Which was putting it mildly.
Jeff had purposely waited to broach the subject that night until Nicky was finally worn out enough to fall into bed. He and Bruno lay deep in slumberland when his parents settled comfortably in the family room with decaf drinks and a favorite concerto CD gently doing its work to bring harmony and quiet. A whiff of blowsy floribundas came tiptoeing in through the open window, in tandem with late summer scents that encompassed damp moss, fresh-cut grass, and green things growing their last hurrah before an autumn frost hit.
At almost ten o’clock, Olivia was stubbornly resisting the siren call to her own bed. After a day that had begun at seven a.m. and continued through doing laundry and shopping for groceries and some much-needed work in her office, she was tired. And here was her loving husband, pulling her bare feet into his lap to massage every weary muscle.
“Ohhhhh, Jeff…” she was almost purring with contentment. “That feels so—wonderful…”
He couldn’t help grinning. “Seems to me I’ve heard that comment made in another context, one I haven’t been able to take advantage of very often lately.”
A soft sigh, then a giggle. “Oh, have patience, my man of steel. Another evening, when I haven’t had so much on my plate during daylight hours, and we’ll see what might happen.”
“Promises, promises.”
In the music’s muted background, he worked diligently yet carefully away, stroking soles, arches, and toes, while Olivia stretched as luxurious as a cat. “You have your uses,” she finally murmured. “I think I’ll keep you around for a long, long time.”
“Nice to know I could always make my living as a massage therapist.”
Eventually, in a quiet tone deliberately devoid of any emotion, he described the telephone call from Sergeant McGraw, a consequent visit to the old neighborhood, and what he had found there. He explained about the initial investigation by police, a lack of conclusive evidence, a continuation of the original investigation. He mentioned his own concerns, his suspicions, his conferences.
Through it all Olivia simply sat still and listened. An expression crossed her face now and then—doubt, apprehension, shreds of anger, shock—like a wave of water, rippling across its pond.
Once he had finished, pacing back and forth by that time because he was, as always, unable to remain motionless during the telling, she looked at him with her greeny-gold eyes gone intense with emotion and damp with unshed tears.
“Can your house be restored to the way it was?” she asked softly.
“Oh, hell, Liv, the condition of the house is the least of our worries. Yes, of course it can be restored. Our insurance company is already working with a team of experts to get things started.”
“And do you honestly think that your—that Annajane—is behind this?”
He swept a few intervening paces across the floor to kneel before her, with both her small hands locked in his. “I do, sweetheart. No proof, it’s true. But it’s my gut feeling.”
“Mine, too,” was her sudden and surprising conclusion. Sitting forward, she leaned her forehead against his: two separate individuals, united against a common enemy. There was the safety of their beloved son to consider, and that of the child soon carried to term. “What do you think we should do about it?”
For another half hour or so, they discussed possible scenarios, some serious, some half-teasing to lighten a worrisome moment. By then, Olivia was openly yawning, so Jeff sent her upstairs to bed while he settled the house for the night: Bruno outside one last time, coffeepot filled and readied for use in the morning, doors and windows locked, alarm system activated. Unbeknownst to Olivia, Jeff had also contacted the Westhalen Police Department, described recent events, and arranged to have a patrol car pass through their quiet neighborhood as often as possible, 24/7.
When he joined her in their room, he discovered her still wide awake, despite exhaustion, and restless.
All he could do was pull her in his arms, and hold her, for reassurance and comfort, against all the bad things that can happen in this world.
No, she hadn’t taken it well at all.
Chapter Three
“Well, of course you can come over right away, if you feel you—”
An indistinguishable babble spouted forth from the other end of the line.
Surprised, Julia took a step backward, as if she could somehow escape the flow of dialogue. “I didn’t realize there was that much of an emergency involved,” she tried to interrupt what was sounding increasingly disjointed and distressed. “But I’m home now, and you can—”
More babble. Hard to tell the difference, reflected Julia with dismay, between that and the chatter of the sparrows and finches outside her door.
“Yes, that’s fine, Annajane. Yes, I realize you no longer have a key, but I’ll be here to let you in. Of course we can—”
Click.
She stood stock-still, staring at the dead cell phone in her hand. “Well, if that isn’t the rudest—”
“What’s the rudest, honey?” Martin, tromping into the kitchen for a last cup of coffee before leaving for the office, wanted to know.
“Oh, just AJ. Sometimes, I swear, I think her brain is wired completely differently from normal people.”
“AJ? Brain?” The eyebrows went up in sync with reaching for cream and sugar. “Thought you cut all ties to that crazy woman.”
“Oh, Martin!” said Julia in exasperation. “Have you seen the living room lately? There’s still all this work to be done. I can hardly cut all ties until the job is finished. Besides, we have a signed contract!”
Chuckling, he meandered over, cup in hand, to brush a kiss against her cheek. “Sweetie, you’re married to a lawyer. Haven’t you caught on yet that any signed contract can be broken?”
“Well, whatever. She’s on her way over here now.”
“Now? Oh, bollocks!” He gulped at his coffee, burnt his tongue, and uttered a few cuss words.
“Okay, Jules, gotta go. Leavin’ now, got—um—an early case in court this morning.”
She gave him a look of half-affection, half-annoyance as he sped away. “Liar.”
Martin’s somewhat dusty silver Honda had barely cleared the driveway before the doorbell was ringing. Once. Again. Then a single determined push to produce a single grating tone.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Julia, who had been upstairs hastily throwing herself together, snarled as she loped down the hall. “Good morning to you, too, Annajane,” she managed to sound only slightly rude after flinging open the door.
“Why did you keep me waiting so long?” demanded her guest/neighbor/associate. “I have things to do.”
That was too much, even from someone as irascible as Annajane Kendricks. Julia could feel the hair rising on the back of her neck, in outrage, and she drew herself up to her full five feet six inches of offended womanhood.
“Now just a darned minute, there. This is my—”
“Where are the workmen?” Annajane, turning left from the cluttered foyer into the great barren living room, demanded. “Why aren’t they doing their jobs?”
“Beats me all to hell,” snapped Julia, trailing along behind like a yappy little Pomeranian. “I thought maybe you might be able to tell me. After all, it is after eight o’clock.”
“Exactly. They’re supposed to start at seven sharp. Promptly at seven,” she repeated, in case her client didn’t understand the meaning. “They have been starting at seven, haven’t they?”
“Golly gee, Annajane, they come and go as they please. Kinda like you do.”
The blue eyes impaled her with a laser light, as if it were Julia’s fault that the place stood empty of laborers. “You mean you haven’t been keeping track of their hours?”
“Actually, no, I’m afraid I haven’t been. Isn’t that your responsibility?”
Mumbling something most certainly unflattering under her breath, the decorator moved from one wal
l to another, inspecting what had been done, and what remained still to do. Finally, apropos of nothing, she said over her shoulder, “I hear you’re the one who reported the damage inflicted at my former home.”
Julia wasn’t surprised. The Queen Street Cuddlesack was a hotbed of gossip, and news traveled faster than via a tabloid journal.
“I just happened to be first on the scene,” she commented, using words she had probably picked up from some shoot-’em-down television drama. “Anybody would have done the same. So what’s going on here, AJ?”
“As far as what? Are you accusing me of something?”
“Accusing you? Of course not. Other than a possible dereliction of duty when it comes to getting my redecoration finished. Are you keeping to the original time frame?”
Annajane’s cell phone was in her hand, and she was busily scrolling down through one screen after another. “Might be a bit of a lapse,” she finally deigned to reply. “I see my workmen have set up shop at a new job, and they’re—”
“Leaving me high and dry?” Julia pounced. “We have a contract, remember? Types of labor are specified in its numerous pages, as are the various tasks to be carried out, listed one by one, and a completion date. Which is coming up soon, I must remind you.”
“Yes, well…there may be a slight delay,” the words were being mumbled again, and direct eye contact was being avoided. “I may have to—it seems I’ve been called out of town, and it just won’t—”
“Annajane!” Aroused enough to shout, Julia stood almost beside herself with frustration. “You can’t just walk away and dump this mess on me! Everything needs to be cleaned up and redone, just as you promised—when you begged me for the job, I might add—before anyone takes off anywhere!”
More mumbles, more consultation with whatever website or email was being addressed.
It’s only one room in a house, Julia tried to reassure the inner voice that was already screeching treason. I—we—can quite easily get by, if we have to. Inconvenient, true; but certainly not life-threatening. We do have four walls and a roof!
Still, she couldn’t help thinking of her poor husband, who had been suffering right along with her and boys through dust and disorder and strangers tracking back and forth, in and out. And who had not, to give him credit, raised too much of a fuss on too many occasions. If he had chosen to work more hours at his law office during the ensuing dismantling of his parlor, well, that was understandable. But at least he had not laid too much blame at his wife’s doorstep.
Which might change altogether when he discovered that the job had come to a screeching halt, with no restart date even mentioned.
Julia knew she was being perfectly reasonable in her chastisement of the so-called interior decorator. Had the situation been reversed, Annajane would be holding a parade on the courthouse steps, threatening dismemberment and death to all involved.
Hand on hip, she surveyed the woman who, even now, was making motions toward the front door and escape. “Hold it, AJ. We have to settle this, right at this moment. Are you going to get this thing finished, or not?”
“Certainly it will get finished.” Annajane thrust her elegant nose into the air, as if daring the local peasantry to question her actions. “As I told you, however, there may be a—um—skoosh of a delay…”
Preceding her into the foyer to throw open the door, Julia paused. “No delay,” she said firmly. “Not one minute past the completion date, AJ. And get those workmen back here now to get it done. Or, by God, I will sue you for every last nickel in your father’s estate, and then some. My husband is a lawyer, remember. He would take particular pleasure in filing suit.”
“You wouldn’t,” hissed Annajane from the threshold. “I have standing in this community, in my world. That would blacken my name.”
“Oh, you’re probably used to it by now, aren’t you? Wait, that’s right—you have a moneybags old man to bail you out. Tomorrow, AJ. Promptly at seven o’clock, those workmen had better be here. Good day!”
“And she practically threw me out on my ear,” furiously recounted Annajane to her husband, a little later, in the privacy of their modern castle. “Like some—like some common whore!”
“Hmmmm.” Pouring a snifter of afternoon brandy gave him a moment to muster up concern. “Very ungrateful of her, I’m sure. After all, you’ve done Julia the enormous favor of taking on her project, when you’ve had so many other details to attend to. Want me to speak to her, darling?”
“No.” Not a single blush of remorse for accepting such blatant untruth found its way to her pale complexion. “Give me one of those, can’t you?”
“Of course. Let me just grab a glass.”
“The police talked to me about the vandalism at my old house,” she finally commented, after a few sustaining sips. “The nerve of them. As if I would know anything about spray paint in neon colors.”
You do own and operate an interior decorating firm, Roger wanted to say, but didn’t dare. All sorts of materials could easily have been scavenged.
“And do they honestly think I would have the strength to smash all those statues I left behind? Hardly!”
Fury has a way of lending power to the weakest arm.
“And how could I possibly have chosen just the right window to break, and shimmied in past all those nasty pieces of glass?”
That was, not so long ago, your home; you were probably aware of many little ins and outs…
“And I’m far too busy to get involved in such penny-ante peccadilloes.”
But not, perhaps, to hire someone else to do your dirty work?
“As if I would lower myself to have anything else to do with such a pair. That poor, faithless excuse for a husband—and his wife: puling, whey-faced refugee from a cow farm somewhere.”
“Annajane!” Roger, the Renaissance Man, felt torn between indignation and amusement.
“What?” She turned on him, eyes narrowed. “What, exactly?”
“Well—Janie, sweetheart, that’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
Another quick snatch at the brandy that did nothing to warm the marrow of her cold bones. “After what both of them did to me, Roger? After the way I was treated?”
He approached; tentative, as always, when dealing with this tortured soul, to slip one arm around her waist. “I’m afraid you’re obsessing about those two and their marriage, darling. Please, can’t you let all that be part of your past, and move on?”
“Move on? I’ve been wronged, Roger. You and I both know it. And so does my father. If you can’t support me in seeking for some justice, I can always count on him to do so.”
“Ah, pet. Whatever happened, put it behind you. We can make a wonderful future for the two of us. We can live here, or move somewhere else, if you like. Any place you’d like to go. Isn’t it wonderful to have that option available?”
The thought processes of her agile brain stood out in her expression; clearly she had neither heard nor paid attention to his plea. Instead, she turned into his embrace, snuggling up close in the way she always did when finagling for a man’s good graces. “Roger,” she purred, lifting her braceleted right hand to slide a finger along his smooth-shaven jaw.
He caught his breath. At whose knee had she learned her witchery wiles? “Yes, my sweet?”
“Roger, I need to acquire some information. How about you and I do some exploring on the internet, to get what I need? And then, after,” another purr, another snuggle that incited all his working parts to splendid order, “we’ll go do some—ah—personal exploring, in the bedroom…”
Paying for favors granted with the bounty of her own sinuous, sensuous frame. It happened rarely enough these days. Roger was not too proud to accept.
Chapter Four
Was there no place on earth that could be considered safe harbor? No sanctuary to escape from the sins of a past life that continued to haunt the present, like Ebenezer’s ghosts?
A wee
k or more had passed, and the routines of life had swept the Quinley family inexorably forward. Much more slowly than a flood tide, of course, but, still, steadily as a full deep stream.
The fall session of Nicky’s school would be starting soon. Olivia had already taken care of his registration, paid for the books he would need upon entering sixth grade, signed him up for the extracurricular activities in which he had expressed an interest—mainly band (trombone) and basketball. Today they’d gone shopping for clothes and supplies, and planned on stopping by the office later to show off their purchases.
“Jeff,” said Patty at his office door, in an uncertain, troubled tone.
If he were a man haunted by paranoia, he might start feeling apprehensive every time the secretary spoke his name, since good so rarely seemed to come of it. He looked up to reply, just as Annajane strode in without even a by-your-leave.
“Jeffrey.”
Heroically stifling the groan that had become his automatic reaction to anything said or done by his volcanic ex-wife, he put down his pen, rubbed eyes strained by too much close computer work, and nodded. “Annajane.”
She swished closer to the desk. Startled, he rubbed his eyes again and tried for a second look. There she stood, proud as Lucifer in a black leather jacket, deep-cut Spandex top in lurid hues of pink and purple, tight leather pants, and knee-high black boots. So uncharacteristic was her costume that he swallowed hard and blinked in disbelief. What had caused this incredible transformation?
“Pay heed, Jeffrey. It’s come to my attention that you are blaming me for the destruction at our former home. That’s libel, Jeffrey, and I don’t like it one bit. I want such talk stopped immediately.”
Recovering, he managed to put words together in a sharp reply. “As usual, you have your facts wrong. If I had written anything defamatory about you, that would be libel. Anything spoken is slander. You really ought to understand the difference.”
“In this case, it could be both, because—”
Romance: He Done Her Wrong (Cuddlesack Queens #2) Page 7