The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives

by Kristin Miller

  “I think that’s all for now, Ms. St. Claire,” Linard says as both detectives rise. “Keep trying his phone. If you hear from him, please call me immediately.”

  Georgia remains seated, her knees pressed firmly together, ankles crossed. “You should question Raul. He was the one piloting the yacht. He might know something he’s not telling me.”

  Linard nods. “Anyone else we should look into?”

  Erin.

  As I watch her exit the office and meet my eyes, a wave of heat flares through me. She and Mason were there last night, and Mason is friends with Robert. Do the police plan on questioning everyone who’d been on the yacht? Jack really doesn’t have time for that, but maybe I could help out instead.

  “I don’t think so.” Georgia worries her bottom lip between her teeth in an innocent, Marilyn Monroe–type of way. “What if we don’t find him before our wedding?”

  “Ms. St. Claire, I would suggest you continue on with everything as planned, hoping he’ll return. It’s still quite possible he simply had cold feet. We hear about these types of scenarios all the time.”

  “You do?”

  He nods slowly and makes his way around the couch. When he meets the other detective, he mumbles, “If I valued my life, I wouldn’t come back,” under his breath.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ERIN

  The moment the door closes behind the detectives, Georgia lets out a long, exasperated sigh and stretches her arms over the couch.

  “They think I killed him, just like the others,” she says, dropping her head back against the cushion. “They’re going to make my life hell. They’re never going to leave me alone.”

  Brooke locks the door and slowly makes her way toward the living room, her heels clacking over the tile. She’s got a strange look in her eye that reminds me of the one Mason has when he comes home late from work. It’s guilt. Plain and simple. She knows I caught her snooping through Georgia’s things, and she doesn’t know if I’m going to blab to Georgia. Come on. Of course I am. As for Mason, that’s a conversation we need to have with our therapist present.

  As Georgia groans and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, I start mixing a martini.

  “No, don’t,” she says, sitting up with a jolt. “What time is it?”

  “A little after ten.” I shake faster, sloshing the ice against the metal canister. “But it’s five o’clock somewhere.”

  “Damn. My wedding dress. I—I’m sorry, I forgot. I have to pick it up before noon.”

  I pour the martini anyway, and toss it back. It’s cold and smooth and perfect. Brooke eyes me curiously, so I offer her the remnants of the drink in the shaker.

  “I thought you already picked it up,” I say to Georgia, recalling the way she’d gushed over her dress last month.

  She dumps her phone into her purse and slings it over her shoulder. “I went for my final fitting, but there was a problem. I’ll explain on the way. Brooke?” Georgia asks, turning to her. “Want to take a ride?”

  “To see your wedding dress?” Brooke asks with her usual perky enthusiasm. “I’d be honored.”

  As we’re packed into Georgia’s Alfa Romeo and speeding through the city, she explains how she’d ordered a one-of-a-kind dress from an up-and-coming designer, Monica Normande, in Los Angeles. Georgia had been sent swatches of fabric and embroidery, and had three fittings once it’d been sent to a private boutique in the city. However, at the final fitting, Georgia had noticed the hem wasn’t even in the back. Rather than settle for something flawed, she had demanded it be fixed, even though I’m sure no one would have noticed anyway. She’s not sure of the reason for the delay, but she’d been told to pick it up today, two days before her supposed wedding.

  As if she didn’t have other, more important things to worry about.

  Zipping off Broadway onto Laguna, Georgia clutches the wheel in a death grip, glancing behind her into the rearview. “You know what the craziest thing is? Those detectives are wasting time questioning me, asking where I’ve been, and digging into our relationship, when they should be out there looking for him. I bet they’re not even searching. They’ve probably already made up their minds.”

  “It’s hard not to,” I say, steeling myself against a hard turn. “Your reputation certainly precedes you. Brooke, I’m sure you heard about Georgia before you met her. What’d you think?”

  She makes a shocked, strangled sound from the backseat. “I—I’d heard about what they call you…”

  “The Black Widow,” Georgia offers with a scoff. “I should’ve gone for a black wedding dress instead of white. Would’ve fit people’s expectations.”

  “The real estate agent mentioned a few details,” Brooke goes on, “but I wanted to know you for myself, to make my own opinion.”

  “And?” I poke, feeling mischievous for putting her on the spot.

  “I can’t speak for your previous husbands, because I didn’t know them, but after seeing you with Robert, I think you love him very much.” She chooses her next words carefully. “I can’t picture you lifting a finger to hurt him.”

  I frown, sagging into the passenger seat as Georgia pulls up to the boutique. Must Brooke have the right answer for everything?

  Putting the car in park, Georgia glances at Brooke through the rearview mirror. “And that’s why you’re growing on me. Thanks, babe.”

  How am I going to tell Georgia that I’m doing a special on her, which could shake the foundation of our friendship, when Brooke spouts perfect answers from her perfect mouth? Keeping this interview from Georgia is like having a massive canyon between us, and I constantly feel as if I’m leaning over the edge, teetering, about to fall into the abyss below. She has to know so I won’t be constantly thinking about it anymore. Mason said it’ll be like ripping off a bandage. Hard at first, but if the wound is going to heal—if our friendship is going to come out the other end of this unscathed—it needs to be out in the open.

  I’m going to tell her today. Soon.

  The boutique is larger than I would’ve thought from its frontage. Although the building is narrow, with first- and second-floor bay windows displaying headless mannequin brides, the space is long and overflowing with racks of couture gowns. The walls are covered with white shiplap, and the air is thick with the scents of lavender and vanilla.

  “This is expensive, but so worth it,” Brooke says from behind me. “It’s utterly gorgeous. If I were to get married again, I’d do it in this.”

  Turning, I stare at the Regina Charlemagne she’s brushing her fingers against. It’s a shimmering shade of silver, dusted with diamonds, with a V-neck that would drop to Brooke’s navel. It would look absolutely stunning on her petite frame, accentuating the perkiness of her breasts, the flatness of her stomach, and the evenness of her skin tone. But I refuse to tell her any of that.

  “Eighty thousand dollars. For a Regina Charlemagne? I wouldn’t pay more than thirty,” I say snootily, and move along toward the dressing area, which is curtained with swags of rose-colored fabric. “The real dresses are this way.”

  We pass only the best of the top designer’s gowns, and I remember how simple it was to choose the gown for my wedding. Mason had insisted that he come shopping with me, even though I’d wanted my wedding dress to be a surprise. In the end, it was better to agree than start a fight, so he tagged along and freely gave input on every dress I tried on. I felt very Julia Roberts from Pretty Woman. He demanded they wait on me hand and foot, serve me champagne, and ooh and aah when I came out of the dressing room. I’d had my eye on the first one I tried on: a form-fitting lace gown with a ten-foot embroidered train. It was elegant and regal. Timeless. I felt like it emphasized my best qualities. Mason, on the other hand, had wanted to see me in a strapless gown, drop waist, diamond-encrusted belt, and a flare at the knee. He’d been right in the end, of course. The dre
ss was beautiful in the pictures.

  As Georgia speaks with a woman at a small counter in the corner of the store, the skin-crawling feeling that someone is eyeing the back of my head washes over me. Must be Brooke, I think, and crane around, expecting to catch her eye. But she’s perusing a rack of dresses against the wall. Brushing my hand over the back of my neck to smooth the hairs standing on end, I glance out the front window.

  Across the street, someone is standing between two cars, staring at the store. Right through the windows. Right at me. I can feel the heat of his eyes, even through his dark sunglasses. He’s wearing jeans and a black jacket that’s zipped to his neck, and a black baseball cap with an orange Giants logo.

  Why is he staring?

  He could be homeless, with nothing better to do. He could be crazy. But something tells me he’s not either of those things. Actually, judging from his height and the wide span of his shoulders, he could almost be…Jack.

  “Erin?” Georgia calls behind me.

  “Yeah?” I don’t break eye contact.

  That man really could be Brooke’s husband. But I’ve never seen him dressed so casually, and if he saw us come into the store, why wouldn’t he simply drop in to say hello? Why isn’t he moving? That’s probably the most perplexing thing of all. It might’ve been normal for him to remain stationary momentarily. Perhaps he’s meeting someone, waiting for a dog to do its business, or reading a sign on the boutique’s building.

  In my gut, I know he’s not doing any one of those things. He’s watching us. And from the way he’s standing there in plain view, unmoving, he wants me to know it.

  No, it’s not Jack…is it? Narrowing my eyes for clarity, I peer across the street through the passing of people and cars. If it is Jack, I need to tell Brooke that she’s married to a creeper.

  “I’m trying it on again, just to be sure,” Georgia says, snapping. “Follow us to the back?”

  I turn momentarily, to watch where she’s headed, and when I turn back around, the guy’s gone. Vanished as if he’d never been there at all.

  “What are you staring at?” Brooke asks from beside me. She peers out the window, trying to follow my gaze. “Erin?”

  I wait a beat, searching the people passing the front of the shop. “It’s nothing. I thought I saw someone you knew—someone we knew—but I must’ve been mistaken.”

  Georgia’s dress, on the other hand, is magnificent. It’s clear that she loves the look of a corset top and a cinched waist and drama. The dress has all of these in spades. Whenever Georgia breathes, her chest swells over the top of the subtle heart-shaped neckline, adding spice where it was designed to be sweet. Her waist appears impossibly tiny as the bottom of the gown flares at the hip, falling to the floor in gentle waves of glimmer.

  Spinning slowly, Georgia lifts her arms from her sides. “What do you think?”

  “Angelic.” Brooke gawks, covering her mouth with her hand. “Perfection.”

  Oh, I bet Georgia’s head exploded just then.

  I smooth down a nonexistent kink in the back. “There. Now it’s perfect.”

  “If I only had a groom to go along with it.” Georgia seems to tear up as the seamstress—or perhaps she’s the designer—checks the hem a final time. “I don’t care what the police think, he didn’t get cold feet. I can’t shake this terrible feeling that something’s seriously wrong. Something happened out there on the water.”

  “I believe you,” Brooke says. “If he’s out there, we’re going to find him.”

  Kiss ass.

  “What are you going to do?” I ask, because suddenly Brooke is acting like she has all the right answers. “Take the yacht out to look for him?”

  Brooke nods. “If that’s what it takes.”

  I had forgotten for a moment that Brooke writes murder mysteries. To her, this is all a game, a story with loose ends that need to be tied up.

  “I’m with you, Georgia. Whatever it takes,” I parrot, and squeeze my best friend’s hand.

  After Georgia changes and arranges for her dress to be delivered to her home, we leave the shop and step into the early afternoon sunlight. The marine layer has burned off, leaving clean air and a reprieve from the cool sea breezes normally sweeping over the city. Searching for the strange man, I clutch my purse beneath my arm and look down Laguna in one direction, and then the other. Nothing seems out of place, nothing out of the ordinary.

  Georgia unlocks the car and rounds the back. “What the hell.”

  Brooke’s at her side, looking over her shoulder eagerly, like a sidekick. “Another one? What does it say?”

  I don’t have to look to know what they’re talking about. Judging from the disdain and irritation in her tone and the excitement in Brooke’s, Georgia must’ve had another note from one of her many admirers. Maybe even the creepy man who looked startlingly like Brooke’s straitlaced husband…

  Georgia lifts the paper from beneath the windshield wiper and unfolds it carefully. Something falls into the palm of her hand. With a squeal, she drops it to the ground, where it rolls under the tire. Whatever it is, it’s covered in blood.

  “Oh, no, no, no.” Delicately, she picks it up again. It’s a finger. Not just any swollen, bloody finger. Robert’s. Identifiable by the silver and diamond-encrusted ring he always wore on his right hand. “His—this is his…his ring. I’m going to throw up.” Unfolding the paper, she reads aloud, the words seeming to punch out of her gut. “WANT YOUR FIANCE BACK? HOLD UP YOUR END OF THE DEAL. THIRTY MILLION WIRED BY MIDNIGHT. GO TO THE POLICE AND HE’S DEAD.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ERIN

  As Georgia heads back toward the safety of Presidio Terrace, she mumbles to herself, cursing, slamming her hands against the steering wheel at every red light.

  “Georgia,” Brooke begins.

  “I’m not going to the police, I can’t,” Georgia blurts, silencing her. “I know that’s what you were going to say. If I do, they’ll kill him. We’re beyond that now. I have to handle this myself. Do you guys see that black Mercedes a few cars back? Is it following us?”

  Craning around in her seat, Brooke keeps an eye on the Mercedes as my phone buzzes with an incoming text. It’s Mason: Detectives are here asking questions. Where are u?

  “Damn it,” I whisper as Georgia turns sharply.

  I’d planned on inviting Georgia over, and once Brooke went home, I’d break the news about the special. She’ll understand how important this opportunity is to me, and she does owe me a monster favor.

  “It went straight at the light,” Brooke says. “You’re not being followed.”

  Georgia breathes a sigh of relief.

  I don’t text Mason back and a few minutes later, Georgia turns the corner onto our street. I notice Penny, who has stopped trimming her lawn with scissors long enough to stand on the corner, gawking at the police cruiser in front of our house. Carol, the woman who lives in the house with the bright red door that barely meets neighborhood standards is with her, hands planted on her hips disapprovingly. Patsy shuffles to meet them, her pants pulled up embarrassingly high.

  As the gate rolls shut, I glance back, catching a glimpse of a black car darting by. The Mercedes Georgia had been worried about? I’m not sure. There are so many of them in the city. Better not to mention it and fray her already worn nerves.

  She pulls into her driveway momentarily, letting us out, and Brooke retreats to her home, head hung low. Georgia doesn’t even say goodbye to her new friend. I bet Brooke is feeling wretched.

  Before shutting the door, I lean inside and meet Georgia’s gaze. “I hate to bring it up now”—I shoot a glare behind me at the police cruiser— “…but remember that favor you owe me?”

  She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “It’s come back to bite us in the ass.”

  “I know, but it was a favor nonetheless
.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I was given an opportunity at the station—they want me back after all.”

  A smile breaks her frown. “Good for you. But what does it have to do with me?”

  “Will you give me an interview?”

  Just like that, her frown returns, deeper this time. “Seriously? You know why I can’t—”

  “I know, I know,” I interrupt. “This isn’t the best time to talk, and believe me, I know how much I’m asking of you, but I—I need this. We can iron the script out later. Will you do it? Please?”

  “Fine.” She sighs heavily. “But after this, the debt I owe you is paid.”

  “Of course.” The debt she’s referring to was a favor. Something I did for her when she was in dire need. “Consider us square.”

  I point at the note sitting on the dashboard. “Are you going to pay Danny what he’s asking?”

  Danny Johnson…the hitman we hired to “off” her husbands.

  “It’s not possible.” Zoning out on the garage door, Georgia grips the steering wheel tight. “I can’t move that much cash by midnight. If Andrew hadn’t changed his will right before he died, leaving everything to charity, I would’ve had enough to pay him upfront, the way I did after Eli’s death. But now, with how much time has passed and the interest he’s demanding…it’s too much. I don’t have it.”

  “And as for Robert,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you shouldn’t have to pay a dime. If he can’t follow simple instructions, that’s not your fault. Or mine.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I wish I could help you,” I say “but…”