Oh, yeah—reality. Her common sense returned with the force of a head-on collision. She froze, then tore her mouth from his, and twisted out of his arms—an impossibility without his cooperation, which he gave under protest.
"Natalie—"
She leaned on the counter, her back to him, her chest heaving. "Brian, please... leave." She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. God, what was I thinking?
"Okay." His breathing was also compromised, his voice broken. "But whether you want to admit it or not, Doc, there's something here."
She closed her eyes. There was something here, all right—a mushrooming cloud of calamity. A dead husband, a murder charge, a reckless kiss. She sunk her teeth into her hand. Perhaps she was having a nervous breakdown—that would explain her bizarre behavior. And at the moment, crazy was preferable to just plain stupid. The floor vibrated as he walked toward her, and she stiffened. He must have sensed her withdrawal because his footsteps paused, then retreated. Behind her, coldness filled the space he vacated.
At the sound of the doorknob turning, she glanced over her shoulder. He, too, was looking back, his eyes questioning.
Natalie turned away and concentrated on the broken pane of glass in the kitchen window.
"I'm not through," he said. "I want you to know I'm not through." The door opened and closed behind her.
Chapter 27
Beatrix frowned at the map—what kind of a town was so damned small that Rand McNally didn't even know about it? She wadded the useless piece of paper into a ball and tossed it into the back seat of her Mercedes. At the next wide spot in the road with a gas station, she pulled over and got directions to Smiley from a kid loafing in the parking lot who she tipped to pump her gas. Then, herself refueled with a cup of God-awful java and a pack of Camels, she pointed the car in the right direction and settled in for another forty-five minutes of podunk parkway.
She'd intended to make the drive to the pawnshop Sunday on her way back from Paducah, but being arrested had a way of messing up a person's plans.
Okay, at first she'd been shaken. She certainly hadn't counted on the list being found—what kind of barbarians look under a lady's mattress pad? But, Gaylord, bless his overtaxed heart, had railroaded the booking process for her, and by association, for that other one, too. As a result, she hadn't had to spend the night in jail, although she was still trying to remove that dreadful black ink from her hands due to the fingerprinting. A humiliating experience, especially since she was processed with a queue of stray drunks from the previous night. She shuddered at the memory.
Not to worry, Gaylord had promised, insisting she plead not guilty at the hurried arraignment because, after all, the list was strictly circumstantial—a prop for a murder mystery dinner party, for all the D.A. knew—and besides, two other suspects were already under arrest for the same crime.
Still, the day had been tense. When she made it home, she'd ordered a wok from Home Shoppers and downed a half-bottle of gin before passing out—er, before going to sleep.
She vacillated between being furious with the two other women for botching what could have been such an open-and-shut case, and being fearful that the circumstantial evidence against them mounted every time they were interviewed. Yet she didn't know what to do to stop the hemorrhaging situation now that a major leak had sprung.
News of her arrest hit Northbend about eleven A.M. Monday morning. At eleven-fifteen, she had received a call from the Northbend Country Club membership chairperson informing her that her membership had been placed on probation, pending outcome of the charges and a vote by the membership board. She'd bloodied her tongue from biting it, but endured the cheerful threat in silence. However, they were supreme fools if they thought anything would stop her from presenting a service award named for her father at a club gala next week.
Tuesday she'd worked the phones as calls poured in, downplaying her arrest by saying that the insurance companies were involved—a criminal trial would postpone the payment of the money she was rightfully due. Bastards.
Wednesday she declared her damage control a success when the calls took on a more sympathetic tone. Even so, Gaylord had told her last night on the phone, they weren't out of the woods. He was worried about his inexperience as a trial lawyer. She, on the other hand, was worried about her inexperience as a poor person.
Living large was expensive, dammit, and bills were pouring in from unfamiliar creditors who'd seen the notice of Raymond's death in the newspapers. At this rate, she'd be driving a bourgeois BMW by summer.
The quiet panic undulating in her stomach was diverted by her first impression of the town of Smiley, Missouri, as the car bounced over the speed bump marking the city limits. As expected, a smiley face adorned the sign, population fifty-six hundred. In the distance, a water tower against a background of ridiculously fluffy clouds carried the same silly insignia. Good grief, hadn't they filmed a sitcom about this place?
She followed the meandering main street around several blocks, cruising by a knot of people, including one man shouldering a news camera, gathered outside a narrow stoop to a refurbished building. She'd bet her last one hundred dollars the crowd had something to do with Natalie—staking out her office, perhaps? Surely she wasn't working during this mess.
Main Street gave way to a courtyard whose centerpiece fountain was flanked by white- and pink-flowered trees. At the sight of a farmer's market in a long paved lot, she pulled over and asked a grinning old man for directions to the pawnshop.
Not the wisest move, she quickly discovered.
"You new around here?" he asked, his bushy eyebrows wagging.
Oh, brother—at least he didn't recognize her. "Just visiting."
"Mighty nice addition to the scenery."
The man smelled like a horse. "Butler's Pawn, do you know where it is?"
He scratched his bald head. "On the other side of town, past the interstate. Sittin' on Spring Street, behind the truck stop. Can't miss it."
"Thank you."
"Here you go." He pulled a shiny yellow apple, still bearing leaves on the stem, from a pocket of his overalls. "A treat for a pretty lady."
"Er, no, thank you."
"On the house," he said, pressing it into her hand.
Deciding it was easier to take the fruit than to argue, she forced a smile. "Thanks." Then, on the chance she might get more out of the man than directions and a snack, she asked, "Is this the town where Dr. Natalie Carmichael lives, the one who killed her husband?"
He stuck his thumbs in his bib. "Yep. Darned shame, too. People here thought a lot of the good doc."
"So you think she's guilty?"
"Haven't you heard? Turns out the man was married to two other gals. The three of 'em did him in."
"But from what I heard, they didn't even know each other."
"Yeah, right. Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned. Can't imagine what three of 'em could do." He leaned forward and winked. "Me, I'm a single man, still waitin' for the right woman."
"Good luck." She pressed the accelerator and sped away.
Can't imagine what three of 'em could do. People actually thought they had committed the murder together? Her heart pounded as the first real possibility of serving time hit home. She'd counted on Natalie's medical background and the other one's criminal background to swing the odds of acquittal in her favor, but would the mystique of a conspiracy snowball into a shared conviction? She would have never come forward on Natalie's behalf if she'd had the slightest notion that she herself might be arrested. The one time she'd given in to the impulse to be nice, and look where it had gotten her.
Beatrix sighed. She could not spend the rest of her life in prison gray. She had to make something happen.
Past more buildings outfitted in Americana colors, a new school complex, and a couple of miles of scattered residential landscape, she drove over an interstate and entered what appeared to be a boomlet of retail business for the town. Anchored by a bustling Wal-Mart, a shop
ping center sprawled like some sleeping farm animal she didn't want to know about. Fast food shacks, cheap shoe stores, nail salons.
Her hunt for Spring Street was hastened by the gaudy sign for the truck stop the smelly farmer had promised. She wheeled into the half-full parking lot of Butler's Family Pawn, wincing at the abundance of neon: LOANS, JEWELRY, GUNS, COINS. Suddenly she wished she'd brought a hat to pair with her dark glasses. And maybe she should have dug out that pair of Donna Karan blue jeans she bought on a whim three years ago but had never worn.
She banged her way out of her car, hitting the keyless remote twice to lock it up tight from would-be thieves. Then, carrying herself as if she frequented pawnshops, she entered the vulgar establishment.
Unfortunately, the inside was so dark, she was forced to remove her glasses. Butler's Family Pawn was crammed with inventory from the carpeted floor to the ceiling tiles: cases of jewelry, racks of musical instruments, shelves of silver, tables of stereos, cabinets of guns. Customers milled around, some selling, some buying. All in all, exceedingly tawdry.
"What can I do for you?" a man asked behind her.
She turned and eyed the tall, dark-haired fellow, taking in the crude black cross on his arm and the attitude clothing. "Are you Mr. Butler?"
"No, I'm Tony Blankenship."
Beatrix recalled snippets of her conversation with Detective Aldrich. "Natalie Blankenship's brother?"
He held up his hands. "Hey, I don't do interviews."
"I don't want an interview," she snapped. "I want to see the owner. Pronto."
He squinted at her, then his expression opened. "You're Beatrix Carmichael."
She pursed her mouth, regarding the ex-con. Had he seen pictures of her while hatching his own plot to kill Raymond? "How do you know who I am?"
The man smirked. "Let's just say I've heard a lot about you."
She smirked back. "Nice prison tattoo. Is Mr. Butler in?"
"I'll tell him you're here."
Beatrix stayed within a one-foot circle as she waited, marveling at how some people made a living. She couldn't imagine being surrounded by junk all day long. Wheeling and dealing. Ugh.
"Mrs. Carmichael?"
She turned. The man was striking—dark-headed and dangerous-looking. "Yes."
"Brian Butler. My condolences on your husband's passing."
He had enough manners—or guilt—not to mention that she'd been arrested for helping Raymond pass. She shook his extended hand, wondering what violence the large extremity had recently wrought. "Mr. Butler, I understand you have some items in your possession that might interest me."
"Right this way."
She entertained the brief thought that the giant could be leading her to a stockroom to toss her into an airtight cooler, but she decided she'd just as soon die as to conduct this humiliating exercise within plain sight of others. So she followed him down a hallway to a surprisingly neat office, away from the noise of the showroom. Her gaze immediately went to an organized collection of tagged items on his desk. To her relief, the Umbro bronze statue looked to be in good condition. Her trophy.
"Coffee?" he asked.
"No, I'd like to get this over with, if you don't mind."
He nodded and walked to his desk. "These are items that your husband pawned over the last year. I understand from Natalie that some of them might be yours."
"Yes." She fingered her mother's precious silver, her father's precious coins. "All of these things have been in my family for generations."
"I had already sold a few things, but I've contacted those customers, and I'm doing my best to get the items back."
"That's... very nice of you."
"How about I call off the pieces and you check them against this list?" He handed her a list identical to the one Natalie had faxed. "One Tiffany desk lamp," he said, his voice sounding tired.
"Wait a minute," she said, unreasonably embarrassed in front of this stranger. "Raymond's death left me in a bit of a cash crunch. I'm not sure I can afford to buy all of this back from you today."
"No matter." His smile was indulgent. "I've been in the position of relieving people of their family heirlooms, and it didn't suit me. Now, that was one Tiffany desk lamp."
"Here," she said, stunned by his generosity. As he wrapped the lamp in bubble wrap and placed it inside a small box, she wondered if he were simply trying to unload evidence that he'd had a business relationship with Raymond.
"One antique silver tea service."
"Here." He had to have an ulterior motive, but what was it?
"One Rolex watch."
Beatrix picked up the slim watch from a white jeweler's box. Her mind raced backward for an explanation, then leaped ahead in quiet triumph. "This is a woman's watch."
"Yeah, so?"
"It's not mine," she said. "When I saw it on the list, I assumed it was Raymond's, but it must be Natalie's."
"No, it isn't hers."
She lifted one eyebrow. "I hear you're in a position to know."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
The man truly seemed to be in the dark—was he playing her? "The police detective told me that you and Natalie are having an affair."
His face darkened. "Detective Aldrich is grasping at straws to make Natalie look bad."
"You're not interested in her?"
If possible, his flush deepened. "I'm only interested in being a friend to a woman who's gone through a rough time."
"Is that why you hired her ex-con brother to work for you?"
His jaw hardened. "We're getting off track. The watch isn't Natalie's because she said none of the items belonged to her."
Diamonds circled the face—the piece was worth at least five thousand dollars.
"Could it belong to, um..." He coughed.
"That other one?" She didn't bother to hide her disdain. Remembering the cubic zirconia ring Raymond had given the girl, she said, "Not a chance."
"I remember when Raymond brought in the watch," he said. "I told him I'd have a hard time selling something so pricey around here."
Beatrix smoothed a finger over the gold link band that moved with the ease of liquid, then held it up to the light. She smiled at the exquisite piece. The exquisite ticket to her freedom.
Chapter 28
Ruby tried to read the small type on the piece of yellow paper the fat guy had given her, but the words all ran together. "You can't take my TV!" Mame echoed her distress by barking like a maniac at the guy's hairy ankles.
"Take it up with the finance company," the guy said, gesturing for his scrawny partner to squat and pick up the other end. "I just do what they tell me."
Ruby focused on the sheet of paper. Repossess.
"Hey, doll, does that mini-mutt have an off button?"
She picked up Mame and stroked her fur to quiet her pet and to calm herself. The police had confiscated her computer during their search Sunday—without the television, she'd be left with nothing to do except—gulp—read.
"How much money do you need?" she asked the men. She'd stuffed last night's tips inside her strawberry cookie jar, about two hundred in cash, plus a book of stamps.
"I need about a million bucks," Hairy said with a laugh. "But we can't take money, just the merchandise we came for. Sorry, doll."
Ruby chewed on her lip. How would she keep up with Jeopardy? "I didn't know we were behind on the payments." If the paper the man gave her was right, Ray hadn't made any payments.
"The wife is always the last to know," he said. With ferocious grunts, the two men lifted the massive TV and carried it out the door to a waiting van.
"It's not fair," she whispered, jiggling Mame and shifting from foot to foot.
The man returned, wearing a sad smile, and handed her a clipboard. "I need for you to sign here to say we took the TV."
She wiped her eyes and signed her name, dotting the "i" with a little heart.
The guy stared at her signature. "I thought you looked familiar—you were marri
ed to that Carmichael dude who had wives everywhere."
Ruby lifted her chin. "Just three."
"Man, that's low. I don't blame you dames for taking him out."
"B-But we didn't."
"Sure." Hairy gave her a big wink, like in cartoons. "Well, don't worry, doll. My sister did some time in the state pen for stabbing her roommate and she said it wasn't so bad. At least you'll have a TV. And cable. See ya."
"See ya." Ruby stood in the doorway and watched the van plow through the mudhole that was her front yard. Two days of rain had chased away bothersome reporters who had trampled her pink begonias, but left six inches of muck that gooped up her shoes when she walked back and forth to her Camaro. With their finger, someone had written WASH ME on the side of the blue car.
"Hey, Ruby!"
She turned to see Dudley Mays, her neighbor who owned only half a wardrobe—the bottom half. She guessed she should be thankful it wasn't the other way around.
"I hear you're single again," he said, grinning and rubbing his white belly.
The man reminded her of Ham—big and shaggy and greasy. A bad taste backed up in her mouth. "You might want to keep your distance, Dudley. My husband was murdered, you know."
It was a really ugly thing to say, but worth it to see the scared look on Dudley's face.
Ruby slammed the door behind her, then teared up at the sight of the living room, practically bare with the computer and the television gone. She dropped onto the couch, still holding Mame. What a crummy week. Well, except for the baby moving—that was cool. She'd known the cops would be ticked when she admitted to lying about killing Ham, but she hadn't expected them to slap her with an additional charge of conspiring to kill Ray, too. Billy Wayne said that if she were convicted on both charges, she could probably serve the sentences con—... at the same time, and that they were likely to go easy on a pregnant woman.
But she wasn't so sure. And the three hours she'd spent in a jail cell after being arrested Sunday was enough to convince her she didn't want to go back, cable TV or no cable TV.
Our Husband (a humorous romantic mystery) Page 20