Self-centered brute. "I'm glad you finally got your pond."
"Me too. But the mosquitoes are murder."
Natalie started at her neighbor's word choice—had the woman heard something? Was she fishing for a headline?
"Listen, dear, if you don't know what something is or how to take care of it, just holler. Your aunt often sought my advice on some of her more finicky varieties."
Not true. Her aunt had an innate way with plants. Natalie surveyed the twenty-by-twenty-foot plot, encouraged by the splotches of bright green against the brown of old growth that promised restoration. She gestured to the dozens of metal plaques staked in the rich, dark soil. "Thanks, Mrs. Ratchet, but Rose Marie labeled everything faithfully."
"You know, your aunt was considered a bit of a healer herself. Many a time she brought me feverfew tea for my headaches."
Natalie stood and wiped her gloved hands against her work jeans. "Sounds like Rose Marie all right."
"And there's plenty of rhubarb over there for pies and conserves."
"I'm not much of a pastry chef. Raymond doesn't—" She stopped, shaken by how quickly she could forget that he was gone. Blinking back scalding tears, she said, "I mean, I guess I'll have to go through my aunt's recipe books."
"Nothing against your dear aunt, God rest her soul, but my recipe for rhubarb pie is the best in these parts. I'll fetch it for you directly."
"I'd like that."
"Dr. Carmichael—"
"Please call me Natalie."
"Natalie, then. The man I saw leaving your house this morning—is he a relative?"
Start spreadin' the news. "Yes. My brother."
"I don't remember your aunt mentioning a nephew."
"They weren't as close as she and I. Mrs. Ratchet, I'd love to chat, but—"
"Is that your brother over there?"
She followed her neighbor's gaze to the creaky gate. Brian Butler lifted his hand in a wave, but his broad face wore a serious expression. Natalie closed her eyes. What now?
"He doesn't look like you," Mrs. Ratchet said, her voice dubious.
"He's not my brother," Natalie murmured.
"Who then?" Her neighbor craned her neck and grew three inches—tiptoeing, no doubt.
"Just a... patient. I'd better go see what he needs."
"He looks familiar..."
"Good-bye, Mrs. Ratchet." Natalie removed her gloves as she approached the man, wondering why he even bothered to don a tie if the knot was already hanging low by midmorning.
"Hello," he said. He'd gotten a haircut since she'd seen him last. A rooster tail had sprung up in the back.
"Did you come to take back the earrings?" she asked, her mood compromised.
He looked sheepish. "No." After a few seconds of shifting his feet, he gestured to a stone bench inside the gate. "Mind if I come in?"
"Yes, I do."
"Your neighbor is staring."
"An even better reason for you to stay out there."
She'd stumped him—the man was obviously used to having his way. He scratched his temple, then leaned both hands on the rickety gate. "The state police came to see me."
Her stomach lurched, but she refused to react. "In your line of work, I'm not surprised."
He pursed his mouth, then said, "The Kentucky State Police. A guy named Aldrich asked me a lot of questions about Raymond. And about you." His voice was low, his gaze intent.
Natalie pushed her hat back. If she didn't know better, she might think the man was concerned. "When was this?"
"They left my shop a few minutes ago."
Aldrich was here, in Smiley? She stumbled backward to drop onto the cold stone bench. The corroded clink of the gate sounded, and she sensed rather than saw that Butler had followed her. She pulled her hands down over her face, relieved at least to see that Mrs. Ratchet had disappeared.
Butler stood in front of her, hands on hips, his fingers jumping. The braided leather belt around his khaki pants struck her as oddly comforting—worn, but solid. It was one of those bizarre details that one notices to postpone realization of bad news. The police still considered her a suspect in Raymond's murder, were perhaps planning to arrest her at this very moment.
He cleared his throat. "The detective told me about the other... women."
"Oh, goody."
"I'm... sorry," he said in a low voice, as if apologizing for his entire gender. "Just so you know—we're not all jerks."
A newly emerged vindictive side of her wanted to extinguish that pitying I'll-be-your-friend-when-I'm-not-taking-your-jewelry light in his boyish eyes. "You're all jerks, you simply take turns."
"I'm worried about what will happen to you."
His contrite expression caught her off guard, but she covered with a wry smile. "I guess that means the detective told you he believes Raymond was murdered?"
He nodded.
"And that he thinks I killed him?"
Butler dropped onto the bench next to her, resting elbows on knees, steepling his fingers. "He insinuated as much."
She laughed with no humor, then tilted her head back. The air was crystal clear, the sky, a surreal blue with a high, luminous sun. The kind of weather one would expect in a town called Smiley. She didn't belong here. In fact, any minute now, a black cloud would single her out, fix itself over her straw hat, and discharge a torrent of rain. And if she were lucky, perhaps she would be struck by lightning.
"What kinds of things did he want to know?"
"How long I'd known Raymond, how much money he owed me, what I knew about you."
"And what do you know about me?"
He picked up an ornamental white quartz stone and studied it. "Besides where you work and where you live, not very much."
"So why are you here?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I feel responsible for setting things in motion last week."
She turned toward him. "Setting things in motion? You think I was so angry at Raymond for his dealings with you that I killed him?"
"I didn't say that."
"But is that what you told the police?"
"No." He dropped the stone and held up both hands as if to ward off a blow. "I told them you seemed like a nice lady whose husband had taken to the cleaners."
"Oh, well, thank you very much for handing them a gift-wrapped motive."
"I didn't—" He sighed. "I told them you didn't strike me as the kind of woman who could hurt anyone."
Last night in her dreams, she'd dismembered Raymond with a dull hacksaw. She gave the pawnbroker a tight smile. "But like you said, you don't know much about me."
"Maybe I'd like to."
Natalie stared, then guffawed. "You don't have to brownnose me, Mr. Butler. You'll get your money—unless, of course, they put me on death row."
"A distinct possibility, Dr. Carmichael."
She jerked her head around, her heart plunging at the sight of Detective Aldrich standing at her gate, just as she'd imagined, chest puffed and stance wide. She sprang to her feet so quickly, she lost her hat. "What do you want?"
He shook a green sheet of paper, a form of some kind with a sprawling signature across the bottom. "I have a warrant to search your residence, property, and vehicle." He turned and waved, summoning a team of a half-dozen plainclothes and uniformed officers who streamed through the gate.
The ground shook when Butler vaulted up. "Search for what?"
"For a drug called ouabain," the man said. "On the chance we got here before you could tip her off."
The big man clenched his fists. "What the hell are you saying?"
"That if I find out you're mixed up in this with the doc here, you'll go down with her."
"You're insane," Butler said.
"Welcome to my world," Natalie murmured, turning toward the back door. "I'm calling my lawyer."
"Use my cell phone," Aldrich said, extending the slim unit. "It would be best, Dr. Carmichael, if you remain outside and within sight."
She snatch
ed the phone, her mind whirling as she punched in Masterson's number. The uniformed officers went inside, the other two swept to opposite ends of her back yard. Did they now think she was a serial killer who buried her victims in the garden?
"By the way," Aldrich said. "We already searched the offices of your medical practice."
Her nurse Sara was probably frantic. "And did you find what you were looking for?" Her lawyer answered before Aldrich could, but from the set of the man's mouth, she presumed he hadn't found anything. Her heart pounded as she told Lowell what was happening. Cooperate, he said.
A bombshell hit her as she disconnected the call—Tony. He'd been a bit of a pothead when they were growing up; had he gotten deeper into drugs? Had he stashed anything in his room or elsewhere in the house that would jeopardize his parole, or make things look worse for her?
"Don't worry," Butler said close to her ear. "Once they realize they're barking up the wrong tree, they'll leave."
She pulled back. "Why are you still here?"
His eyebrows shot up. "I just thought you might need—"
"I don't." At one time his bruised expression would have elicited a response, but hadn't she decided just yesterday that she was through accommodating interference in her life, especially from male types?
"Aldrich," one of the men in her yard shouted. "Over here!"
Puzzled, she was one step behind Aldrich, vaguely aware of Butler on her heels, like a persistent puppy. One officer was snapping pictures of a climbing hedge next to the fence, while the other appeared to study the foliage. The name of the plant escaped her, if indeed she'd ever known, but a memory of orange flowers against the greenery stirred in the recesses of her mind. Pumpkin posy? She couldn't see the metal name plaque from where she stood.
"Why are you so interested in my garden?"
Aldrich smirked. "You must think we're morons, Dr. Carmichael."
Oh, but it was so much more than a thought. "Okay, Detective, I'll play along—why would I think you were morons?"
He crouched and turned the little sign in her direction. Her aunt's bold hand-lettering was unmistakable: Strophanthus. The facts unfolded in her head like a flowchart. Strophanthus was an attractive plant whose seeds just happened to be the source for ouabain. Extracting the drug would be no easy task, especially enough for a lethal dose. But a determined chemist could do it.
Or a determined doctor.
"Got some foxglove over there." One of the officers pointed.
Foxglove. Digitalis. Distant relative of ouabain.
Detective Aldrich pursed his mouth. "You're a regular corner drugstore, aren't you, Doc?"
She wanted to run, but the ground seemed to be crumbling, falling away from her feet. The sheer absurdity of the spiraling situation left her faint.
"Natalie!" Mrs. Ratchet appeared at the fence, waving an index card. "Here's the recipe you—" She stared at the crowd assembled. "What's going on here?"
If nothing else, the woman would have her headline for the week.
Chapter 15
From her burgundy leather club chair, Beatrix sipped a powerful gin and tonic, then used the remote control to ease up the volume of the television. The happy-looking spokeswoman, Julie, leaned closer to the camera. "If you've been looking for a rewarding pastime to bring out the creativity you know is hiding within, this deluxe cookware set is the perfect start to becoming a gourmet chef right in your own kitchen."
Her first home-cooked meal for Raymond after they were married had been a plate of spaghetti. No meatballs, no sauce, just spaghetti. In hindsight, she'd been horribly inept at fulfilling her wifely duties, but Raymond had handled her ignorance with good humor. They'd poured a quarter pound of butter and a shaker of salt over the spaghetti and he'd taught her how to twirl it properly, with a spoon as the base for a turning fork until it was thickly loaded with noodles. Raymond was ten years her junior, yet so much more worldly, so much more exciting than she. She had landed a part-time job in a delightful bookstore, and they'd made love at every opportunity so she could become pregnant without delay. Their shabby little apartment had been the center of her world. For a while.
She swallowed another icy mouthful of her drink, reveling in the progressive numbness the alcohol provided.
Then her mother, chronically fragile and possessing a wicked sense of timing, had suffered a nervous breakdown. Her father had cajoled her to return home to help, offering a suite of rooms in the house to her and Raymond as enticement. Gone were her "little job" and their quaint apartment and her fledgling cooking skills. Gradually they'd both been swept back into the elitist lifestyle from which she'd hoped to escape. But Raymond had loved the clout and acceptance her family name afforded him, and in the end, she was happiest when he was happy. So, at her family homestead they had remained.
"The cookware is sturdy stainless steel," Julie promised, "with a nonstick surface guaranteed for a lifetime."
A nonstick heart, now there was a marketing concept. Emotional Teflon. Because as the years passed and babies eluded and passion eroded and arguments multiplied, she'd never stopped loving him. Faking indifference had simply saved her sanity. As his interest in their marriage waned, the odometer on his company car ticked higher. Hopes they would become close again when her parents were gone were dashed when he left her father's wake early to "close a critical sale."
Had he been closing Natalie? The timing seemed right.
"The coils imbedded in the bottom of each pot ensure even heat distribution. The matching lids are vented—don't you just hate it when you can't find a lid to fit?"
Damn her. Damn him, but damn her, too, dammit. Attractive, intelligent, educated—didn't Natalie have enough going for her without capturing Raymond's heart? Marrying that idiot Ruby was obviously a poor attempt at gallantry after he got her with child, but Natalie... he must have loved Natalie.
A wife could overlook a foolish encounter here and there, but falling in love with someone else? Unforgivable.
Beatrix drank until the ice at the bottom of her glass slid down to clink against the porcelain veneers on her teeth. "Rachel!" If she were out of gin, she'd have to send her housekeeper out for more.
"On the line we have Joann from Oklahoma, who purchased a set of the deluxe stainless steel nonstick gourmet cookware two months ago. She's calling back to let us know how happy she is with her purchase. Joann, are you there?"
"Yes, Julie, I'm here."
"Joann, how do you like your deluxe stainless steel nonstick gourmet cookware?"
"Julie, these pots and pans have changed my life. I used to be so introverted and bored. Now I love to cook and entertain, and I have more friends than I can shake a stick at."
Beatrix squinted at the TV. What the hell did that mean, shake a stick at? If someone were fortunate enough to have a true friend, why would they shake a stick at them? And if Joann had so many friends, why the devil was she calling the host of the home shopping show to chat? Pathetic.
Admittedly, she herself had ordered a few things from the show, but strictly for the convenience of having a VitaMaster Juicer or a Primo Pasta Maker delivered right to the door. One of these days, when the cooking muse struck her, she would open the boxes. Meanwhile, the deluxe stainless steel nonstick gourmet cookware set would be a nice addition to her store. Beatrix picked up the phone, then hit the number seven button ("S" for shopping) to recall a programmed number. As the phone rang, her arms and hands tingled from a familiar rush of adrenaline. Referring to the item number listed on the bottom of the screen, she gave her order to the operator.
"Good choice, ma'am."
"Yes, well, I'm a gourmet cook," Beatrix said smoothly. If Raymond could tell a boatload of whoppers, she was entitled to one uplifting fib.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Carmichael, but the charge on the card you gave me was declined."
Beatrix frowned into the phone. "That's impossible."
"Probably a computer glitch," the woman assured her. "Do you have another form
of payment?"
"Of course," she snapped. But another of her charge cards was turned down before a third was accepted. After confirming the order, she banged down the phone. Raymond had taken care of their household finances outside of her trust fund. She supposed she'd have to get her accountant Fiske to pick up the slack since it appeared they were already behind on a payment or two. She sighed—another detail to take care of. Fiske and Gaylord were still pounding out the monetary ramifications of Raymond having an illegitimate child. She, on the other hand, didn't even want to think about it.
"Rachel!" She cursed and set her glass down on the leather-topped table at her elbow. Forget it, she'd get the damn gin herself.
When she stood, she grabbed the back of the chair until the den righted, then made her way across one of her mother's precious hand-tied Persian rugs. Hers now, she supposed. Funny how she still thought of the house and its contents as belonging to her parents. She bumped her hip against the cherry desk that had been sitting in the same spot since she was a child, inadvertently dragging off a stack of mail Rachel had set on the desk for her to read.
Dozens of envelopes tumbled down and fanned out across the rug. Sympathy cards. Notes of condolence. Obligatory well wishes. Delivered in soothing, pastel hues—woeful white, grieving green, pitiful pink, I'm-sorry ivory.
She scoffed. Politeness dictated that people send a card, just as politeness dictated that a handful of them come to the funeral home and murmur nice things. But not one of her co-country clubbers was a confidante with whom she could unburden herself of the weight that her husband had not kept himself solely unto her so long as they both had lived. They could never know, the vultures, else they would peck her to death. News of the bastard child would act as a rallying cry among the gossipers, and rumors of a murder would send them into a feeding frenzy.
She walked on top of the envelopes, grinding the heels of her pumps for spite. As she walked toward the kitchen, she heard the hum of a vacuum cleaner from the dining room—at least Rachel hadn't been ignoring her. In fact, she conceded with a sigh, her housekeeper had fielded phone calls and otherwise covered for her beautifully the past few days. Even better, the woman kept her distance, did her job, and rarely spoke unless spoken to.
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