr. Skinner right away."

  "He can call me if he has questions about patients after you leave."

  "Oh, wait—I knew there was something
I needed to ask you. Brian Butler."

  Natalie frowned. "What about him?"

  "I found his file, but you didn't fill out his encounter sheet. He was the gentleman who came in late the last day you were here, complaining of—"

  "Indigestion. I remember. Turns out I didn't have to treat him after all."

  "Okay, I'll make a note of it. His was the only file outstanding. Do you need anything from your office? I'd be glad to drop by."

  "Um, no, but thank you. It's been a little crazy over here." She tried to laugh, but she wanted to cry out for yet another familiar piece of her life slipping away. "Call me before you leave town?"

  "Sure thing—we'll have lunch."

  "Sure thing."

  "Natalie, I'll miss you. Everything's going to work out, you'll see."

  Of course things would work out... just not for everyone. "Good-bye, Sara." She hung up the phone, resisting the temptation to drop into the nearest chair, afraid she'd never get up again. She wobbled into the kitchen, desperate for that coffee. Tony was stirring in cream, overflowing the mug.

  "I'm not very good at this."

  "Looks good to me." She brought the cup to her dry lips and sipped. "Hey, not bad."

  "How's your nurse?"

  "She got a better job offer."

  "Ah, I'm sorry." One side of his mouth drew back. "You'll find someone else to work for you."

  "Assuming my practice is still an ongoing concern once this mess is over."

  "Smiley isn't the only town that needs a doctor."

  She sipped the weak coffee. "I know, but I really love it here. Rose Marie's house, the neighborhood atmosphere. I was starting to feel..."

  "Starting to feel what?"

  Her face warmed. "Like I belonged."

  "Since when have you not belonged?"

  Poor Tony, she thought, studying his incredulous expression. She had always felt like the alien in the family, not once thinking that Tony had felt just as lost in their dysfunctional little household. She'd mistaken his antics for confidence. "Never mind," she murmured, shaken. "You're right... Smiley isn't the only place on the map." Just the only place she wanted to be.

  "Do you need anything while I'm out?" he asked, scribbling on what appeared to be a list.

  Money, aisle two, halfway down. Sanity, aisle eight, between justification and resignation. Strength, aisle one hundred twenty-six, top shelf—gotta work for that one. "Um... no."

  "Are you sure it's okay for me to leave?"

  "I'll be fine by myself."

  Tony scratched his head. "Well, you won't be alone, exactly."

  Natalie's heart blipped with panic at the thought of Tony bringing home a derelict stranger. "Is someone else here?"

  He jerked his thumb toward the back yard and she became aware of a faint but rhythmic thud.

  Puzzled, she walked to the back door and unlocked the deadbolt. The pounding grew louder, but through the screen door the source remained hidden. The sight of the trampled garden was enough to bring fresh tears to her eyes. What plants the police hadn't compromised, trespassing reporters and curiosity seekers had. Rose Marie would be heartbroken. Suddenly, a man came into view, wearing work clothes and carrying a sledgehammer propped on his wide shoulder. She squinted, then froze. Brian Butler?

  She whirled to face her brother. "Why is he here?"

  Tony shrugged. "He said he wanted to help. I told him to go for it. I thought he was a friend of yours."

  "Well, he isn't."

  "He was here when I came home the other day and found the police swarming the place."

  "Not at my invitation. The man is a menace."

  "Then why did he offer to post bond for your bail?"

  She gaped. "What? That's absurd."

  "It's true. But Masterson told him it would look bad since he had a stake in whether you collected on Raymond's life insurance."

  "Lowell didn't tell me anything about it."

  "He probably figured you had enough on your mind."

  "I don't need to be protected." She glanced back to the door. The pounding had resumed, and her ire rose with each strike. Who did Brian Butler think he was, barging into her life?

  "I'll tell the guy to leave, sis, if you don't want him here."

  She gritted her teeth. "I'll take care of this. Let me get you money for the grocery." Another worry—converging creditors. With her accounts depleted of ready cash, Masterson had arranged for a short-term loan of ten grand on her Cherokee while her broker scrambled to liquidate the few stocks that remained in her individual account. Their joint brokerage account, of course, was frozen, a moot point since Raymond had nearly bankrupted it without her knowledge over the last few months.

  Five thousand of the ten went to cover the premium for her fifty-thousand-dollar bail. Bail. Funny, but when she'd met with her financial planner, she'd been thinking IRA, disability insurance, long-term care coverage. Not once had she thought to tuck away a few dollars in case she ever needed to make bail.

  "Don't worry," Tony said, waving her off. "I have a few bucks."

  She was instantly suspicious. "You don't even have a job."

  He grinned. "I start tomorrow." He grabbed his jacket and headed toward the front door.

  "Where?" He was in too big of a hurry. "Where do you start work tomorrow, Tony?"

  He stopped and turned. "Butler Family Pawn."

  She scoffed. "This is crazy. You can't work for that loan shark."

  "The man's a pawnbroker, sis."

  "Don't split hairs."

  "Nat, I was looking for work, and he had an opening. There aren't many folks around here who are going to gamble on an ex-con."

  Which proved what she'd suspected all along—that Butler himself was shady. How perfectly perfect that her brother would get tangled up with him. She could just picture Tony shaking down patients of hers when they were behind on loan payments.

  What patients? her mind whispered. Where Tony punched a clock was the very least of her problems.

  "I'll be back," he said, taking advantage of her silence and slipping out the front door.

  At the sound of a mysterious boom from the back yard, Natalie marched through the kitchen, stuffed her bare feet into her gardening boots, and flung the screen door wide. It banged shut behind her as she flapped down the steps descending from the ancient stoop. Butler tossed another chunk of concrete into a wheelbarrow already piled high, then stopped and wiped his hands on grimy navy work pants. "Hello there."

  Her feet faltered at his sudden smile, white teeth against dark, dusty skin, but she quickly recovered. "Mr. Butler, once again, you're intruding."

  "Call me Brian, Doc." He stole a glance at her legs extending from baggy drawstring shorts.

  She resisted the urge to stoop and cross her arms over her scrawny knees. "Don't call me 'Doc,' Mr. Butler."

  He grinned wider and retrieved a blue bandanna from his back pocket to mop at the moisture on his neck. His gray T-shirt was saturated and clung to his wide torso.

  His presence struck her as... domestic. And too familiar. She frowned hard.

  He nodded toward the wasteland behind him. "I thought you could use a hand here, considering those thickheads demolished your garden."

  Indeed, the yard was forlorn—the sagging trellises, the brown of old stalks, the black of broken earth. Even the white board fence, which had girdled the overflowing garden for eons, looked violated by the remnants of yellow tape that had previously identified the area as a police scene. A picture of disgrace. Still, it was her disgrace, and none of his damn business.

  "You might have asked before you pulverized my sidewalk."

  "It was beyond repair. I spoke to your brother."

  "You might have asked before you pulverized my sidewalk."

  He gave her a wry smile and leaned on the sledgehammer. "I figured I'd be better off asking for forgiveness rather than permission."

  The man was so... problematic. "And if you receive neither?"

  He
shrugged. "I'll still sleep better tonight."

  "Oh, you'll sleep better tonight." She crossed her arms. "I didn't realize the goal here was to relieve your latent machismo guilt. And now that I know, I still don't care."

  "I do believe that's the most you've ever said to me." His smile rebounded. "We're making progress, Doc."

  "Leave."

  He acted as if he hadn't heard her. "I've been worried. Did they treat you well?"

  "Oh, you mean in jail? It was lovely."

  "I'm serious."

  She chewed on the inside of her cheek for a few seconds. "It was dreadful. Fortunately, I was only there for a few hours." Natalie blinked and lifted her chin. "I hear you offered to post bond for my bail—was that also out of guilt?"

  "Can't I just be a hell of a nice guy?"

  "You already blew that one."

  "Oh. Well, then I guess guilt it is." He flashed another grin, and this one made her want to... run.

  "You're only making things worse by being here." She gestured wildly in the air. "P-People are liable to think we know each other."

  He cocked his head at her. "Then my devious plan is working."

  She squinted and shook her head at the man's nonsense. The source of that scar on his noggin must have severed a connection or two. "What do you want from me?" Other than a hundred thousand dollars she didn't have.

  He leaned toward her, rocking on the head of the sledgehammer. "You got a glass of cold water in there?"

  She pursed her mouth, and considered him for a few seconds. "Yes."

  "Think we could go in and talk for a minute or two?"

  "No. It wouldn't look good."

  "It doesn't look good now."

  She weighed his motivation for dogging her, deciding that he was only protecting his investment. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't call the police and have you hauled away for trespassing."

  "Dr. Carmichael!" She turned her head in time to see the light of a TV camera flash on. At the gate stood a woman holding a microphone, waving while her partner filmed. "Did you kill your husband because he was married to two other women?"

  "Get off my property," Natalie said as calmly as she could.

  "Were the three of you wives in it together for revenge?"