HIS PARTNER'S WIFE

by Janice Kay Johnson

  She'd make dinner, she decided on an upsurge of energy. Not the scrambled eggs and toast she'd planned, but a real, honest-to-goodness meal, the kind that usually seemed like too much trouble. Hungarian goulash.

  A chuck steak she'd put in the fridge would work, and she unearthed the other ingredients. While the meat browned, she diced green pepper and onion and took spices from the cupboard.

  Once the goulash was simmering, Natalie turned on the television news. Her murder—not a good way to put it, she thought queasily—had been covered by the Seattle stations on the local news, even though Seattle should have had enough murders of its own to keep journalists busy. But, just her luck, this one had seemed to appeal to them. A woman who worked for a newspaper—never mind that she sold ads instead of writing hard-hitting features—had come home after work to find a dead body in her house.

  "Although the police deny they've reached conclusions, we're told that there is no sign that murderer or victim were attempting burglary," they had avidly reported. "How and why did a stranger end up dead on the upstairs floor of this newspaperwoman's home?"

  After half an hour, she could relax. None of the networks had anything new to work with. Local news was followed by national, focused on an earthquake in China, Mid-East peace talks, which never seemed to bring peace, and the president's veto of controversial gun-control legislation. Maybe feeling so cynical was a sign of impending middle age, Natalie feared, sighing as she turned off the television.

  She put noodles on and wondered what she would do with the remainder of her evening. Usually weekday evenings were filled with a scramble to keep the house clean and her clothes ready to wear. But she'd done all her laundry at John's house, and the maid service had taken care of the parts of the house she was allowed in. She could have mowed earlier and put dinner back, but it was too late to think of that now.

  During dinner, Natalie gave herself a stern lecture. For heaven's sake, she was a woman of many interests! She wasn't such a wimp that she was going to let that … that invasion of her home turn her into a nervous wreck.

  After putting leftovers away and loading the dishwasher, Natalie marched right upstairs to her sewing room to see how much damage Sasha had done to the fabric and pattern pieces that had been laid out. The yellow crime scene tape stretched across the door frame checked her briefly. It was jarring, even bizarre, an image from TV cop shows transplanted to her upstairs hall. Never mind that it reminded her of what lay beyond the closed door—of what had lain beyond that door.

  With a shiver, Natalie hurried into her sewing room. She pulled this door closed just far enough to shut out her view across the hall, leaving it ajar in case the phone rang, or…

  Admit it, she thought ruefully. What she really wanted was to be sure she would hear footsteps, or a creak from down below, that she'd have some warning. Somehow up here she felt more vulnerable.

  "Don't be silly," she said aloud.

  Somebody—presumably John—had thought to fold the fabric carefully with the pattern pieces pinned inside. When she spread it back out, she found the delicate tissue no more torn than when she first noticed that Sasha had napped in here.

  She unpinned and put the fabric in the hamper to wash. Using tape she'd brought upstairs, she mended the brand-new pattern. The project was to be a dress with pinafore for her five-year-old niece. Natalie's sister, Maryke, didn't sew at all, and her daughter was to be the flower girl in an outdoor wedding in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, where they lived. The bride had chosen the powder-blue fabric and pattern. Fortunately, Natalie still had several weeks.

  She laid out the pinafore pattern on filmy white cotton with a delicate pattern woven in, and cut it out, even getting a start on the sewing. Pleasantly tired, she scooped Sasha's litter, checked that doors and windows were locked and started up the stairs to bed with a book in hand. Feeling like a coward, she nonetheless turned back around and grabbed a sturdy maple chair from the kitchen, which she braced under the bedroom doorknob after she'd pushed in the flimsy lock.

  It was enough to allow her a good night's sleep. After her morning shower, Natalie set the chair aside, a little embarrassed at last night's fears. For goodness' sake, nobody was going to break into her house in the middle of the night! With police having crawled all over the place and left their yellow crime scene tape plastered everywhere, no burglar—or murderer—in his right mind would come near her house. She was probably safer than any home owner in Port Dare right this minute. She wouldn't have moved home again if there was any real danger.

  "I blame you, Detective Baxter," she muttered, although in all fairness that darned yellow tape gave her the creeps this morning, too, on her way downstairs.

  The phone rang while her coffee was brewing. She picked it up cautiously. Unless the press had really and truly lost interest, they'd still be trying to reach her.

  "Hello?"

  "You okay?" John said.

  "If somebody had murdered me in the middle of the night, wouldn't it be a little late to ask if I'm okay?" Phone between her shoulder and ear, she poured the coffee. "I'm fine, of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

  "I thought you might not sleep well."

  "You were wrong. I slept like a baby. Which," she said thoughtfully, "is one of those odd sayings. I stayed with my sister for two weeks after she had her second child, and I swear he screamed all night long. If he slept at all, it was in half-hour snatches. I, on the other hand, didn't stir for eight hours."

  "I'm glad to hear it." His voice had a rumble of amusement. "Geoff was sure you'd be petrified."

  "What did you think?" she couldn't resist asking.

  "I think you wouldn't admit it if you had been."

  He was right. Which meant he knew her all too well. "Is that all you called for?"

  "Yup." He paused. "And to let you know we may be in and out today."

  "Surely you've searched this place top to bottom."

  "Not even close, and frankly, at this point, I can't justify the hours it would take to winnow through every box in that damned garage. Baxter doesn't agree. You know him, he's worried about you."

  "I noticed," she said dryly.

  He gave a grunt of amusement. "He was a little heavy-handed yesterday, wasn't he?"

  "I was ready to slam the door in his face."

  "I did drag him away."

  Natalie popped bread into the toaster, one eye on the clock. "I duly offer thanks."

  "The truth is, Floyd and some buddy of his probably broke in to steal everything portable. They went to check out the study, started to argue, and things escalated. The buddy panicked and ran."

  The toast popped up. Natalie didn't move. "Except that he just happened to have a pipe in his hand for bashing in his friend's head."

  Damn it, why couldn't she just accept the easy answer? The one that made this crime random, having nothing to do with her?

  She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. But her mind stubbornly poked at the facts. Could the choice of her house truly be random, when there was a connection between Stuart and the murdered man? And burglars hardly ever killed each other in the middle of a job. She would have guessed they worked quickly and silently. If you'd broken into somebody's house, it would be the height of foolishness to start a loud argument when a neighbor might be home to hear.

  "Maybe the buddy always carried a length of pipe in case the home owner strolled in the door unexpectedly," John suggested.

  Comforted by the logical if unpleasant explanation—what if she had strolled in her front door that morning?—Natalie reached for the butter knife.

  "That makes sense," she admitted. "But what a time to argue."

  "Crooks are, by definition, dumb. We wouldn't catch them otherwise."

  This reminder, too, was comforting. She'd read about a would-be bank robber who wrote his demand for money on the back of one of his own deposit slips. Or the one who tried to rob the bank via the drive-up window with bullet-proof glass—and then politely waited for
the teller to package money until the police arrived.

  "Okay," she said. "I feel better. And—" her gaze fell on the clock "—I'd better get moving or I'll be late for work."

  Yesterday she'd told John about today's meeting with a representative from a major chain of hardware stores, during which she intended to persuade him to advertise in the Sentinel. So far, despite opening a big new store in Port Dare, the company had declined to include their weekly ad in the Sentinel. Most residents also took at least the Sunday Seattle Times, the manager of the local store had said with a shrug. Today Natalie was armed with figures showing how many of the Sentinel's subscribers did not, in fact, also subscribe to any metropolitan newspaper.

  "You go bag 'em, girl," John said now.

  She laughed and hung up, feeling cheered by the conversation. It was nice that somebody cared. And John had sounded looser, friendlier, more like his usual self than he had these past few days. She hoped he'd just been tired or nursing a headache, that his mood hadn't had anything to do with her waylaying him for a midnight chat in her bathrobe, or—heaven forbid!—that impulsive kiss.

  Armored in her best suit, charcoal-gray wool that looked businesslike while being formfitting enough to also be feminine, Natalie went forth to battle. The district manager was more cordial than her previous contact. He explained their reasoning, looked at her proposal, which outlined costs and subscriber numbers—including those who wouldn't see his weekly ad—and the full-color circular that his major competitor ran weekly. The meeting ended with him noncommittal.

  Two hours later he called to buy space. Her success softened the usual daily annoyances, including a grocery store insert printed with a huge error and intended to go into the morning paper.

  She had dinner with a friend at a small waterfront seafood restaurant, where she kept finding her gaze wandering to the marina below. Regina had excused herself to visit the ladies' room, so that for a moment Natalie didn't have to hide her distraction.

  The sun hadn't yet set, although the light was gradually deepening, the water taking on a lavender tint that would become almost purple as dusk settled.

  Snow-white, clean-lined powerboats and sharp-masted sailboats bobbed at the crisscrossed docks. A teak sailboat that must have been forty feet long was slowly motoring in, the sails wrapped and figures bustling on deck.

  At the edge of the parking lot, Natalie could just see the corner of a building topped with a bold black-and-white sign that promised "Island Whale Watching." Was that where Ronald Floyd had worked? Was this the marina where Stuart had arrested him? She tried to imagine the boat easing in, the cops stepping from the darkness with guns drawn, and came up with something like the gory scene at the end of The Big Easy, when the Port Dare version had probably been far more mundane.

  And it might not have taken place here at all, she reminded herself. Another good-sized marina was tucked behind the arm of the spit to the west. She'd caught a glimpse of tips of the masts from horseback the other day. And it might even have been a cooperative sting with another police force. John hadn't said.

  Natalie had never asked to see a photograph of Ronald Floyd. She tried not to think about him. When she did, he was … faceless. It was like one of those investigative TV show interviews, where someone's face had been blacked out and his voice distorted. The anonymity stole some of the humanity from the person being interviewed. He was everybody and nobody at the same time. So long as she didn't see his picture, she didn't have to know whether he'd had a nice face or if sadness or fear lurked in his eyes. She didn't have to care about him.

  "Deep thoughts?" Regina asked, dropping her purse onto the empty chair and sitting back down across from Natalie.

  Feeling distaste at her own selfishness, Natalie lied. "Not a one. Actually, I was gloating. Let me tell you about today's triumph."

  An emergency room nurse, Regina Gresch in return told a hushed story about a prominent but nameless local citizen who had come into the ER with broken glass in an orifice on her body where it didn't belong.

  "Eew," Natalie pronounced. "Did she wear a brown paper bag over her head?"

  "Wouldn't have done any good." Straight-faced, Regina shook her head. "We require proof of insurance."

  They both laughed. Later, driving home, Natalie thought about how uncomfortable it would be to have a job where you found out things about people that you didn't want to know and that you couldn't tell anyone, at least with names attached.

  Cops were the same, of course. Stuart had sometimes been indiscreet with his wife, while at other times he had been grim and silent, shaking his head when she asked what was bothering him. Neither police nor hospital workers had the luxury of not seeing the victims.

  She didn't envy John, who had had to tell Ronald Floyd's parents their son was dead. Natalie wondered if they'd told stories about the boy they remembered, whether they'd had grade-school photographs of him displayed, if they'd insisted on bringing out an album to show John.

  Trying to shake off the morbid thoughts, Natalie parked in the driveway in front of her house. She'd have left lights on if she'd known Regina would call suggesting they have dinner.

  The windows were blank and dark. She mentally traveled inside, up the stairs, where the yellow police tape draped the doorway like a cobweb. The door would push silently open. Inside gray fingerprint powder lay on every surface like an ancient gathering of dust. There, in front of the desk, was the rust-red stain of spilled blood.

  She shuddered and wished suddenly, violently, that the study had been gutted by fire. Damaged irreparably, so that she could start all over with it.

  Maybe she would. Instead of cleaning the carpet at all, she could have it ripped out, Natalie thought on a rising bubble of hope, or relief. She could paint and paper afresh, install filmy white pleated blinds, have warm, shining hardwood floors installed. She hated that huge, ugly desk and metal file cabinets. She'd sell the desk, carry the boxes to the garage until she had time to go through them. Or, better yet, make the time. Would Regina and some of her other friends help? Maybe, in a weekend, they could make some inroads. If they priced everything as they weeded, she could have a garage sale the next weekend, before the weather turned too rainy for the year.

  New optimism accompanied Natalie, a shimmery surface on the well of disquiet as she unlocked the front door and groped for light switches. The living room looked as it always did, the kitchen clean except for her cereal bowl in the sink and a note on the counter. John's scrawl said, "Done with study. You can get carpet cleaners out tomorrow."

  Determined not to let fear get the better of her, Natalie walked through the house, looking in closets and under the bed. At last, she stood in front of the study with her heart drumming. The yellow tape was gone. Still, as she made herself push open the door she had a disquieting feeling of déjà vu. She had stepped into her waking nightmare.

  Thank heavens, the reality was different from her fears. The fingerprint powder was smudged and tracked on the carpet. The bloodstain was smaller than she'd anticipated. Otherwise, the study hadn't changed. If a spirit lingered here, it was Stuart's, not faceless Ronald Floyd's.

  Standing in the doorway, Natalie churned with uncomfortable emotions. The truth was, she'd avoided this room ever since Stuart had died. She hated it, the masculine beiges and heavy furniture, the labeled cartons full of the residue of his life before her, separate from her. This study symbolized for her an unhappy facet of her marriage: the realization that Stuart had acquired her much as he had the big-screen TV. He wanted her, he liked her, perhaps he even thought he loved her, but she belonged only in certain parts of the house, in certain parts of his life. Her secret dreams of someone who would let her inside as he would let no one else, who would want to know her as no one else ever had, had been trampled by the Stuart who would look at her with vague irritation if she intruded in here when he was paying bills or talking to some buddy on the phone, cigar smoke drifting upward. In the three years of their marriage, Na
talie had learned that much of what Stuart had been or would be was closed to her. He was still the sexy man she'd married, who could exert enormous charm when he cared to. But, beneath the charm and his occasional, careless cruelty, she didn't really know him.

  Every widow had moments when she forgot her husband was dead, she'd been told. For some, it was when waking in the morning and reaching for him, or hearing a joke or an intriguing bit of news and thinking, I'll tell Bill. For Natalie, those moments had invariably come when she was passing the study. She'd feel him inside, a palpable presence. But when she turned her head, of course, his desk chair was empty, the radio he liked to listen to silent and gathering dust.

  This room was the secretive part of him. Unless she gutted it, it would always be his, would always rebuff her, would haunt her with what would never be.

  The desk would definitely go, she decided defiantly. And the oak office chair that went with it. She'd make it a study for herself, airy and pretty. Maryke and her husband and children were coming for Christmas this year, which gave her incentive to get started. With the room remodeled, a roll-away could go in here for the kids, and Maryke and Reeve could have the guest room downstairs. Work on the house would reassure Maryke that Natalie was recovering from Stuart's death.

  Her gaze stole to that unexpectedly small but dark stain on the beige carpet. Perhaps she would have carpet cleaners come after all, since she'd have to spend time in here as she decided what of Stuart's to keep and what to throw out. Stepping around a man's lifeblood seemed unbearably macabre.

  Downstairs again, she found that John had left a phone message, too, telling her to call if she wanted to talk. He'd done the same a couple of times a week since Stuart died. Often she did return his call. They were the best friends then, his voice on the phone not the same as a living, breathing, powerfully built man in person. Maybe he was relieved, too, to be able to forget his buddy was a woman. Their phone relationship was like having a pen pal, Natalie guessed. There was a kind of anonymity in a telephone or e-mail friendship.