CHAPTER 17
Sophia popped a bite of maple link sausage into her mouth, shuffled over to her kitchen table and set the warmed blueberry syrup and a stack of fresh, fluffy pancakes on the table. It joined a host of other breakfast favorites. Biscuits and gravy, grits, scrambled eggs, hot tea and orange juice. Stress tended to make her hungry and when that happened, she couldn’t just settle for a mere muffin or a piece of toast--she had to eat buffet style.
This was particularly unfortunate as she was supposed to be dieting.
Sophia had battled her weight for years, had diligently fought every eager fat-storing cell in her body. The fight would have been a whole lot easier if she didn’t enjoy food--the sight, scent and taste of virtually any sweet, cake, pie, main dish or gooey casserole. Honestly, other than hominy--which she detested--she didn’t cull much.
Furthermore, practically every occasion was celebrated with food. Holidays, birthdays, bad days and good days, deaths, etc... Food played a prominent role in society and it was truly a pity--the height of injustice, dammit--that some metabolisms worked better than others.
Hers, for instance, seemed to be permanently stuck in neutral.
Sophia had always promised herself that when she turned fifty, she’d say to hell with it and eat whatever she wanted. She’d keep up her exercise--a good brisk walk was good for anybody--but once she hit the big five-oh, she’d trade her fat-free margarine for good old-fashioned butter, her low-fat frozen yogurt for rich, creamy Pralines and Cream ice cream. She’d take a sledgehammer to her scales, shatter it to bits before sweeping it into a dust-pan and gleefully throwing it away.
Two weeks beyond her fiftieth birthday however--a blissful two weeks in which she’d eaten everything that hadn’t been nailed down and she’d gained seven pounds--she’d had a terrible nightmare. She’d dreamed that she’d had a heart attack and needed to go to the hospital, but she couldn’t get out of the bed because she was too damned fat. The rescue squad had ended up taking a Sawzall to her bedroom wall, cutting a giant hole in the side of her house in order to accommodate her whopping girth. It had taken a wench and a backhoe to get her out of the house, and they’d hauled her bloated, flabby hideous body away on a flatbed truck, a melting king-sized candy bar clutched in her fist.
The next morning, Sophia had gloomily resumed her battle against the bulge.
She occasionally fell of the wagon--like now--but after last night, she felt like she deserved a little comfort food. She’d walk another lap around the square two if need be.
Sophia started as a knock sounded at her back door. She rarely had visitors this early, she thought, wincing as she walked away from her warm breakfast. She opened the door, then horrorstruck, barely resisted the urge to slam it shut in her unexpected visitor’s face.
“Good morning, Sophia,” Edward said dutifully.
Sophia patted her uncombed hair, was painfully aware of her unmade face and tattered chenille robe. She felt her mouth work up and down, and almost never dredged a syllable up her tight, mortified throat. “Good m-morning, Edward. What can I do for you?”
“I just noticed that you weren’t outside this morning. You’re not feeling under the weather, I hope.”
Sophia’s first thought was to blast him with an icy remark about unexpected house calls, but the kind concern in those compelling blue eyes, plus the warm knowledge that he’d actually missed her prevented the impulse.
She tightened her robe around her middle--the one not poured into a bulge-smoothing girdle--and resisted the urge to whimper. “No, I’m not, but thank you,” she said, somewhat stiffly. After all, she wasn’t accustomed to being nice to him. It had always been easier--safer--to be surly.
He sniffed appreciatively and his keen gaze darted over her shoulder to the spread on her kitchen table. A grin slid across his surprisingly attractive mouth. “That certainly smells good,” he commented lightly. “Are those blueberry pancakes?”
Sophia felt a smile flirt with her lips. “They are,” she conceded.
His eyes narrowed, seemingly zooming in on the syrup. “And is that your homemade syrup?”
This time it was her eyes that narrowed. How did he know that she made homemade syrups? “It is,” she replied slowly.
“Oh,” he sighed, rocking back on his heels. “That’s some count there, Sophia,” he said with just enough sincerity and awe to make her want to preen despite the fact she looked like a bag lady. “I bid on a bottle at the Civic Club’s silent auction last fall and won. Best stuff I ever put in my mouth.”
He was clearly angling for an invitation, and even more clearly hoping to garner one through flattery. One that, despite her unkempt hair and ratty robe, he was going to get. Still, she had her pride, so she pretended to look put-out. “As you can see, I have plenty,” she said grudgingly. “Would you like to join me?”
He grinned. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
Betting on it, more like, she thought with a silent snort, but she wasn’t going to quibble because a ridiculous thrill had whipped through her, momentarily gluing her tongue to the roof of her mouth. For the first time in fifteen years a man--one that captivated every sense and made her feel like her skin was stretched too tight over her old bones--was going to put his feet under her table.
It was a start, Sophia thought, her insides quivering with anticipation. A beginning, she cautiously hoped, to an ultimate end.
CHAPTER 18
Jolie glanced at her watch and swore as she hurried down the hall toward Jake’s office. She’d promised him that she’d be here first thing this morning, but she hadn’t counted on having to awkwardly console a crying Marge when she’d learned of Chris’s death. Chris had always treated Marge abominably, had criticized, shouted, and cursed her for the smallest of infractions, so she was the last person Jolie had expected to shed any tears over her late, unlamented husband. Jolie had heard herself muttering things like, “Oh, yes, it’s terrible,” and “Yes, it’s such a loss,” but the words felt weird and distasteful coming out of her mouth.
Probably because they were lies.
Playing the grieving widow was not a role that would come easily to her, which made it just as well, because despite Sadie’s dire warnings, she’d decided against it and once she made up her mind, it was set. She’d been living a lie for two years. She was finished, a fact she planned to share with Jake this morning.
While she couldn’t tell him about the FWC, she nevertheless intended to make her position perfectly clear. She hadn’t killed Chris, but she wasn’t exactly sad that he was dead. Relieved, quite honestly, was more accurate. He could deal with those facts however he chose and if he decided to judge her for them, then so be it.
She drew in a bolstering breath as she neared his office, felt her stomach do an odd little flutter, a physical reaction to the knowledge that she was about to see him. Under normal circumstances her reaction would undoubtedly be considered inappropriate--particularly since her husband’s body was barely cold, Jolie thought with a wry smile--but these were hardly normal circumstances.
Jake was the love of her life--the one she’d let pride keep her from reclaiming--and Chris had been the bane of her existence for the past twenty-four months.
There was no comparison.
Jake’s door was open and, given the one-sided conversation she’d heard as she neared his office, she guessed that he was on the phone, a hunch that was confirmed when she peered into the room. He glanced up and motioned for her to come in and take the only other chair in the room.
His office was small with a functional metal desk, a single beat-up filing cabinet crammed in the corner and covered with magnets, business cards and the odd sticky note. A couple of photographs had been adhered to the wall behind his desk with thumbtacks. The idea drew a smile. True to form, framing them had been too much trouble.
One was a family Christmas photo, his Mom, Dad, brother and sister. The other was a candid of Jake that she’d taken during her photography p
hase and, admittedly, he’d been her favorite subject.
This photo was one that she’d been particularly proud of because it had captured him in such a true moment. He’d been standing close to Smoke, nuzzling the gray dappled horse’s muzzle, and the respect and the love for the animal had been evident in every line of his face. The crinkles around those silvery eyes, the soft turn of his mouth. He’d been relaxed and unguarded...and sexy as hell.
Though genuine cowboys were scarce in North Carolina, Jake had always had that special spark, that easy grace and careless swagger brought about by hours spent in the saddle. While other men went to the gym or Roxy’s Roadhouse after work, Jake had always spent his de-stressing time on the back of a horse, or at the very least, in the barn taking care of one. He had a keen understanding of the animals, a way with them that was frankly fascinating to watch.
His skills were somewhat legendary in their little part of the world and it hadn’t been uncommon--even in his teenage years--for other owners to ask his opinion or seek his advice about a difficult animal.
Within months of her marriage to Chris, Jake’s grandfather had deeded twenty acres to him on the south end of the family property, a rolling landscape with hundred-year-old oaks dripping with Spanish moss, hearty maples and a clear swift-moving stream. In the spring hundreds of buttercups, wild poppies and Queen Anne’s lace bloomed across the meadows, painting the hills and valleys with splashes of bright color.
He’d built the barn before the house, making sure that the animals would be taken care of first. Priorities, right? Jolie thought with a small grin. The house was a replica of his grandfather’s old two-story farmhouse--the very one they’d always talked about having--but, according to Sadie and Rob, who’d had the privilege of visiting, it had been updated with all the modern conveniences.
She’d occasionally torture herself by driving by, picturing him there before a crackling fire, book in hand. But as time had worn on, she’d stopped. Only a glutton for punishment would keep it up, and Chris had been punishment enough, thank you very much. Besides, it had just been too damned hard. It should have been her with him before that fire, her there sharing his bed.
She’d never understand, never get over how terribly wrong things had gone.
Jolie took her seat, watched Jake scribble on a yellow legal pad, presumably taking notes.
“One-hundred thousand, you say?” he said, shooting her a veiled look, one that had the dubious honor of simultaneously making her mouth dry and her stomach roll in a sickening pirouette.
Shit, she thought with ballooning dread. He knew already. Bless Her Heart was too small to accommodate discretion, so she hadn’t harbored any illusions that Jake wouldn’t find out about the life insurance and other things, but she damned sure hadn’t counted on him ferreting out the truth so quickly.
“And she’s the sole beneficiary, is that correct?” He hummed under is breath, tapped his pen against his notepad while she resisted the urge to squirm in her seat. “And this policy was taken out when?” Jake nodded, scribbled another note, then circled it. “All right, then. That’s all I needed to know.” He thanked whoever had been so bloody helpful then disconnected and shot her a considering look. “Have you slept?”
Code-speak for “You look like shit,” Jolie thought, unreasonably perturbed. Evidently her concealer hadn’t done the job.
“A little,” she told him. “Have you?”
“I caught a cat nap this morning. I expected you earlier,” he commented lightly. “Any particular reason why you’re so late?”
“I ran by the office. I needed to let Marge know about Chris,” she improvised, since it wasn’t completely a lie. She could hardly tell him the truth. I’ve been emptying Chris’s accounts before you freeze them.
He nodded, seemed to accept that excuse. After a moment, he blew out a prolonged breath, abruptly stood and shut the door. He leaned against it, crossed his arms over his chest and merely waited. For her to offer an excuse, she was sure, but she had no intention of obliging him. If he wanted answers, he’d have to ask the questions, otherwise he was outta luck. She certainly wasn’t going to volunteer any more than she had to, at least not in the beginning. The more time she had to move the money, the better. With luck, she’d get everything done this afternoon. That was the plan, at any rate.
She felt the weight of that cool, calm regard for at least another sixty seconds before Jake finally muttered a hot oath and sat back down. He pulled a small black tape recorder from the desk drawer, spoke her name and the date into the device, then turned it off and set it down between them.
He looked up and his gaze tangled with hers. “Before I turn this on, I need to ask you a question.”
She knew he did--knew what he’d ask--and though a part of her resented it because he, of all people, should know better, undoubtedly the life insurance and her bizarre alibi had shaken his opinion. She couldn’t blame him, she knew, but that didn’t lessen the sting.
She returned that level stare, determinedly ignored the flash of heat that hit her belly, and lifted her chin. “Sure. Go ahead.”
“Did you have anything to do with this, Jo? Anything at all?” His voice was a mixture of exasperation and agony, indicating that he hated having to doubt her, which seemed only fitting because she hated it, too.
“No, Jake. I didn’t. I hated Chris, which is common knowledge among my family and friends, but hating him and killing him are two completely different things. I could never have killed him.”
A sigh of relief slipped past his lips. He sagged back into his seat, closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Then please tell me why you were researching pre-burial plans last week?” he asked with weary irritation.
Jolie blinked. She’d been prepared to answer the insurance question, but she’d had no idea that he’d already heard about the pre-burial plan. How the hell--
“Andy called me this morning wanting to know when he could have the body,” he explained, most likely as a result of her uncomfortable silence. His lips tilted. “He was afraid Randy would beat him to the punch and explained why he thought he had dibs. He mentioned the pre-burial plan. The one you’d investigated one week to the day of your husband’s murder,” he added significantly. He leaned forward and shook his dark head. “I’m going to be honest, Jo. If it wasn’t for your alibi--at least twenty of your bridge club members called this morning to verify your whereabouts last night, by the way--you’d be in deep shit. For someone who’s innocent, you’re doing a helluva job making yourself look guilty. Dammit, what gives? What have you been up to?”
Jolie cast around her semi-frozen brain and tried to think of any reason--aside from the truth, of course, which she couldn’t share--why she’d been scoping out funeral arrangements last week for her perfectly healthy husband.
She forced an uncomfortable laugh. “There’s nothing w-wrong with b-being prepared is there?” she asked, her voice a little too bright to be believable.
“Being prepared? No,” he said. “It’s the timing of your preparations that raises concern.”
He did the waiting thing again, pinned her with that gray gaze her until the silence practically screamed between them. Jolie barely resisted the urge to squirm, felt like she was a kid who’d been called into the principal’s office, and to make matters worse, she could tell by the set of his jaw that he was disappointed that she wasn’t going to confide in him. She hated that look, barely refrained from spilling her guts just to make it go away.
“Fine,” he finally relented. “Don’t tell me. I’m just trying to help you here.” He blew out a breath. “What about the life insurance? Why did you add another hundred grand when you had enough to cover the business and your mortgage?”
“You can never have too much insurance,” Jolie told him, quoting the agent who’d sold her the policy. “Furthermore, Chris owed debts which weren’t on paper,” she added darkly. Ones she firmly intended to take care of the minute she left here. Odd, tho
ugh, she thought. When she’d been pouring through the accounts and tallying expenses early this morning, she hadn’t factored in any of the life insurance. That would end up being a tidy little sum to add to her nest egg.
Jake quirked a dark brow. “By that are you referring to the life insurance money he swindled away from your mother?”
Surprised that he knew, Jolie glanced up. “Er...yeah, I am.” She frowned uncertainly. “How did you--“
“Sadie,” Jake interrupted, filling in the blank. “Don’t be pissed. She only confirmed what I’d heard around town. After you came in and filed the report, I, uh... I went down and had a talk with her. She told me about the insurance money.”
And everything else, most likely Jolie thought, but curiously couldn’t drum up any outrage that Sadie had confided in Jake, particularly after Chris had hit her. She’d never thanked him for that, Jolie thought suddenly. She bumbled her way through it. “I, uh-- I appreciated what you did. With the door and all,” she clarified.
A half-hearted smile caught the corner of his mouth and she felt that meager, woefully familiar grin in places that hadn’t known a touch of emotion in years. “Wasn’t as satisfying as using my fist,” he said with a small lift of a muscled shoulder, “but I improvised.” He paused, searching the side of her face for any lingering damage. “Bastard,” he muttered.
“Yes, he was,” she readily agreed. “Which is why I hope that you’ll understand and not pass judgment when I move on. He made me miserable. Wretched. Am I sorry that someone murdered him? Yes. Am I sorry that he’s out of my life? No. I know it seems harsh, but--“ She drew up short, tried to find the words to frame the way she felt. She shrugged helplessly. “It’s just the way it is.”
The Future Widows' Club Page 12
