The Dispensable Wife

by AB Plum

  “Papá won’t like it. Papá wants me to study my numbers more. I miss too many problems he gives me. He says he expects me to try harder.” No quiver this time, but his voice drops. He blinks rapidly, holding back tears.

  “What if I help you with your number problems?”

  Skin pale as skimmed milk, he frowns like a little old man. “Papá says I must solve the problems by myself.”

  “I won’t solve them for you.” I will my brain to tamp down my anger and pitch my voice to neutral. “I’ll help you. Then you can finish sooner, and we can snuggle.”

  He props his chin on his hand and considers my words. “If you’re sure . . .”

  Refusing to let his doubts discourage me, I squeeze him tight. “I’m sure.”

  “’Member, you can’t make Papá mad or he will hurt you.”

  “I remember.” How could I forget? I nod for emphasis. “Now, let’s go downstairs. Alexandra and Anastaysa should be home any minute.”

  *****

  Alexandra, back hunched by her heavy book bag, precedes her sister into the foyer. Her greeting to me is less than perfunctory, it borders on rudeness. She averts her gaze, but not before I catch a glint of contempt. She brushes her lips against my cheek, then steps back as if she smells something foul.

  “Alexandra, what’s—?”

  “Do not ask what is wrong, Mamá.” She shoves past Anastaysa and runs up the stairs.

  “You won’t tell Papá, will you, Mamá?” Anastaysa takes my hand and squeezes my fingers so hard I grimace.

  An out-of-sync flutter starts in my stomach. How has Michael brainwashed all our children to brand me a snitch?

  Get over yourself.

  Anastaysa’s chin quivers harder than Magnus’s, but she fists her hands at her sides. Her eyes, unlike her brother’s limpid gaze, hold no tears. They flash with defiance. She is holding herself together, but her eleven-year-old body is so stiff I marvel her bones don’t crack. I drop down on one knee so that I stand only an inch taller. I make a cross over my heart.

  “I promise I will not tell Papá. I wish you would tell me—” I stop speaking as she shakes her head. “I wish you would tell me what’s wrong, but I won’t ask you to break Alexandra’s confidence.”

  Her lovely blonde eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Her smile is the most beautiful thing I have seen in months.

  Chapter 81

  HE

  Leaving the guesthouse at the same time as I, Patrick walks beside me in silence. A sure sign of his unease. Does he actually believe I swallowed that pathetic story about a problem with AnnaSophia’s car?

  “About Jed’s broken ribs,” he says as we walk along the well-lit path and past the swimming pool, “I didn’t want to bring this up in front of Mrs. Romanov.”

  “How thoughtful. What’s your point?”

  “I waited in the parking lot while Mrs. Romanov attended her class. I spotted Jed tinkering under her car’s hood. When he left, I checked it out. He sapped me, hauled me to my truck, and dumped me there.”

  “I’m impressed, Patrick. You must have x-ray vision. Spotting Jed in fog thick enough to swallow the Golden Gate Bridge, how close to him were you?”

  “I didn’t actually see him. I saw a flashlight. Waited till he left, then investigated.”

  “You say he sapped you. What makes you think it was Jed?” I stop at the fork in the path. The barn and his quarters lie to the left. Jed’s cottage lies to my right.

  “Most ex-cops carry blackjacks and brass knuckles. Some carry Tasers.”

  “I believe blackjacks and brass knuckles are illegal.” Said drily—as if I had no idea Jed and all my security guards carry all three weapons.

  “Either’s a misdemeanor or felony in California.”

  “You sound like a lawyer.” My tone remains dry, in control.

  He shrugs. “Knew the sheriff and lots of deputies in the Delta. Once they retired, they didn’t retire their tools of the trade.”

  “I’m not a lawyer, but your . . . allegation sounds a bit . . . circumstantial. If you didn’t see Jed—and by the way, did your assailant leave you unconscious on the pavement?”

  “No. Like I said a second ago, he dragged me to the pickup.” A jab in his reply—reminding me he’s repeating himself. “I wasn’t unconscious—just wobbly. He grabbed me around the chest and dragged. That’s how I know it was Jed. Jed has a unique smell.”

  He’s right, dammit. Jed smells like a mixture of sour Wild Turkey and Hugo Boss aftershave. Holdovers from his cop days.

  Intent on dismissing Patrick’s comment, I say, “As an oenophile, I have quite a keen nose, but I’ve never noticed Jed’s smell. How would a judge react to your allegation?”

  “I’m not reporting the incident to the police. I’m not telling anyone but you. But if the guy plays on your pity—”

  “Jed can’t play on my pity. I’ve already promised AnnaSophia he won’t be here tomorrow. I am a man of my word.”

  “Good enough for me.” He nods, then adds, “I’ll see if the towing company has delivered Mrs. Romanov’s car.”

  “Let one of the other mechanics do that. You should rest after that bump on your head. Give yourself time to consider my offer.” Run back to the guesthouse and collude with the slut on another preposterous tale.

  Christ, how gullible do they think I am?

  “Guess I should lie low till Jed’s off the property. Who knows how he’ll react when you fire him?”

  “I think I can instill him with the fear of God.” I rock back and forth on my heels, then turn toward Jed’s cottage.

  “Want me to inform Mrs. Romanov her car won’t be ready for yoga tomorrow?”

  Without turning to face him, I call, “I’ll inform her at dinner. It’s not as if we don’t have other cars. “Or—” Now I do turn, “you can always take her to yoga in your pickup.”

  He remains in the place at the fork. “Glad to do that.” He fades into the mist.

  That’s not all you’re glad to do. I step off the path and grind flowers under my heel.

  While I wait for Patrick’s fog-muffled footsteps to fade, I check my phone. It vibrated non-stop in the guesthouse. I listen to the messages and see—through a scarlet haze—Satish Patel grilling Regan.

  He wanted Andrew Miller’s personnel file. He claimed you’d have no objections since you voluntarily turned over Tracy Jones’s résumé. I refused of course. He hinted he’d return today with a warrant. I think he was bluffing. Can he find a judge in two hours?

  Please call me, Mr. Romanov. I’m not sure what to do if he returns.

  For the first time in ten years, the indomitable Regan’s voice quavers.

  Goddammit. The walkway requires stepping carefully while I return Regan’s call. She answers immediately. A hazy light flickers in the distance. My temper flares. “Why didn’t you call me as soon as he showed up?”

  I slip on a wet brick, flail, catch my balance, and stop to make my point. “Don’t I pay you enough to use your brain?”

  She gasps. Too fuckin’ bad. “Who was at the security desk? Who let him upstairs?”

  “I let him upstairs. He threatened to wait in the lobby until he saw you.” There is not a scintilla of defensiveness in her tone. No mention of who was at the security desk, but I’ll deal with that fool later. “I called you four times. You never answered.”

  Goddammit. That must have been while Friend John was chatting with my slutty wife.

  “I expect more of you, Regan.” Harsh. Accusative. Cold. “What time did he leave?”

  “Five minutes ago.” I imagine her stiff lips pressed together as she fights for control.

  “What did he want to know about Andrew?”

  “How long he’d worked here. If he’d always worked for you. What his specific job entailed. If he was well-liked? Respected? A hard worker? Did he have any enemies? Did I know him personally? Who were his friends at work? Did he have any romantic at
tachments at work? Did you ever invite him to your home? He asked repeatedly about Andrew’s work friends.”

  “I’m on my way back to the office. If he returns, do not let him past the lobby. You go downstairs. Stay with him. Do not let him talk to anyone—and I mean to anyone.” I pause to let my orders sink in. “Do you have any questions?”

  “No sir.”

  “Call me if he returns before I arrive. If I don’t answer, keep calling and texting.”

  “Yessir.”

  “I am not happy, Regan.”

  Her swallow is more audible than her subsequent whisper. “I understand.”

  Does she understand thousand-dollar bonuses come with expectations? I disconnect and jam the phone in my pocket. Is everyone an idiot?

  My muscles tighten. I finally reach Jed’s front door and rap with the heel of my hand. Inside, raucous laughter blasts through the door. “Jed, we need to talk.”

  The laughter continues. Off to the side of the house, something moves. A puma? Traveling under the fog’s protective cover. Maybe a deer . . . Hand steady, I draw my .357 and thumb back the hammer. The locking steel spring adds a discordant note to the cacophony inside the cottage.

  Peering into the bushes, I see nothing. Hear nothing. Sense nothing out of the ordinary.

  Still I keep my weapon trained on the spot where I saw something and yell Jed’s name again. Is the bastard passed out? From too much booze? Or from happy pills for his ribs?

  Either way, he’ll need more pills to down the medicine I am about to deliver. Satisfied nothing’s lurking in the bushes, I turn and kick the door with all the pissed-off frustration I’ve felt the last few days.

  A flash of pain bites into my toes and races up my ankle. The adrenaline gunning through me suppresses everything but the instinct to go for another attack. I tilt onto my left foot. My arms hug my sides as I aim my right foot at a spot below the doorknob. Imagining the spot a human opponent, I deliver a lethal Muy Thai kick.

  The door slams against the wall—shaking the entire cottage. A cold breeze from an open window hits me as I charge inside, my gun down at my side. Seeing him slumped over in his armchair in front of one of his porn films, I fight the temptation to bring the Magnum up and fire into the back of his skull.

  “Goddammit, Wilson. Are you deaf?”

  He doesn’t move a muscle. I stomp over to the chair.

  Brain spatter dots the back of the chair and the TV screen.

  Chapter 82

  SHE

  With Anastaysa and Magnus in tow, we sweep into the kitchen. Jennifer stalks out like a queen dethroned. Anastaysa and Magnus snicker. I put my finger to my lips then remember I’m making changes in my life.

  First baby step. No meting out discipline as if Michael is watching. I drop my finger, put my arms around their shoulders and draw them into a circle. Heads lowered, we giggle.

  The giggles quickly morph into guffaws and howls. We remain on our feet only because we are supporting each other. Tears run down our cheeks, but we keep laughing. In the middle of a new round of hysteria, I freeze. The faint scent of avocado and rose oil drifts into the kitchen. The sense of approaching menace welds my head to my spine and pinches each vertebra so tightly I feel as if I’ve turned to tin. The smell hasn’t warned Magnus and Anastaysa. Their laughs give me the energy to swivel my head enough to see the monster.

  Face dark with blood, teeth bared, Michael storms into the room. His gait hitches—is he limping? He breaks through our circle like a policeman breaking up armed protestors. He grabs Magnus’s and Anastaysa’s arms at the elbow, lifting them off their feet. He shoves them to either side of his stiff body, silencing them with narrowed eyes and flared nostrils.

  “What the hell’s going on here?”

  “The children and I—”

  “They are children—their excuse for behaving like monkeys. What is your excuse?”

  “Please, Papá.” Magnus slaps his hands over his ears. “You are hurting my ears.”

  “Then go to your room, Magnus. Now. You, also, Anastaysa.”

  Neither child hesitates. Neither child bursts into tears. They both break and run—frightened as rabbits running from a ravenous wolf. My knees wobble. I plant my feet an inch wider apart hoping to set my balance. I pull back my shoulders and meet his hard, furious gaze as my lungs constrict. He’d love to backhand me. Hyper-aware sharp knives sit across the room, I visualize every pan and utensil as potentially concussion-inducing if he knocks me down.

  “I swear to Christ, AnnaSophia. Why I ever married you, I will never know. The police are coming, and you’re playing Ring Around the Posey like a retarded eight-year-old.”

  The obvious question, Why are the police coming? tap dances in my head, but I clamp my jaw shut. Silence is power.

  “Jed Wilson is dead.”

  Every drop of saliva evaporates. Moving my tongue hurts the roof of my mouth. Swallowing proves impossible. Speaking, hopeless.

  “I found him ten minutes ago. When I went to his cottage, he was dead. I had to call the police. We have to get our story straight.” He snaps his fingers under my nose.

  Taking one backward step, I push his hand away. “Stop that.”

  “What did you say?” He snaps his fingers again—fingernails stinging the tip of my nose.

  I jerk my head away, throw my arms up in front of my face, and hurl my body against his. Caught off balance, he stumbles backward. Once. Twice. On the third stumble, he grabs my arm, using it to regain his footing. He wrenches my arm behind me, stretching my shoulder to the breaking point. As he brings his mouth toward my ear, I kick him.

  Disappointingly, I connect with his shin instead of his balls.

  “Goddammit.” He hops on one foot, trying to bend forward to massage his injury.

  A tiny part of my lizard brain goads me to snap my fingers under his nose, but the compartment containing common sense opens. Papá hurt you. Really, really, really bad.

  Did he also hurt Jed? Really, really, fatally bad?

  Skirting the huge work island, I reach the opposite side before he stops his massage. Damn, where’s a camera when you need one? What a moment to show Alexandra, Anastaysa, and Magnus. Their father—at least once in his lifetime—experiencing humiliation.

  The house phone rings in the middle of our small drama.

  “Must be the police,” I say helpfully.

  “Answer it.” He spits out the order as if his shin has magically returned to normal.

  “Sorry. My arms won’t reach.” I stretch toward the wall behind him.

  “You’re making it easier and easier to get you admitted to the funny farm.”

  My legs tremble, but I make a megaphone with my hands. “Tell that to the police as soon as you answer the phone. Say, ‘my wife went bonkers and attacked me and abused me physically, traumatizing me so badly, I couldn’t get to the phone.’”

  Whether the fourth ring sounds more insistent than the previous three or whether my grim-faced husband realizes he needs to answer sooner than later unless he wants to do some tall ’splaining, he hobbles toward the wall and grabs the receiver on the fifth ring.

  His voice is low, but I edge around the island and eavesdrop unashamedly. He clarifies first that one of his other security toadies is manning the front gate. He then orders Seth to lead the police to the house. Personally, in their shoes, I’d take offense at his less than subtle implication. What? The police can’t follow the yellow brick road to the Wizard’s abode?

  He listens, then barks, “Text me when you reach the top of the driveway.”

  He slams the phone in the receiver. The kitchen island between us and the imminent arrival of the police bolsters my courage. “This is your unlucky day. Tracy, now Jed. I’m sure the police are too dumb to connect the dots.”

  His face turns stroke-red. My breath hitches. Do strokes run in his family?

  How would I know? He extolled his bloodline basics on our first date. His father’s family traced their r
oots to Russia. His mother’s maternal family had roamed with Danish and Finnish Vikings. I doubted the Finnish lineage. In retrospect, I think it was his underhanded way of reinforcing his claim that we belonged together.

  With so few Finns around, we have a duty to bring more Finnish blood into the world, AnnaSophia. I remember laughing—the first real laugh since Edward disappeared—at his outlandish suggestion.

  When he finally speaks, he sounds as if he’s strangling on his own spit. “As my loving, faithful wife, I’m sure you will be happy to educate the police about coincidences.”

  “One of my favorite subjects.” Where does that flippant tone come from?

  His jaw cracks. He must have the same unanswerable question. “They’re at the top of the driveway now. Stay inside. They can come in here to question you.”

  At the doorway, he turns. “Do not call Patrick.”

  “Patrick? Why should—”

  “The police might conclude you and he have more than an employer-employee relationship.” The doorbell rings once, cutting off my reply, but he hisses, “Shut. Up. Don’t say another word.”

  Beads of sweat dot his forehead. Fists balled, he whips around so fast I instinctively jump. His heels click sharply in the marble foyer. I tilt my head and listen to the rhythm of his footsteps. He is limping. Why?

  Curiosity overrides caution. I tiptoe into the butler’s pantry. At first, his tone exudes cooperativeness but quickly changes to hostility. A man and woman stand on the front step. They hold up gold shields. Knuckles white, he holds onto the door handle.

  Then, I see why he’s losing his attempt at self-control.

  Chapter 83

  HE

  Patel’s weasel face gives me a surprise.

  Neither he nor the two Palo Alto cops offer a reason for his presence. I doubt they can offer a reason.

  Whatever the cause of Jed’s death, Belle Haven is outside the jurisdiction of the MVPD. So how did he persuade Palo Alto he should tag along?

  No matter. I know he has come to see AnnaSophia. And why?