by Norah Wilson
Chapter 5
What was I thinking?
That was about the only intelligible thought Suzannah could manage as she sat in the passenger seat of John’s car, en route to a cop party. A cop party, for pity’s sake. It was all she could do to keep from pressing a hand to her stomach to calm the butterflies there. How had she let herself be talked into this?
She glanced over at John, whose attention seemed to be firmly fixed on the road. He was wearing a nice black t-shirt, which appeared to be new, and a pair of jeans which were definitely not new.
She chewed her lip. Was she over-dressed? It was hard to measure by John’s apparel. Honestly, the man needed a keeper, someone to dress him in the morning. Still, since she’d opened her door to him twenty minutes ago, she’d been plagued with doubts about the tobacco brown Halston halter dress she wore.
But dammit he’d said casual. He’d said patio party, for crying out loud. So she’d tied her hair back, threaded plain gold hoops through her pierced ears and left her tanned legs bare. That was as casual as this little chickadee got.
Which brought her full circle. What the hell had she been thinking?
You let yourself be railroaded, that’s what.
He’d begun by pointing out how uncomplaining he’d been about attending her functions. And he had. Not a single groan or eye roll, at least not that she’d caught. Which was pretty remarkable considering she’d dragged him to the dullest, most tedious engagements she could muster invitations for. She’d expected him to decide her social life was far too boring to require such close monitoring.
But he hadn’t buckled under the boredom. Night after night, she’d searched his face for evidence of frustration, but all she encountered in his gaze was a quiet watchfulness, a patient, purposeful waiting that put her feminine senses on full alert.
Her mind skittered away from that thought. The last thing she needed to do right now was to add that to the mix of apprehensions that had her normally steady nerves vibrating.
She steered her thoughts back to how gracious he’d been about those yawn-fests she’d subjected him to. No doubt about it, she definitely owed him for that. Still, her guilty conscience would not have been enough to secure her agreement to attend this party, and he’d known it. So he’d pulled out the big guns—he’d accused her of being a snob, unwilling to subject herself to his middle-class world.
Her blood heated at the memory of that confrontation. She was most definitely not a snob! Granted, she didn’t have much experience of that world. But darn it, it wasn’t her fault.
She’d been reared and educated among the world’s most privileged, moving among them with the ease of someone born to wealth. Rich, spoiled, indulged—she readily admitted she’d been all those things. But she also devoted much of her energy to helping the most underprivileged and socially marginalized of souls. Unfortunately, she had little personal experience of anything in between.
She felt Quigg apply the brakes and heard the turn signal’s rhythmic click-click, click-click as he waited for oncoming traffic to clear. A moment later, he turned left onto a quieter street. The trees lining the sidewalk at intervals were new, tall, sparsely leafed saplings, which indicated a relatively new subdivision.
“Are we nearly there?” she asked.
“The next block. White bungalow with black shutters, on the right.”
Her stomach gave another unaccustomed lurch, and she clutched her bag closer. The driveway was already plugged with cars, so Quigg parked the Taurus by the curb about a half-block past the Morgan house.
She looked over at him as he killed the engine and extracted the keys. “Do I look all right?” she blurted.
Something flickered in his eyes. “You’ll be the most beautiful woman in the crowd.”
Oh, God. She smoothed the fabric of her dress over her knees. It had made her feel so good when she’d examined her reflection in the mirror at home. “I am over-dressed, aren’t I? Why didn’t you tell me?”
He grinned. “Relax, Princess. You look gorgeous. Everybody’ll love you. Especially the guys.”
She shot him a look that said she’d kill him for this. He merely laughed and climbed out of the car, coming around to open her door for her. With as much dignity as she could command, she slipped out of the car.
“Quigg, ol’ buddy, you made it.”
Suzannah glanced up to see Ray Morgan wandering down the drive toward them. Eddie Bauer khakis, a black Armani t-shirt and deck shoes. She let a sigh of relief escape. Okay, this wasn’t so bad.
“Ms. Phelps,” he said, extending a hand. “Glad you could come.”
She seriously doubted that, but Detective Morgan’s expression looked welcoming enough. Deciding to accept the sentiment at face value, she took the hand he offered.
“Suzannah, please. It’ll be a very long evening if I have to answer to my mother’s name for the duration.”
He grinned. “Suzannah it is, then.”
Suzannah felt her jaw go lax. Ray Morgan was a fine-looking man by anyone’s standards, but when he smiled that crooked, boyish grin, he was astonishingly good looking.
Quigg cleared his throat. “If you’re quite finished pawing my date, I think she could find a use for that hand.”
“Ignore him,” Ray encouraged. “He’s obviously out of practice escorting beautiful women.”
She couldn’t have stopped the smile that curved her lips if she’d wanted to. The easy way these two men insulted each other was an obvious testament to a deep affection.
“In fact,” Ray continued, finally releasing her hand, “the last date Quigg brought to one of these shindigs was a real dog.”
Suzannah’s smile faltered.
“Ray Morgan!”
The admonishment came from a tall brunette who was making her way toward them across the paved driveway. “You’ll have to excuse my husband,” she said.
Husband? This had to be Grace Morgan, feature writer from the daily newspaper. Suzannah watched the other woman approach. Slim-hipped, full-busted, fit without being overly athletic. The pretty floral sun dress she wore was off-the-rack, but nothing else about this woman appeared to be. Her precision-cut hair, for instance, was the work of a master, and one didn’t achieve skin like that without benefit of regular facials. She was, Suzannah decided, quite beautiful in an intensely feminine kind of way. If it weren’t for the warmth lighting her eyes and the quick smile that softened her mouth, Suzannah would have been quite prepared to dislike her.
She reached Ray’s side, sliding an arm around his waist. “Before you write my husband off as a complete jerk, I should explain that he’s talking about an actual canine.”
Realization dawned. “Of course. Bandy.”
“Oh, so you’ve met the mutt?”
“Not yet, but I’ve heard a lot about him.”
Grace’s smile widened, showing even white teeth. “That’s only fitting, I guess. He’s a whole lot of dog.”
“That’s enough from you, young lady,” Quigg growled in mock severity. “You’ll scare Suzannah off.”
“I think we can safely leave that to Bandy,” put in Ray.
“Make yourself useful, Morgan, and put this on ice or something,” Quigg said, handing him the bottle of wine he’d brought.
Ray read the label aloud and whistled admiringly. “This, my friend, is a fine Burgundy. We do not put leggy red beauties like this on ice. We chill them for ten or fifteen minutes, just to drop the temperature a few degrees.”
Suzannah turned wide eyes on John. The vintage Ray had named was one her late father used to favor, and it didn’t come cheaply. Had he done that for her?
Quigg shrugged. “Whatever.”
Ray just shook his head, muttering something that sounded like “cretin”.
Grace ignored her husband, gestured with a nod of her head to the garden gate. “Everyone’s back there. Shall we join them?”
Suzannah felt the warmth of John’s hand briefly at the small of her back. It
was the most fleeting of touches, more reassuring than sexual, but it made her catch her breath. If this relationship were real, it would be exactly the kind of gesture she’d welcome in the circumstances. Reassurance, physical connection, a hint of possessive pride.
But it’s not real. It’s pretend. And he’s very good at this pretend thing.
They passed through the gate on the tall cedar fence. Boisterous voices punctuated by feminine laughter carried to them as they rounded the corner of the small bungalow.
“Hey, guys, look who’s here,” someone called.
The voices stopped as all heads swiveled in their direction. Suddenly Suzannah could hear the vocals of Matchbox 20’s Rob Thomas issuing from unseen speakers inside the house.
I feel stupid.
Perfect sentiment, Rob.
Wrong attitude, she scolded herself. If she gave a damn about popularity, she’d have smeared petroleum jelly on her teeth and become one of those TV weather girls who smiled until their jaws locked.
Still, it was going to be a long evening. She lifted her chin and strode across the small stretch of sun-baked lawn to join the group on the deck.
Two hours later, Suzannah gazed at her own reflection in the mirror in the Morgans’ small downstairs bathroom. She didn’t really need the facilities, but she did need to fortify herself.
Not that anyone in the small crowd had been overtly hostile. After falling silent on her arrival, the guests had come back to life with a vengeance. Each had welcomed her. Many went out of their way to include her in conversation. But she still felt exactly what she was—an intruder. The false note in the choir. The elephant in the room nobody wanted to mention.
Pulling a gold tube from her handbag, she quickly retouched her lips, though they hardly needed the repair despite the burger she’d eaten. Lipstick was like any other product. If you paid enough for it and used an equally expensive lip pencil under it, it would stand up to anything.
She grimaced at her reflection. None of the other women’s lipstick had held up nearly so well, a fact which she was sure each of those women noted. Like the Halston and the Italian sandals, it served to set her apart. Of course, most of the women were cops’ wives. They wouldn’t have embraced her even if she’d worn a drug store lipstick that disappeared with her first glass of wine.
She snapped her handbag shut with an audible click. Well, there was one person she could hang around who wouldn’t give her attitude. At least, not here, not now. Tonight’s program required him to be concerned and attentive, and she felt dangerously in need of concern and attention.
A last quick look at her reflection, and she exited the bathroom. She found John on the deck, deep in conversation with one of Grace’s male co-workers, a sports columnist, who was expounding on what was wrong with professional hockey. As much as she wanted to sidle up to John, to shelter in his protection, she wasn’t about to squash hockey talk. These people already had plenty to reasons to dislike her.
The sun had set, leaving the western sky smeared with pinks and purples, but it wasn’t entirely dark yet. Rescuing her half-full wine glass from the table where she’d left it, she made a comment about wanting to see Grace’s garden before the last of the daylight faded.
She’d reached the bottom of the steps and had started across the lawn when she was stopped by a male guest. At the brief touch of his hand on her bare arm, she turned toward him.
Bruce Newman. She dredged his name up from earlier conversation. A constable with a decade worth of service, both John and Ray had worked with him. And thank God, Suzannah had somehow managed never to cross-examine him.
“You shouldn’t do that,” he said, his face stern.
“Do what?”
“Leave your drink unattended like that, then resume drinking it.”
Suzannah’s gaze dropped to her glass, which held several ounces of the very nice Burgundy John had bought, then flew back to Constable Newman’s face.
“A lady should never take her eyes off her drink. You never know what unscrupulous predators are lurking out there. Even a little town like this sees its share of guys putting roofies in ladies’ drinks.”
Roofies. Rohypnol. Date rape drug. Her heart tripped over into double time, and her muscles screamed for flight, but somehow her brain prevailed. She held her ground. “Thank you,” she said, managing to sound normal. “That’s very good advice.”
He nodded once, then brushed past her to climb the steps to the deck.
Suzannah released her breath in a rush. What was that about? Public safety bulletin or subtle threat? She was certain he must have seen the fear in her eyes, but he hadn’t seemed unduly disturbed by it.
Of course, that didn’t make him her stalker. As far as most of these guys were concerned, she was the enemy. He’d probably just seen a chance to score a few points off her outside of John’s earshot and taken advantage of it.
Or maybe he was just a good guy passing along a friendly warning. A socially-challenged good guy.
Belatedly, she realized she was still standing where Constable Newman had left her. Collecting herself, she continued across the lawn to inspect the beds she’d admired earlier.
The beds were largely perennial, she saw, though the plantings were relatively immature. Happy Shasta daisies, succulent sedums and glorious black-eyed susans in the full-sun areas, tall monkshood, striking beardtongue and leafy hostas in the shady corner.
There, just what she wanted, against the back fence. A stand of heliopsis. She made straight for the cheerful clump of false sunflowers. They were purported to be hardy enough to withstand anything nature threw at them. Hopefully, that included the occasional splash of quality Burgundy, with or without Rohypnol. With a twist of her wrist, she tilted the wineglass, spilling the contents among the hardy flowers.
“You must think me a terrible hostess.”
Suzannah turned to find Grace Morgan crossing the lawn to join her at the edge of the flower bed. If she’d seen Suzannah’s surreptitious dumping of the wine amidst the heliopsis and the bee balm, she was too polite to mention it.
“Not at all,” said Suzannah smoothly. “Your husband said you had something to take care of, something work related.”
“I try not to take it home with me too much, but I’ve been chasing this guy forever for an interview. I might have predicted he’d pick tonight to return one of my many messages.”
“Your husband did a credible job of subbing for you, though the men remarked he didn’t look nearly so good.”
Grace smiled, but it was automatic reflex. The look in her eye told Suzannah the other woman’s thoughts were racing. Probably re-running the interview in her head. Lord knows, she’d done that often enough herself, going over testimony.
“Do you realize that in direct discourse with me, you’ve yet to refer to my husband as anything but your husband?”
Suzannah blinked, trying to decide whether or not to be offended by Grace’s observation. “Really?” she managed stiffly. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
“No, I don’t imagine you did. But I couldn’t help noticing that you didn’t call any of the guys by their first names, except for my friends from the paper.”
Suzannah blanched. Could that be true? “Really?”
Grace nodded.
“Oh, great,” she muttered.
“I wouldn’t sweat it. They probably didn’t notice.”
“Yeah, probably not. It’s not like they’re particularly skilled at observation or anything.”
Grace laughed. Not a chuckle, not a titter, but a real belly laugh. “Oh, I like you, Suzannah Phelps.”
Suzannah found herself relaxing. “Well, I’m relieved someone here does.”
Grace’s face sobered. “You’ll have to cut the guys some slack. They’ll get used to the idea of you and John, but it might take some time to settle. They have enough respect for John that you won’t get any flack from that quarter.”
Maybe, thought Suzannah. She looked down at h
er empty wine glass. Or maybe not. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “I don’t suppose that extends to the wives?”
“Are they giving you a hard time?” Grace said, her expression sharpening.
“Oh, no, nothing like that. They just seem a little ... I don’t know ... closed?”
“Tell me about it,” Grace said, taking a swig of her vodka cooler.
Suzannah eyed the younger woman. “What do you mean? You’re part of the sorority, aren’t you?”
“Technically, yes. The guys socialize so much with each other, I couldn’t not be a part of it, but I think I’ve been relegated to the periphery.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Suzannah noticed John watching her with a quiet intensity from his position on the deck, even as a man from the newspaper talked animatedly into his ear. Ignoring the flutter in her stomach, she switched her attention back to Grace. “I don’t understand. Why would they do that?”
Grace smiled. “Actually, I think it’s more my doing than theirs. You see, my husband –”
“Ray,” Suzannah supplied quickly.
Grace laughed again. “See, that didn’t hurt, did it?”
“Hardly at all.”
“As I was saying, Ray goes out of his way to protect me from the uglier side of what he does, what he sees. The other wives,” she gestured toward the laughing group on and around the deck, “I think they sense that, and it makes me not quite one of them. They always include me, but I always come away thinking there’s some secret handshake I don’t know.”
“Wow, tough crowd.”
“Maybe,” she conceded, plucking absently at the label on her bottle. “But you know what I think? I think if you and John were to hook up, you wouldn’t face that obstacle. They’d give you credit for having been in the trenches yourself.”
“Yeah, but they’re hardly likely to overlook the fact that the particular trench I’m in is the opposing one.”
“There is that,” Grace acknowledged, “but it’s not insurmountable.”
The other woman’s tone was so genuine, so earnest, so concerned, that Suzannah felt a pang for the deception she and John were perpetrating. She wished quite fiercely to come clean, but that was out of the question. Instead, she contented herself with downplaying the long term potential of the supposed relationship. “I don’t think it’s going to be a problem, actually. John and I ... well, put it this way—I don’t see it getting serious.”
Grace smiled, her face lighting with a gentle amusement that made her seem older and infinitely wiser, when she was clearly Suzannah’s junior by half a decade or more. “That’s the trouble with this stuff,” she said softly. “You never see it coming until it’s too late.”
