Fool's Gold (A sexy funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 2)

by Skully, Jennifer

  Carl wasn’t trying. The bastard.

  She’d kill him when he got home, absolutely kill him.

  Staring once more at the ruined meal, she wrinkled her nose in distaste. Why had things gone so wrong? And when? Three months ago, four, six, a year? She couldn’t pinpoint it, except that she got the sense it was about the time Carl got into the outhouse thing. Or maybe bat shit had finally rotted what little brain he had in the first place.

  She pursed her lips. That wasn’t nice. She took it back. She’d never thought of Carl as a jobless loser, no matter what anyone else said. After all, she’d married him because she’d been attracted to his anti-rat-race philosophy. He made money in...offbeat ways, and they were certainly far from destitute.

  Though the medical insurance bothered her. They weren’t getting any younger, but Carl saved money by getting one of those policies that covered only the major stuff. But there was also a lifetime dollar limit. That’s what terrified her. Her dad’s medical expenses had been astronomical. She’d hid all her anxiety from Carl, which caused her to worry even more, and she was pretty sure ulcer treatment wasn’t considered major.

  It had gotten to the point where they couldn’t even communicate in bed. When they made love, it was perfunctory. They used to make beautiful love together. She just couldn’t remember the last time.

  Maggie swiped at a tear that had slipped down her cheek. Another followed. Her marriage was falling apart. So was her life. As much as she’d hoped, she knew Tyler’s visit wasn’t going to fix anything.

  The front door opened and closed. Not Tyler. She’d sent him off to Simone’s. She’d wanted an extra hour or two to create this wonderful, stupendous, fantastic alone time with Carl. And Carl had ruined it all, as he’d ruined everything else with his silences and his office locking mechanism.

  “You’re late,” she snapped when she heard his footsteps behind her on the kitchen floor. “The liver is ruined.” She opened the door under the sink and slammed the plate against the side of the garbage can until the leathery mess slid off into the trash liner.

  “I didn’t know you were cooking. You haven’t cooked in a long time.”

  Her self-pity died beneath another onslaught of anger.

  She turned on him, narrowing her eyes. She was so angry she could barely breathe. “What? You think Hamburger Helper isn’t cooking? You think it doesn’t take time to thaw the hamburger and brown it and add the noodles and stir and stir and heat up a can of corn to go with it?”

  Her husband, the filthy rotten bastard, backed up two steps. “Uh, no.” He clutched a paper sack to his chest and watched her with a wary gaze.

  That pissed her off more. “What have you got in there? Porno magazines? Is that what you do all night in your stupid trailer?” Is that what you do when you should be spending time with me, making love, real love, with me?

  “No. It’s...uh...it’s...uh...”

  “Cat got your tongue?” She waved the cleaver, so angry she could smack him upside the head with the flat edge.

  He eased around her. She turned with each step, making sure he got the full effect of each eye-stabbing look she threw at him.

  He pointed. “Trailer. Talk later.” One step, then two, closer to the back door.

  “Yeah, the trailer. Well, you can sleep out there, for all I care.” Her temper rose with every word, as if she couldn’t keep them inside any longer. “In fact, you can just drop dead, do you hear me?” Finally she was shouting at him, and it felt so good. “Drop dead, Carl!”

  He dashed through the back door at that last soul-freeing bellow. Damn him. Moments later, she heard the trailer door bang. She could even imagine the lock slamming home. Locking her out.

  Then her own words came back to haunt her. The fury whooshed out of her as quickly as it had come. She sagged against the counter, deflated.

  Tyler would kill her. She’d handled it wrong. She’d ruined their evening as surely as Carl’s tardiness ruined their dinner.

  What was wrong with her? What was wrong with them? She folded her arms on the counter and, still clutching the cleaver in her hand, laid her head down.

  She didn’t have energy left to cry.

  * * * * *

  Brax took his movie, but left the licorice. Simone sat in her rocker on the porch chewing thoughtfully on another piece as she stared off in the direction his truck had disappeared.

  He hadn’t kissed her goodnight. He’d touched her face, run his thumb over her bottom lip, then held her close for five seconds. It was too long and nowhere near long enough. He hadn’t kissed her, but he’d wanted to. He’d been hard against her, and she knew he must have felt her beaded nipples against his chest.

  The evening had been such exquisite torture. She’d never met a man who understood how incredibly erotic the whole tease thing was. Men weren’t built to withstand teasing. They had a name for women who did that, and it wasn’t pleasant. The male gender didn’t get how good it could be.

  But Brax did.

  He hadn’t told her that teasing was fine if she slept with him in the end. Part of the game, the part that made it even hotter, was not knowing. Even she didn’t know if they would. Until this afternoon, the answer would have been a definite no. Now, she wasn’t so sure. It was almost worth the possibility of embarrassment and rejection to see how good it could be. Dangerous, though. She might lose more than her control.

  After this evening, she liked the man, not just his hunky body or his cheeky grin. He played her weird games—she admitted they were weird—he laughed at his mistakes, and he was honest-to-goodness sweet to Maggie. What kid brother cared if he scarred his sister for life? That’s what kid brothers hoped to do.

  Not that Simone had firsthand knowledge. No kid brothers, only her sister, Jackie. Jackie hadn’t pulled a prank since...well, never. Ariana Chandler didn’t tolerate pranks from little beauty pageant queens, particularly not her daughters.

  Sometimes Simone wished Jackie had played a joke, even if it was on her only sister. Jackie didn’t do naughty tricks, she didn’t lie, and she always followed the lifesaving creed: If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all. Most of the time, Jackie didn’t say anything, especially around their mother.

  She had the sudden urge to call her little sister. It wasn’t terribly late, if Jackie was home and not attending some elaborate gala. She dialed Jackie’s private line.

  “Hello?” Her sister always answered the phone tentatively, as if she were sure of neither her caller nor herself.

  “Thanks for the clothes,” Simone said, remembering her mother’s admonition.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I tried to say it wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “It was a wonderful idea. I loved them.” Some lucky lady shopping at Goodwill was in for a treat.

  “I know how you really feel, so thanks for saying that.”

  Simone’s thoughts regarding the care package were not Jackie’s fault. It would have been blasphemy to mention that perhaps her sister deserved better than to have to wear size zero clothing as well. Simone decided to move the conversation forward. “You’ll never guess what I did tonight?”

  Someone else might have suggested something outrageous, like a Lady Godiva-like ride through the streets of Goldstone. Jackie just said, "You know I’ll never guess.”

  Jackie didn’t like guessing games. One could say the wrong thing, and that made a girl vulnerable. Jackie was ultra-careful. Living with their mother, she had to be.

  “I watched The Wizard of Oz with a man. And he was the one who brought over the movie.” Okay, she’d suggested it earlier in the day, but he didn’t have to take her up on it. They hadn’t watched much of it either. They hadn’t even played the jitterbug sequence. Simone didn’t care.

  “Someone in Goldstone appreciates The Wizard of Oz?” Jackie didn’t say it the way her mother did, with that high falsetto I-find-that-hard-to-believe tone. Jackie’s voice
was never steeped with judgment, but always...neutral.

  “He doesn’t live here. He’s visiting his sister.”

  “I’d like to see Goldstone. At least once.” Wishful thinking murmured in a wistful tone.

  “You could come for a visit.”

  “Mother’s not going to visit Goldstone.”

  “I meant you could come. Alone.”

  “Oh.” Jackie was only two years younger, but she’d never lived outside of Ariana Chandler’s household, and Simone was beginning to think she never would. True, Jackie had her own suite of rooms with her own entrance. If she didn’t want to see Ariana for days, or even weeks, she didn’t have to.

  Ariana, however, didn’t raise her daughters that way. They dined together every night. MOTHER carefully selected Jackie's clothes, Jackie’s hairstyles, Jackie’s friends, and Jackie’s opinions. It was Ariana’s way of taking care of Jackie.

  Simone had dealt with her mother’s overbearing good intentions by running away to college right out of high school.

  Which was why she’d also run into a few problems along the way, her mother had stated flatly. The only thing Ariana had approved of was Andrew. She’d adored him, his Stanford degree, his Porsche, his proper East Coast well-to-do parents, and the way he kissed Ariana’s hand when she’d deigned to visit twice yearly.

  God, she was depressing herself. That wasn’t why she’d called her sister. She’d called because Jackie was her best friend, and, like a starry-eyed teenager, she’d wanted to tell her sister all about Brax.

  “It doesn’t matter about you visiting, Jackie. I know you’re really busy and don’t have the time.” She offered Jackie that excuse. “I only called to tell you all about him.”

  “Yes,” Jackie answered breathlessly, with the tiniest bit of emotion and excitement in her voice. “Tell me all about him.”

  For the next few minutes, they oohed and aahed together like the innocent, happy, carefree teenage girls they’d fantasized about being.

  She was still smiling when she hung up. Someday she would get Jackie to visit. They could have such fun. Mr. Doodle would adore Jackie. Simone hugged the phone to her chest and stared out into the night beyond her porch. Though the moon was at its smallest crescent, stars sparkled. Jackie should see how beautiful the desert was at night, without city lights obscuring the sky or the stars.

  Something moved beyond the end of the lane. Hers was the last trailer, and the road at that point led up to the town’s park, a dirt lot with strategically placed plastic trash can lids to simulate a baseball diamond.

  The shadow was too big for a coyote, and it didn’t move with the loping amble of the wily animals.

  Her skin prickled. For a moment, she felt as if the thing crouched and watched her. She had the sudden terrible feeling it, whatever it was, had been watching her the whole time she talked on the phone with her sister.

  For a moment, the crescent moon slid behind a cloud. When it slipped out again, the shadow at the end of the lane was gone.

  Simone rubbed her arms. It was her imagination playing tricks on her. Silly. Still, she locked up tight, both the porch screen and her front door.

  * * * * *

  Brax hadn’t asked Simone a single pointed interrogative question. He didn’t care. In fact, he’d revealed more about himself than he’d learned about her. He didn’t care about that either. Simone wasn’t sleeping with Carl. She wouldn’t do that to Maggie. That secret email was not about an affair. Something else, not that. He’d stake his tarnished reputation on it. Maybe Carl was hitting up Simone for love life advice. He might even have asked her to write a story with which to surprise and delight Maggie, a peace offering to fix whatever was wrong in their marriage. Yeah. That explanation set well with him.

  Brax was whistling when he entered the front door, which opened straight into the main part of the trailer. Ahead was the kitchen and kitty-corner, the den, where Maggie sat, staring sightlessly at the TV.

  She sat cross-legged on the couch, arms over her chest, her chin drooping. There was not a smile within a mile of her.

  Damn. The little talk with Carl had probably degenerated into a big argument.

  Brax dispensed with the formalities and sat on the heavy lacquered wood coffee table in front of her. “What’s wrong?”

  She stared at his chest as if she could see right through it to the TV. Her eyes were red rimmed, her cheeks blotchy, and telltale tears left tracks down to the edges of her mouth. “He’s out in his office.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  She looked at him sharply. “I didn’t say anything inflammatory.”

  Whoa, girl. He held up his hand. “I didn’t mean that you did. But what happened?”

  “I made dinner. He came home. He went out to the trailer. And he’s been there ever since.” Her lower lip trembled. “He didn’t even eat dinner, and I made his favorite. Fried liver smothered with onions and bacon. I had to throw it all away.”

  Egads. The trash sounded like a good place for that meal, but Brax didn’t comment. “What happened in between the time he came home and when he went out to the trailer?”

  Her gaze dropped once more to the middle of his shirt, her lips flattened, then she twisted her mouth back and forth. “Nothing.”

  “Mag-gie.”

  “All right already,” she snapped and proceeded to tell him. When she finished, her mouth twisted, her nostrils twitched, and her eyes filled with tears.

  “It’s okay, honey,” Brax murmured soothingly. “Do you want me to talk to him?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me what I can do to help.” Because he felt too damn helpless watching her cry.

  “You can’t do anything. I know that. I really blew it, Tyler. I shouldn’t have gotten mad.”

  “He shouldn’t have come home late.” Though, in Carl’s defense, he hadn’t known Maggie was gonna go all out with the liver and onions. Brax withheld a shudder.

  She sighed. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “Let me talk to him, maybe smooth things over.”

  Her brow creased with a militant frown, and he knew he’d said the wrong thing. He couldn’t figure out what was the right thing.

  “I want you to skip the talking part and beat the crap out of him like big brothers are supposed to do.”

  “I’m your little brother.”

  “You’re bigger than me. And you’re bigger than Carl. So go beat him up and tell him it’s for me.”

  He smiled. The corners of her mouth turned up in reply. Not a full smile, but better than the morose expression that had spoiled her face when he walked in.

  He tapped her nose, then rose and stepped away. “How badly do you want me to hurt him?”

  “Make him real bloody.”

  All right, he’d give Carl one more crack. He’d probably get no further than he had last night, but he couldn’t stand watching Maggie rip herself up this way. His obsessive thoughts regarding Simone would have to wait until later.

  “By the way,” she said as he backed out of the room to do her bidding. “I have to go to the Manor for our monthly tea party tomorrow.”

  The Manor? “A tea party?” He got a bad feeling that she was going to make him tag along.

  “Our Manor of the Ladies is the local old folks home, and we all go once a month. I told the ladies you’d want to meet them, and they’re really excited.”

  He cocked his head and eyed her warily. “How many ladies?”

  “Well, there’s Agnes and Rowena and Myrtle and Nonnie. But don’t call Myrtle Myrtle. Call her Divine. She hates Myrtle. In fact, I think she hates her mother for giving her that name.”

  Agnes, Rowena, Nonnie, and Divine-not-Myrtle. He wondered which would be more difficult, beating the crap out of Carl or facing four little old ladies across a tea table.

  “Umm, are you sure you need me on this one, Maggie?”

  “Don’t whine. And yes I need you. They’ll be very disappointed if you don’t attend w
ith me.”

  “I never whine.”

  She dipped her head and looked at him through her eyelashes. “Simone will be there.”

  Ahh. The crux of the matter. His sister’s matchmaking at work again, in that singsong voice she used when attempting to manipulate.

  He didn’t care that she’d slyly maneuvered him. She’d used the magic word, or rather the magic name. Simone.

  “Sure. I’ll go.”

  Then he left to metaphorically beat the crap out of Carl before his sister started crying again and got him to agree to really do it.

  * * * * *

  Brax knocked on the trailer door. Carl opened it a scant three inches, revealing nothing more than one eye.

  “Yeah?”

  “Gotta talk to you, Carl. Let me in.”

  “About what? I’m really busy.” Carl offered only another three inches, his face and body filling the opening so that Brax could see nothing of the interior of the trailer.

  Marital issues required subtlety. Revealing that Maggie was inside crying wasn’t the smart course of action. “You looking at porn on the Internet? Let me see.”

  Carl’s nostrils twitched. “No, I’m not looking at porn. Did Maggie send you out here?”

  Busted. “I take it you’re not going to let me in.” What was the man hiding in there? “Fine. Let’s go out for a drink.” He’d loosen Carl up with a beer. It had worked last night.

  Yeah, and he’d gotten himself into a hair-raising discussion on communication with the opposite sex. He wasn’t looking forward to more, but he did have familial duties and obligations.

  “I’m not in a drinking mood, Brax.”

  Damn. Things were bad when a man didn’t want to drown his sorrows in a frosty mug of beer.

  What would entice Carl? Brax tried to remember the last few months of his own marriage. What had he done to drown out his wife’s bouts of crying followed by endless silences? “How about a game of pool?”