The Dispensable Wife

by AB Plum

Ward sees the same glimmer, bends for closer scrutiny, then glances at me. “Funny, you don’t strike me as a guy who wears earrings, Mr. Romanov.”

  “That’s a possible birthday gift for my wife.” The lie hammers my chest, but my voice sounds normal. God, I can still think on my feet.

  “Only one?” Ward asks.

  “It’s a sample. To decide if I like the cut. And the stone. I’ve about decided I don’t.” I shut up. Liars pile on too many details.

  “Unless I’m mistaken, that’s a CZ,” Luci pipes up, leaving unspoken I’m a cheapskate.

  “Good eye, Detective.” A drop of sweat drips off my brow into my eye, but I don’t even blink. “I’m searching for substitutes for the real diamonds I plan to give her.”

  “Gosh, I’d probably be happy with the CZs.” Luci peers more closely at the damn earring.

  “Well, you’re not Mrs. Michael Romanov,” Patrick says, his tone light, joking.

  “Keep it if you want.” Not bribery, but an attempt to pump up my image with the Arnez Twins.

  Luci’s jaw drops, then closes. “Seriously?”

  Ward clears his throat. “Remember the appearance of conflict of interest?”

  She snaps her fingers, chuckles, then slips the earring in a paper envelope. She scribbles several lines on the envelope, then lays it back inside the briefcase. “Thanks, anyway, Mr. Romanov. And thanks for letting us check through your stuff. You probably should think about calling your lawyer in the next few minutes.”

  *****

  Attorney Robert Peyton Aldridge, the Third is a pompous ass. An expensive ass.

  But . . . he earns every penny I pay his firm. His son, affectionately known as Four by Pater Aldridge, is the firm’s criminal specialist. In his early thirties, he prefers staying in the shadows, advising counsel for dozens of celebrity cases. He arrives at the guesthouse within half an hour after I call his father. Impeccably dressed in a pinstripe custom suit, crisp white shirt, and mirror-shiny Guccis, he swaggers across the porch like an Oscar-nominee.

  Despite the fog, his ultra-short red hair appears dry.

  The red hair is a red flag.

  Four could fly across a room.

  Or raise my grand piano ten feet in the air with one finger.

  Or turn tap water into award-winning, top-of-its-class, premium cabernet sauvignon.

  None of those talents would matter.

  How do I explain my aversion to redheads—thanks to my mother, my wife, and my Oxford-educated father who passed on to me the unsophisticated Russian view of titian locks?

  Four quickly proves my hunch. No amount of negotiating with the Arnez Twins moves them to reverse their decision to seize my briefcase. They also refuse to budge on collecting GSR from my hands and suit. I listen to Four’s counter-arguments against taking me to the police station with the sensation of drowning. What was I thinking when I kept that earring? Did I secretly yearn to be caught and sent to prison? Why didn’t I slap a red M in the middle of my forehead?

  Patrick’s shit-eating grin pierces my angst with laser precision. His mockery provides the impetus for me to keep fighting. Whatever’s going on, I’m not going down. Not for Jed’s murder. And not for Tracy’s. They have no evidence—not even with the earring. If—if—they find any GSR on my body or clothes, I have a rational explanation. Thank God I fired that gun last night. Makes everything so logical. All I have to remember is I’ve overcome far tougher situations. I’ve learned how to survive.

  The one concession the Arnez Twins grant is allowing me to ride into downtown Palo Alto in Four’s Benz. They also allow me to call AnnaSophia—the one guilty as hell.

  When her voice mail picks up on the seventh ring, I say, “Don’t wait dinner, Darling.”

  Chapter 88

  SHE

  Resettled in the den, Detective Patel demonstrates his listening skills again. Without giving up Patrick’s identity, I swear he’s reliable and recount his human-trafficking allegations. The smell of the freshly baked bread and the ghostly silver fog add to the story’s obscenity.

  When I finish, we both sit in silence. Detective Patel’s smooth face reflects such sadness that I wish I could take back every single word I’ve told him about the rapes, bathroom imprisonment, the involuntary commitment, and the human trafficking.

  “How can one person stray so far outside common decency?” he asks in a voice heavy with disbelief. “Add his juvenile history of perversion and the murder of at least one person within the last week, and I’d say this man is beyond hope. We need to get you and your kids out of here— now.”

  “If the Palo Alto police arrest him, that gives us more time, doesn’t it?”

  “If he doesn’t get bail.” Detective Patel stands, stares out at the fog, sits down. “Or if he doesn’t skip the country. The man has passports from every country where he’s ever lived.”

  “And don’t forget his private jet.” I lean forward, my arms on my thighs, my hands fisted. “How long will it take you to make the arrangements?”

  “Longer than it should—probably not until tomorrow. In the meantime, I can take you and the kids to a hotel. Not the Ritz, but someplace nice.”

  “I don’t have much money—about five thousand dollars.” My stomach tightens. I lean back in my chair. How can I raise money? What can I sell? Jewelry? Artwork? Silverware?

  “We’ll figure it out. I have a couple of friends who help women with kids.” He flips out his cell, reads a text message, glances up at me, his mouth tight. “What about your father?”

  “God, I forgot about—he’s at risk. Maybe at a bigger risk than the kids and me.”

  “Why do you say that?” Detective Patel asks as if he doesn’t really care.

  His sudden drop in attention throws me. He’s supposed to hang on my every word without asking questions I could consider a challenge. The bruised shadows under his eyes soften my judgment.

  He must have read my own subtle shift. “What could your husband do to your father—besides stop paying his bill?”

  As if that wouldn’t be enough. I break eye contact so he can’t see how alone I feel. But he asked, and I answer, bringing my gaze back to his.

  “Two years ago, I think Michael paid someone to look the other way the night Daddy walked away. The Carmel police found him three hours later—freezing and traumatized.”

  “What provoked this retaliation?”

  A harsh, ugly laugh erupts, grating the soft tissue of my larynx. “An argument.”

  “Doesn’t every married couple argue?”

  “I went to dinner dressed in pants. He prefers dresses.” The timbre of my whisper is hoarse, dry, but the words threatening to choke me spill out. “This was right after Andrew . . . died. He knew.”

  “How?” He swivels his eyes back to his phone and reads the LED for decades.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He pockets the phone with hurried, awkward movements, then studies me as if facing an executioner without a blindfold. “Which do you want first? The good news or the bad?”

  “The Palo Alto police are finished with Michael?” I whisper.

  “That’s the good news. They’ve called the DA to his lawyer’s office.” He pauses only long enough for his words to sink into the shallowest trough of my brain, then leans forward, shoulders hunched. “Your father is missing. The Carmel police, their dogs, and dozens of volunteers are searching for him.”

  “No.” Shaking my head, I jump out of the chair. “He wears an ankle monitor. Did they find that? How long has he been gone?”

  “Twenty, thirty minutes.” He appears next to me. “They found the monitor. Sliced off with surgical precision—suggesting he didn’t cut if off himself.”

  “I have to go.” I start for the door.

  He reaches it first and grabs the knob. “Not a good idea, in my opinion.”

  I shove at his hand. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

  “You’re as fit to drive as a drunk adolescent. If you le
ave, I’ll have CHP stop you.”

  A quiet fury tempers the rage ready to spew everywhere. “And here I’ve been thinking every man in the world does not need to intimidate women. Control us. Keep us in our place.”

  His fingers tighten around the doorknob. “It’s not my intention to intimidate, control, or keep you in your place. My intention is to keep you from hurting yourself and others. If you end up in a wreck, what happens to your chil—”

  “All right. All right. All right.” The sullen tone in my voice carries my real meaning.

  “And you’re thinking I can’t babysit you all night. So, when I leave, you’ll jump in one of your many cars and race to Carmel.” He rattles the doorknob. “Am I close?”

  “Damned close,” I blurt—not giving a damn if he knows every syllable I’m thinking.

  A knock on the door interrupts his comeback.

  “Mamá?” Anastaysa speaks in the small voice of a child frightened to disrupt her parents’ argument.

  Detective Patel opens the door, then stands to one side.

  “Excuse me, Mamá.” She stares at him as if he’s an exotic animal about to pounce.

  “This is Detective Patel, Anastaysa. He’s a policeman.” I relax my locked jaw, rein in my hostility, and force myself to speak in a comforting tone to my child. “It’s okay. You can speak with him here. Tell me whatever you want me to know.”

  Her eyes widen, and her carotid pulse jitters. She swallows, then responds in a surprisingly strong voice. “Alexandra is crying. She won’t stop. She can hardly breathe. She says she won’t come down to dinner.”

  “Thank you, Staysa. I’ll come up in a minute, okay?”

  “Okay.” She offers her hand to Detective Patel and retraces her steps, leaving me with a new dilemma.

  Michael, alone in this household, reserves the right to miss dinner. The rest of us need a signed affidavit from a doctor—preferably from a mortician—as an excuse for being absent from dinner. Alexandra’s absence will provide the match to Michael’s short fuse after his release from the police. Contrary to his earlier statement, he will be home for dinner tonight.

  Head down, Detective Patel is checking his phone again. He holds up one finger, then shows me the text. Dogs found man’s shoe ½ mile frm SBTS. Chkg with nurses.

  “No, God. No—” My next words spill out in a rush. “If it’s his, how will he walk with only one shoe? What if he steps in a hole? What if he—”

  “What if you check on your daughter?” Patel’s tone is reasonable.

  “What if you go to hell? What if you stop treating me like I’m hysterical?”

  “I’ll check for news of the search.” No advice to calm down. “I’ll let you know as soon as I learn anything.”

  “All right.” I don’t insult him by mentioning trust.

  *****

  Upstairs, I listen for a moment to Alexandra’s quiet sobs, then tap on her door. As I expected, she stops crying, but doesn’t invite me into her room. I tap again, call her name, turn the knob she can’t lock. Michael removed all the bedroom locks years ago.

  As soon as I step across the threshold, she sits up in bed and screams, “I hate Papá. I wish he was dead. I’d like to kill him.”

  “Shhh.” A vision of the father I love flashes. Hands clammy, I shut the door. Did Detective Patel hear her outburst? I jog to her bed, sit on the edge, and grab her in my arms. “Shhhh. Shhhh. Shhhh. I know. I know. I understand. I’m sorry.”

  “Why did he send Monsieur Lefebvre away? We didn’t do anything.”

  “I know. I can’t explain why. I won’t even try.” The police taking her father away does not explain his reaction to Monsieur Lefebvre, and I refuse to say anything that characterizes him as a caring father, concerned for her emotional well-being.

  “Sending Monsieur Lefebvre away was unfair,” she says as if we’ve disagreed.

  Her anger and mistrust reverberate around the large, feminine room she keeps in perfect order. She pushes me to an arm’s distance. Like me, she avoids being touched.

  “Do you know where he sent Monsieur Lefebvre?” she demands, her eyes bright with tears, her chin jutted at me as if I am her enemy. “You’re clueless, aren’t you?”

  “I’m sorry.” Other problems took higher priority, but I doubt she’ll accept this explanation or apologize for her tone.

  “To Abu Dhabi.” Triumph rings in her voice.

  My face feels as if I have strings pulled taut on each side. “How do you know this?”

  “Monsieur Lefebvre sent me one email before his exile. When Papá finds out, he will subject Monsieur Lefebvre to some awful punishment. Maybe kill him.”

  “Alexandra.” I am truly shocked by her last comment—but more shocked by Monsieur Lefebvre’s location. Coincidence? Or corroboration of trafficking?

  “Was Monsieur Lefebvre kidnapped?”

  “Yes. He didn’t want to leave.” She lays her crossed hands over her chest in eloquent support of her passion. “He expects Papá to arrive there early next week. He wants to come home, but he has no money.”

  “Do you have an email address for him? Maybe . . .”

  “What Mamá? What?” She crawls forward on her knees and peers up at me like a supplicant in front of a benevolent queen. “Can you help him? Will you help him?”

  In her world, nothing is more important than her problems. I catch my lip between my teeth. The timing couldn’t be worse. Daddy is missing. Maybe hurt . . . If the police don’t arrest Michael, finding a safe place for us all takes priority over my teen-age daughter’s first love. The hope in her eyes burns a welt on my heart.

  She takes the hand I extend. Heat pours through her fingertips. Once, long ago, loving Edward, I burned with this same kind of fire. Michael has yet to snuff out her fervor.

  I squeeze her fingers and choose my words carefully. “I don’t know if I can help Monsieur Lefebvre, but I will try.”

  Chapter 89

  SHE

  Aware Alexandra—despite my warnings to expect no miracles—is floating on the pink-tinged Cloud Nine, I leave her room with Stefan Lefebvre’s email address. Some vague notion that Patrick will get the FBI involved bumps into the doubts squeezing my brain. My biggest fear—besides wanting good news about my father—is that Patrick may have gone to the police station. As an FBI agent, his opinions must carry some weight with the local police.

  Common sense says I’m being too concerned about Michael discovering my ties with Patrick. If Michael goes to jail for killing Jed, the bugs he has planted everywhere at Belle Haven won’t matter. Uh-huh. Legs shaking, I tiptoe down the back stairs. The swimming pool offers the best place to call Patrick with the lowest risk. Impossible to bug the whole outdoors.

  A silver cloud from the fog rises up from the ground—eerie in its spectral silence. Shivering, I wrap one arm around my waist and place the call.

  “Where have you been?” Patrick’s gruffness rings with FBI-authority. “I’ve been calling you for the past fifteen minutes. The Palo Alto police left with your husband twenty minutes ago. Now’s the time to get out of here with your kids.”

  “My father’s gone missing . . . .”

  “What the hell?”

  “Detective Patel found out from the Carmel PD.”

  “How long?”

  I check my watch. “They think an hour. Maybe more. Do you have contacts in Carmel?”

  “Sorry. What happened?”

  I fill him in with the info I have, adding that I suspect Michael arranged my father’s disappearance. He concurs then asks why I called him. In a few minutes, I fill him in on Monsieur Lefebvre.

  “Let me call Bradley. He’ll be able to trace the email. Sounds a little too—never mind. I’ll call you as soon as Bradley tracks that note. Have dinner with your kids. Worse comes to worse, you and I’ll drive to Carmel.”

  Fear he’ll renege on this offer if I tell him about Detective Patel’s threat to inform the CHP, I disconnect and return to the main house. Pat
el stands like a sentinel next to the three children, dressed in their fashionable dinner clothes waiting at the front entry. They rush me like lions on fresh kill. Detective Patel rejects my invitation to eat with us and leaves rather abruptly, making no effort to speak to me in private.

  Dinner is stiff and wary. I inform the children of their father’s trip to the Palo Alto police station with the few details I have—avoiding mention of Jed’s death.

  “What has Papá done?” Anastaysa asks.

  Alexandra beats me to a response. “He sent Monsieur Lefebvre into exile.”

  “Why?” Magnus asks, his eyes huge.

  “He’s a Fascist.” Alexandra throws me a glare that challenges my dissent.

  “Papá has gone with the police to answer their questions.” I clamp my hands together underneath the table. I hate being so evasive, but I have no idea how to handle how much to reveal and how much to hide. “Let’s wait until we know more about Monsieur Lefebvre before we leap to judgment.”

  Before Alexandra replies, Jennifer brings in the first course of mushroom bisque.

  “Your husband’s specific request for this evening. Cool and distant, she sounds a bit out of sorts. “I’m also serving lobster-stuffed shrimp as the main course. Fresh asparagus and crisp potatoes accompany the shrimp. Plus, my special bread to accompany these courses.”

  Her recitation grates like a fingernail on a new scab, but I thank her and mentally curse Michael’s attempt to ‘raise our bourgeois palates.’ Will the police offer him dinner? Will he deign to eat from a vending machine or a fast-food place?

  “Have you found out anything about Monsieur Lefebvre, Mamá?” Alexandra, much like her father, has a pit bull’s tenacity to pursue her own interest.

  “Not yet, but I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

  A shrug contradicts her vulnerability—and her trust that I will keep my word. No concern about my father. No concern except for her own unease. Blood rings in my ears. I’m being unfair. I’ve told the children very little about their grandfather’s disappearance.

  Studying their stiff posture and flat eyes, I see a reflection of our nightly dinner rituals. Their grandfather’s disintegration would never come up as a dinner topic with Michael directing conversation. He orchestrates the give and take of the evening’s pretensions. Tonight, we’re all like dolls frozen in time—unable to go forward on our own. We need our conductor.