Our Husband (a humorous romantic mystery)

by Bond, Stephanie

"No." Tony scratched his head. "Why are you determined to dislike this guy?"

  "You're mistaken—I don't care enough to dislike him." She turned to put away the carton of orange juice.

  "Since when do you keep the orange juice in the freezer?" Tony asked.

  Dismayed by her distraction, she jammed her hands on her hips. "Maybe I'll have a frozen juice shake later, okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Aren't you going to be late?"

  He hesitated, then checked his watch and grabbed his coffee mug. "You're sure it's okay that I take the Cherokee?"

  She nodded. "I'm just going to straighten up around here today." The police had left things in such disarray.

  "How about I bring you home a salad for lunch?"

  "That would be nice."

  "Okay, later. Be sure to lock the door behind me."

  "Bye."

  As promised, she locked the door, thankful that in the swirl of this staggering scandal, she and Tony had reclaimed some of the camaraderie they'd enjoyed when they were eight and ten. After pouring herself a half-cup of coffee, she cleared the breakfast clutter and climbed the stairs, her feet and legs moving automatically. She'd decided that the danger of shutting down, especially while she was alone, was rooted in thinking. If she took the time to ponder her circumstances, she would come up with too many reasons to wallow. Or cry. Or sleep. Or succumb.

  For now she would concentrate on things she could control, like taking a shower. At least the bruises she'd sustained from falling off the loveseat had faded, she noted when she shed her clothing. She turned on the shower and while the hot water traveled at a snail's pace from the basement water heater, she gave her body a critical once-over.

  Always thin, she had a few more bones protruding than even she was used to. She should start drinking whole milk again, and real cola. Exercise, not to mention fresh air, might improve the color of her skin. Perhaps she should skip the housework today in favor of working in the garden, reporters be damned. A chill brought her modest breasts to a point, triggering unwanted comparisons that she squashed in favor of stepping beneath the warm water.

  They'd always taken showers together, she and Raymond. In Jamaica they had stumbled upon a private waterfall within walking distance of their resort and slipped out every night to make it their own. Water had been his favorite venue for lovemaking, both of them slick with suds and body oils. Just the scent of musky soap resurrected memories that made her ache for him. Splendidly handsome with water streaming from his toned body and his lion's mane of salt-and-pepper hair. He would massage shampoo into her hair, rub her neck and shoulders, wrap her legs around his waist and rock her until...

  A sluice of icy spray jarred her back to reality. A reminder from the temperamental hot water heater that Raymond's lovemaking, and his love, had been a twisted joke. What to her had been the essence of life, to him had been part of an intricate game he'd played to amuse himself. Shivering violently, she escaped the glass stall and rubbed her skin with a rough towel until she felt halfway warm.

  Driven to cover up the body that couldn't satisfy her husband, she dressed quickly in a long-sleeve T-shirt and faded jeans. Then she gave her overgrown hair a hasty blast with a weak blow-dryer and pulled it back into a ponytail. A glance in the mirror confirmed that she looked almost as plain as she felt.

  Yes, Brian Butler, with all his promising smiles and playful words, was simply toying with her. He'd already admitted that he felt guilty for his role in her dilemma. And she conceded that he probably felt sorry for her. But, she thought as she laced up her work boots, she wasn't about to let Butler convince her that he acted out of anything close to affection. Burn me once, shame on you; burn me twice, shame on me.

  At the sight of her desolate garden, she entertained second thoughts about spending her day outdoors. But on the heels of her hesitancy came the thought that she was tired of being powerless in every facet of her life. The investigation into Raymond's murder had taken on a life of its own and while the media's tendency to inflate every detail gave the appearance of momentum, in truth the police had exerted little effort into looking into Raymond's business dealings and associations outside of his marriages. Her status as a suspect ensured the swift dismissal of her suggestions by investigators. Masterson urged her to be patient with the grinding wheels of justice, but this was her life.

  Or rather, the remnants of her life.

  So, today she couldn't control the media, she couldn't control the investigation, and she couldn't control the weather, but she could control the state of her garden. From the hall closet she retrieved the old wooden toolbox that held trowels and gloves and stakes. On the way out the door, the phone rang, but she ignored it. Natalie grabbed her hat—the day promised to be sunny and clear—just as if everything were right with the world. And she could pretend.

  With the first breath of moss-fragrant air, she knew she'd made the right decision to pass the day in the neglected garden. Perhaps Rose Marie would be close by, imparting silent words of wisdom. From the old cabinet her aunt had turned into a miniature tool shed, she withdrew a rake, shovel, pick, and several other tools of what purpose she wasn't entirely certain, and picked up where Butler had left off.

  The man really had made quite a bit of progress, she conceded. A new concrete sidewalk leading from the wrought-iron gate, which no longer hung crooked. The stepping stones had been leveled, and mounds of black, pungent compost lay at the roots of surviving plants. She tackled the Dropmore Scarlet honeysuckle first because its burgeoning blooms were in danger of being choked out by last year's growth. One project led to another, and she found the act of pruning and trimming therapeutic. After whacking a particularly stubborn outgrowth from a lavender shrub rose, she stopped to wipe her brow.

  "Yoo-hoo!"

  Natalie cringed at the sound of Mrs. Ratchet's voice.

  "Yoo-hoo, Dr. Carmichael!"

  There was little use in ignoring the woman, and if she grew louder, she might tip off any reporters lingering at the front of the house. "Hello, Mrs. Ratchet." But she kept working in a flimsy attempt to dissuade further conversation.

  "I just made a pot of tea, dear. Why don't I bring it over?"

  Sneaky old bird. "No, thank you. It's such a pretty day, I want to get as much done here as I can."

  "But it's almost lunchtime, dear. You'll have to stop for a bite to eat. I'll make sandwiches."

  She hadn't realized so much time had slipped away. "Thanks anyway. My brother is bringing me a salad. Now if you don't mind—"

  "One of my articles about your case was picked up by the Associated Press."

  She sighed.

  "They said it was 'folksy and fair.' And that's how I would treat an exclusive interview with you, my dear—fair. Fair, fair, fair."

  Frustration tightened her chest. "Mrs. Ratchet, my lawyer advised me not to speak to the press."

  "But I'm your neighbor, a family friend."

  She amputated an offending rose branch with pent-up energy. "Good day, Mrs. Ratchet."

  From the twist of the woman's beak, Natalie had just made another enemy. Probably a mistake, since her neighbor could very well invite the cameras onto her property for the best view of Natalie's comings and goings.

  The telltale sound of the Cherokee pulling under the carport was a welcome distraction. She was thirsty, and immensely satisfied that she'd managed to while away the morning with few thoughts of the ugly predicament she had been thrust into. She gave Mrs. Ratchet a conciliatory wave as she pulled off her gloves and headed to the back door.

  Tony was knocking on the side door as she entered the kitchen. She stepped out of her boots and left them on a mat, then unlocked the door. "Am I glad to see you," she said, then stopped.

  Brian Butler smiled. "Likewise."

  She looked past him to the parked Cherokee. "Where is Tony?"

  "He took my van for a pickup in Riley. When he said he promised you lunch, I offered to fill in." He held up a white paper bag transp
arent with grease.

  "That doesn't look like a salad."

  "That's because it's a hot dog."

  "A turkey hot dog?" she asked hopefully.

  "Chili and cheese."

  She wrinkled her nose.

  His eyes danced. "You really should try something coarse once in a while. You might be surprised."

  Natalie plucked the bag from his hand. "Thank you. Good-bye."

  "Oh, didn't I tell you? My lunch is in there, too. I was hoping we could eat together."

  "Why?"

  "Because when that hot dog gives me indigestion, I'll have a doctor nearby."

  She contemplated the unnerving meddler. His earthiness reminded her of the baseness of men, but his proportions gave her an odd sense of protection. Her fingers tingled. Good or bad, the man made her feel seriously female.

  And that, at least, was no crime.

  He flashed a tempting smile. "What do you say, Doc?"

  She managed not to frown. "Wipe your feet before you come in."

  He did. "I see you've been working in the garden."

  "I'm making headway." She set the bag on the table then walked to the sink to wash her hands, glad to have her back to him when she added, "Thanks to your contribution."

  His footsteps vibrated across the wood floor and traveled through her sock feet as he came up to stand beside her. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

  She turned to find his eyes dancing and pumped more soap into her hands. "What do you mean?"

  "Acknowledging that it's nice to have a little help once in a while."

  She narrowed her eyes. "I told you—"

  "I know—you don't need my help. Or anyone's. But you don't have to be a martyr, Natalie."

  A retort sat ready on her tongue—until he said her name. Deliberate. Gentle. Possessive. She squeezed her sudsy hands together so hard, her wedding ring popped off to ricochet around the porcelain sink, heading in slow motion for the gaping drain. Natalie's heart lodged in her throat. They both lunged forward, and after an eternity, Butler came up with it in the palm of his large hand.

  She stared at the foam-covered lump of gold for long seconds, trying to remember the joy she'd felt when Raymond had slipped it on her finger, waiting for relief to overcome her. But the good memory was tainted by his betrayal, and the relief diffused by Butler's presence. As the bubbles dissolved in his hand and the ring became clearer, so did her course of action. Natalie lifted her chin to meet his gaze. "How much?"

  "How much what?"

  "How much is my wedding ring worth?" She dried her hands on a checkered dish towel in the ensuing silence. Thoroughly. Twice.

  "To whom?" he asked quietly.

  "To a pawnshop dealer."

  His lips parted. "To this pawnshop dealer, it's worth a great deal."

  She swallowed, rehashing this morning's discussion with herself. "G-Good. Then just apply it toward my d-debt."

  "Are you sure you want to do this?"

  "Yes."

  His fingers curled, covering the ring. "I'll make sure you get top dollar."

  Since to her the value of the ring was running into negative numbers, she wasn't about to dicker. She trusted him.

  Her pulse skipped. Not trust. Trust wasn't the word a woman used with a man she barely knew when she was still reeling over the death of her cheating husband. Desperation—now there was a word. She was desperate for a sympathetic ear, that was all... an ear—other body parts need not apply.

  "How about that hot dog?" he asked, slipping the ring into his pocket as if nothing of great import had transpired. Of course, he wouldn't have realized otherwise unless the confusion and uncertainty galloping through her chest was evident on her face.

  "Your face," he said, tilting his head, his dark eyes shining.

  Oh my God.

  He reached out and swept a finger across her cheek. She blinked, but was frozen in place. "You're wearing some of your morning's labor," he said with a grin, then held up his finger, smudged with the proof.

  "Excuse me for a moment," she murmured, then skedaddled to the utility room to survey her dirty face, now red with embarrassment. Mud striped her cheek and chin. The hat had compromised her ponytail, leaving her hair in disarray. Scary. Glad for the excuse to collect herself, she bent over the deep sink and flushed her face and neck with cool water. Refreshed, she loosened the ponytail and finger-combed her hair into some semblance of order. Her hands shook for no discernible reason, except that she wanted this little non-rendezvous to end quickly. Why Brian Butler made her nervous, she couldn't fathom, but she was determined he would never know. A deep inhale strengthened her resolve.

  By the time she returned to the kitchen, he had spread their lunch on the tile-topped table.

  "I found tea in the refrigerator," he said. He'd also found paper plates and a radio station, not to mention her sore spot. The man acted as if he belonged there, in her life.

  Moving cautiously, she claimed a chair, then stared at the hot dog bulging out of its bun, with orangey mystery meat sauce spilling everywhere. "You actually eat these things?"

  He lowered himself into an adjacent chair. "As often as I can," he said, then bit into the mess with a practiced technique and chewed with gusto. On the radio, Billy Joel was trying to convince Virginia that he might as well be the one, because only the good die young. Oh yeah, baby.

  Natalie used both hands to lift the so-called food for a sniff. "No wonder you have indigestion problems."

  "Ah, come on. Live a little."

  Billy Joel and Brian Butler were a persuasive pair. Natalie tasted the hot dog gingerly, conceding defeat when the rich flavors exploded on her tongue. Cheese, grease, and salt. Wickedly delicious. She could visualize free radicals somersaulting toward her vital organs. Oh, well, prison food was sure to have state-approved levels of roughage and antioxidants—she'd catch up. Natalie took two more bites before chasing the dog with a swallow of tea.

  "Isn't that better than a salad?" he asked.

  "Not bad," she said, nodding. "But ask me again in an hour."

  He laughed, a pleasing rumble. "You look better today."

  "Gee, thanks."

  "Less stressed, I mean. I heard the two other women were arrested."

  "Yes."

  "Does that mean the charges against you will be dropped?"

  She sighed. "Don't you read the papers? The popular theory is that the three of us wives are in cahoots."

  "No, I hadn't heard."

  "The good news is they no longer think the two of us are an item."

  He made a funny face. "I was kind of enjoying it."

  "The notoriety?"

  "The two of us being an item."

  She swallowed an unchewed bite and forced it down by dragging her fist over her breastbone. "Look, Mr. Butler—"

  "Brian."

  "—this boyish charm of yours is wasted on me. My husband was just buried, for heaven's sake." Her words sounded perfectly logical to her own ears. So why didn't her feelings follow suit?

  "Did you love him?" he asked.

  "Of course I did."

  "Then why did you just hock your wedding ring?"

  Good question. She cast about for a good answer. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

  "No, you don't." He turned his attention back to his lunch and took another healthy bite.

  As she watched him eat calmly, Natalie frowned in exasperation. Did nothing faze the man? She was torn—part of her wanted to toss him out of her kitchen on his sympathetic ear, and part of her yearned to draw upon his unshakable composure. A revelation that only fed her nervousness. "The truth is, right now I don't feel anything for Raymond except anger."

  "Anger is good," he said casually. "Makes a person want to get on with life."

  She mulled his words as she took another bite and decided that, yes, of all things she could be feeling at the moment, anger was the most productive. Of course, from Detective Aldrich's point of view, anger was also the best moti
vation for murder.

  Butler wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. While she wrestled with her emotions, he had made short work of the rest of the hot dog and emptied the glass of tea. He pushed to his feet, and scooted the chair back under the table. "Seeing as how I've worn out my welcome," he said with a tight smile, "I guess I'd better be going."

  Natalie glanced up midchew, suddenly embarrassed by her behavior. The man hadn't done anything to make her think he was interested in anything other than his investment. And how cynical had she become to suspect ulterior motives behind every good deed? She swallowed thickly and stood to face him, although she had to look up. "I'm sorry I was rude... Brian." Her cheeks flamed. "I had no right to jump to conclusions. I'm not ungrateful for your... company."

  He studied her face, allowing her to do the same. Had he been a smaller man, he would have been almost pretty. Instead, his handsome features were broad and rugged and pleasingly placed. His jawline sharp, his cheekbones defined, his eyes framed with untanned crows' feet. His dark eyes were extraordinary, fluid and seemingly incapable of dishonesty. Suddenly, she knew that about him. He was genuine.

  "Natalie," he said softly. "You jumped to all the right conclusions. I was hooked the first time I saw you. I think I behaved so badly in your office because I knew I couldn't have you, and that Raymond didn't deserve you."

  Her throat convulsed.

  He slowly curved his hand around the back of her neck, poised for her retreat. She didn't move. She didn't think. She didn't breathe.

  "I know my timing is lousy," he whispered, "but I'm impatient for you."

  As she was for him. Her heart pounded in anticipation. His fingers burned into her neck as he pulled her mouth up to meet his. His kiss was urgent and jealous and guttural. Natalie went boneless, absorbing his comforting energy, allowing him to assume her weight. He wrapped his other arm around her waist and drew her against his solid body, his legs wide to cradle hers. Everything about him emanated strength—his hands, his mouth, his ragged breathing. Enveloped in his embrace, the pain and ambiguity of the past several days drained away. Gone was the rejection. Gone was the anxiety. Gone was the anger.

  And in their place was a big, warm, wraparound diversion from reality.