John tried to refold so that she wouldn't know he'd looked.
Jeans in another drawer, T-shirts in a third, and underwear and bras in the top. He shoved it closed without hunting. The low-cut, lace-edged satin bra on top would haunt him as it was. If Natalie had a secret, he reasoned, she wouldn't have left it to be found by the cops she knew were searching her house today.
The relief John had felt at finishing in the kitchen was nothing to the sense of deliverance and shame he had as he walked out of Natalie's bedroom.
He and Baxter met in the family room, where there was plenty of the crap Stuart Reed had carefully packed away in cardboard boxes, the tops sealed with tape. Fishing lures, tangled line and old reels, saved by a man who hadn't hooked a fish in ten years. Paperback westerns and thrillers that could have been traded or given to the library before the pages yellowed. Bowling ball and shoes.
"Oh, hell, maybe he used those," John muttered.
One box was packed with childhood memorabilia, the kind of stuff a mother saved. It was with both melancholy and unease that John sifted through drawings a dead man had done when he was five and his second-grade report cards. The photo albums couldn't be ignored. John found himself getting caught up in those, in the story he hadn't known of a skinny boy who was sulky in nearly every one and who seemed to shrink away from his father in the family snapshots. A newer album held newspaper clippings about every arrest of note Reed had ever made, all with his name highlighted.
Baxter wasn't interested. "Just make sure nothing's stuck between the pages," he said impatiently. "He'd have shown these to Natalie. If he hid something, it's in the garage."
Baxter's mood was deteriorating. John watched him dump thick etched glass and china beer steins back into a box without rewrapping them in newspaper. A clank as he kicked the box into the corner of the family room made John wince.
"Natalie could sell those if you don't break them," he said mildly.
"They're too damned ugly for anyone to want." There was something almost feverish about the way he ripped the tape off the next box, then moments later lost interest in what appeared to be really old family photos—even tintypes—and petulantly jammed them back into the carton before grabbing for the next.
"Looks like the last of these," John said at last.
Crouched on his heels and shoveling through some kind of financial records, Baxter didn't seem to hear him.
John laid a hand on his shoulder.
His partner jerked and wheeled, abruptly relaxing. "Damn, don't sneak up on me!"
"Interesting?" John nodded at the stock report in Baxter's hand.
The other man gave him a blank look. "Why do I care what stocks Stuart Reed inherited from his mother? He probably spent the proceeds on beer mugs."
"Let's lay off for the day," John said mildly. "We can start in the garage Monday."
Baxter's face darkened. "Should be tomorrow. He might come back."
"I take the kids to see Debbie. Anyway, he's not going to come back in broad daylight."
"Tomorrow's Sunday?" It could have been a revelation.
"Pretty sure."
As if the concession were grudging, Baxter gave an abrupt nod. "Yeah, okay. Monday."
"Natalie will be home any minute."
"Right." He scowled impartially around the family room, then dropped the year-end report he held back in the box and closed the top. "I need to head home anyway."
Edging into the personal more than usual, John asked, "Is something wrong?"
Baxter made a disgusted sound. "What would be wrong?"
The list of possibilities was long: his wife had thrown him out of the house or found a lump in her breast; he'd discovered a thousand-dollar mistake in his checking account or rot in the subfloor of his upstairs bathroom.
John settled for a mild, "You're in a bad mood."
"This is just such a G.D. waste of time," his partner snarled. "And we've got another couple of days of it."
John didn't say that he'd always figured that searching Natalie's house was a waste of time. Instead, he said, "My bet is, we don't find a damn thing."
Baxter savagely kicked one of the boxes, then swore. "Something has to be here. It's the only explanation."
Was it? John didn't say anything. Cops all had cases that hit where it hurt for some reason. Stuart Reed and Baxter had been friends.
Hell, maybe Geoff Baxter was better friends with Natalie, too, than John had realized. The idea irked him, but he couldn't put his finger on why. It shouldn't be a surprise: Baxter had mentioned being over here for dinner just the week before the murder, and John knew he'd done work around the house for Natalie, too. Evidently it had been with his wife's blessing, as Linda and Natalie seemed to be friends as well.
Well, Baxter wasn't the only one who was hot and bothered about this murder. Security system or no, John was grimly determined that Natalie wouldn't be moving home again until they'd made an arrest. He hadn't mentioned that to her yet. He figured he'd save the fight for later.
His partner left and Natalie rolled into the driveway not five minutes later. John had been waiting at the front window like a nosy old lady. He met her at the door.
Strain showed on her face as she set down her purse on the hall table. "Did you find anything?"
She didn't say, Any luck? She was between a rock and hard place here. Without clues, they wouldn't find the murderer, but anything cached in this house that was worth killing over would point a nasty, accusing finger at Stuart. For her sake, John hoped he and his partner wouldn't uncover that reputedly stolen shipment of heroin.
"Nothing," he said now. "Didn't expect there would be."
She gave a jerky nod, lips pressed together. "I'll just pack. You don't have to wait. I know the way to your door."
"I'd rather you're not here alone."
"The Porters probably have their binoculars trained on us right this minute."
He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "Unless it's nap time."
He was glad to see amusement mingle with her exasperation. "Anybody ever tell you, you're a stubborn man?"
"My mother," he said laconically.
Sounding thoughtful, Natalie said, "She tells me Maddie is stubborn, too."
"As a mule. Maybe it's hereditary."
"Or learned," she suggested with a wry look over her shoulder from halfway up the stairs.
While he waited, John thought reminiscently of the fights he'd had with his firstborn when she was a preschooler because she was determined to wear some eye-popping combination. She always wanted to express her feminine side—that was how he humorously saw it, anyway—with something like pink flowered leggings, and the fact that she was a modern woman in the making with a neon orange or black-and-white zebra-striped top. Whatever shoes he or Debbie would get out for her were never right. She'd scream her head off if she couldn't wear sandals in the snow or galoshes in August. The parents of the other preschoolers must have whispered about Maddie's mom and dad. Hell, maybe they were right to. What normal adult consistently lost every skirmish with a four-year-old?
He was still waiting patiently in the entry, leaning against the wall, when Natalie came downstairs with a suitcase and a cat carrier. She looked tired and subdued. His guilt made him wonder whether she'd noticed that her clothes had been disarranged or the contents of her medicine cabinet inspected. Had she known he would have to search her drawers, too? Or had it never entered her head that he might be obligated to suspect her?
He hoped the latter. He didn't want her wondering uncomfortably what he'd thought of her choice in lingerie.
Hell, he didn't like the fact that he was wondering whether the bra she wore was anything like that lacy peach-colored one.
John waited while Natalie locked up. He loaded her suitcase and cat paraphernalia in the trunk of her car and then followed her home, where he carried the bag and Sasha's belongings into the guest bedroom, untouched since Natalie had left it only a few days ago.
<
br /> "I should have changed the sheets," he apologized.
"Don't be silly." Natalie sank down on the bed as if she didn't know what else to do. She was clutching the plastic cat carrier as if it were a lifeline.
He guessed she hadn't done much sleeping last night, even with him downstairs on the couch. What would she do if he sat next to her and gathered her into his arms?
The very thought had him backing toward the door. "I'll get dinner on."
Her eyes focused some. "I should help."
Oh, yeah. Having her brushing him as they passed in the close confines of the kitchen, smiling, teasing him with words and scent, that was just what he needed.
"I'm good. Take a nap if you want. I'll call when it's ready."
"I'm a mooch." She looked ready to cry.
"You're a friend in need."
"No, I'm…"
On a burst of irritation, John said, "Fine. Knit me a new sweater tomorrow. In the meantime, for God's sake, take a nap."
She was still staring at him when he stalked out.
In the kitchen he took his irrational frustration out on the carrots, celery and green beans he chopped for a stir-fry meal. What was it with her, anyway? Had she spent the past year figuring he was going to want payback for every single damned thing he'd done for her? What did she think, that he'd demand a romp in bed in return for painting her house and putting her up in his guest room?
Wasn't a romp in bed exactly what was on his mind? his conscience asked.
Not that way, he answered silently. Sex had to be given freely or it was no good.
And he hated like hell the thought that she might offer herself instead of a sweater, because she thought she owed him. Was that what the kiss on his cheek had been, a first tentative offering?
He swore, his voice loud in the kitchen.
To save him from his bad mood, he heard his children coming in the back way via the brick patio. Maddie's chatter was underscored by Evan's squelched attempts to contribute and by Connor's slow, deep-voiced comments. The door opened, the screen slammed, and the kids raced to him.
John set the wok on the countertop and turned to hug Maddie and then swing Evan up in the air. "You guys have a good day?"
"Uncle Connor took us hiking. My feet hurt," Maddie announced.
Evan slid down his dad's body. "Mine, too."
She rolled her eyes. "He kept wanting Uncle C to carry him."
"He's five," John said mildly. "Short legs."
"He's a baby."
His brother grinned at him over their heads. "They got along great all day long."
Great. Wonderful. They'd saved their pettishness for Daddy. He gripped his patience and said, "Natalie is here. Let's try not to squabble too much. She didn't sleep well last night."
Wide-eyed, his son said, "Uncle Connor says a bad man sneaked into her house. Was she really, really scared?"
"You can ask her." John plugged in the wok and reached for the vegetable oil. "Go wash up. Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes."
They thundered out, arguing about who got the bathroom first. If Natalie was napping, she wouldn't be for long.
"You're a lifesaver," he told his brother.
"We had fun." Connor pulled up a stool. "They're good kids."
John knew what he meant by that. Connor had confessed before that he found Maddie and Evan to be a nostrum for the cynicism that had begun to beset him. "They're never quiet and pinched," he'd said. "Their eyes are never filled with terrible anxiety."
"They worry about their mother," John had said then, his own anxiety finding voice. "She's been stolen from them."
"But they see her, talk to her. Hey, you two are divorced. If she was healthy, they'd be experiencing the same thing, only you're the one they wouldn't see as often. The only difference is, you're the custodial parent instead of her."
"And Mom can't come to open house at school or watch Maddie's dance recital or Evan's T-ball game."
"But they understand why and she does what she can," his quiet, down-to-earth brother had said.
Now Connor studied him shrewdly. "Tomorrow's your day to take the kids to see Debbie, isn't it?"
John dumped the chicken into the wok with the hot oil. "Yeah. Why?"
His brother shrugged. "Just asking. You're in a foul mood."
"So?" His tone struck even him as belligerent.
"You always are the night before," Connor observed.
John gave a short, unhappy laugh. "If we were still married, she could be at home. I could pay for a nurse. She'd see her kids every day, be part of their lives. She wouldn't be in this on her own."
"She's not on her own. She has her parents. And, yeah, if you were still married, she could be at home. But you're not. You weren't when she got sick."
In the turmoil he'd never managed to calm, John swore when he stirred carelessly and oil splattered his hand. "She could still be here. Maddie and Evan would have their mother."
Connor had heard it all before, said it all before, but he was patient enough to repeat himself. "She's an adult. You cannot take responsibility for her forever because you were once married."
"She's the mother of my children."
"What kind of life would you have if she lived here? And would it really be best for the kids to live with the reality of oxygen tanks and midnight crises and a nurse ruling their mother's life?"
The truth was, he didn't have a clue, never mind answers that satisfied him.
"Here come the kids," his brother warned quietly.
Natalie was right behind them. Dark circles under her eyes gave him a renewed pang of guilt. She might have gotten some sleep if he hadn't been a jackass.
Dinner table conversation was carried by Connor and the kids. Natalie tried but would lapse into silences from which she roused with an obvious effort. Grateful for his brother's even-tempered presence, John figured it was just as well if he kept his mouth shut. Guilt in its many-layered forms was best not laid on others like a too-heavy quilt on a hot summer night that made you sweat and itch.
Connor left right after dinner, saying a few low-voiced words to Natalie on his way out. Maddie and Evan raced off to watch a rerun of Full House. Natalie began automatically clearing the table.
"You don't have to…" John began.
She marched past him with dirty plates in her hands. "Don't be silly."
Leave me in peace, he wanted to say, without knowing why she disturbed his peace. Oh, hell, he thought irritably, he knew why she unsettled him. Wanting a woman you couldn't have was never comfortable. What he didn't get was why her, and why now.
And he didn't like the fact that the wanting wasn't as simple as imagining her in his bed upstairs. Earlier, when he'd been talking to Connor about all the reasons he should move Debbie out of that damned nursing home into the spare bedroom, he'd faced a new dimension of guilt: he was starting to picture Natalie here for good. No room for an invalid ex.
Out with the old, in with the new.
Irrational, of course, since he and Debbie had been divorced for three years now. She hadn't begun to develop symptoms until later. Connor was right. A man couldn't spend his life caring for his ex-wife, a woman he often didn't even like.
Which didn't mean he couldn't feel guilty as hell over the cards she'd been dealt. Here he was, lucky enough to have a job he loved, their kids and his health. Dreams. She had a future in which remission was the best she could hope for. Multiple sclerosis was not a kind disease.
"Connor accused me of being in a bad mood," he said, following Natalie to the kitchen with dirty silverware and glasses. "You've gotten the brunt of it. I'm sorry."
"No." She lowered the plates to the tiled counter-top beside the sink and faced him. "You were right. What you said earlier, I mean. I do hate being in debt to anyone."
He set down his load. "I don't like thinking we aren't good enough friends for you to accept anything from me."
Her tongue touched her lips. "I've always known th
at you were … well, taking care of me because of Stuart."
"Not true."
She studied him in perplexity. "Not?"
John opted for honesty. "At first, sure—Stuart was my partner. If it had been me, he would have done what he could for my kids."
Her makeup was smudged, he saw, her tiredness giving her fine-boned face a look of vulnerability. But her tone was steady. "That makes you a good man."
He ignored that. "Within a few months, I did what I did because you'd become a friend. Stuart and I were buddies because we were partners. We never would have been otherwise. You, I can talk to. I thought you felt the same."
"I did," she said softly. "I do."
He found his teeth gritting. "Then why the hell…"
"…can't I gracefully accept a helping hand?" Natalie gave a twisted smile. "That's what I wanted to tell you. It doesn't have anything to do with you. It was my stepfather."
She'd mentioned a mother and a sister. "I didn't know you had one."
"He died a few years back. Lung cancer. He was a smoker."
John absorbed that. "Is this a long story? Do you want a cup of coffee?"
Her smile was a ghost of its usual, more vibrant self, but it was something. "I should protest that coffee would keep me awake, but the truth is, I don't think anything will keep my eyes open once I lay my head down."
He mightily resisted the need to touch her, instead pouring them both cups from the dregs in the pot. "You have circles under your eyes."
"Even knowing you were there last night, I couldn't stop listening. I almost came downstairs, but I thought maybe you were asleep."
On a thrill of regret as well as alarm, John wondered, What if she had? As close as he'd come to kissing her earlier, upstairs, what if he had opened his eyes to find her standing in front of him in the darkness, saying softly, "I can't sleep?" He'd have had to pull her down beside him on the couch, hold her and comfort her as he would have Maddie after a nightmare. Only, she wasn't Maddie and his body was still aroused. What snatches of sleep he'd gotten had involved confused, erotic dreams. If Natalie had suddenly been cuddled up to him, head on his shoulder, sweet scent in his nostrils, his hands finding yielding flesh, would he have been able to be nothing but a friend?
HIS PARTNER'S WIFE Page 10