"Who are you?" the reporter asked, shoving the microphone in his face.
"Dr. Carmichael's pest control service. You're trespassing, and you have two seconds to turn off that camera and leave."
"But—"
"One, two." He plucked the microphone out of the woman's hand and hurled it in the direction they'd come. Both the reporter and the cameraman stared openmouthed. "And I've got a rock for that lens if you're still here when I turn around." He walked toward the wheelbarrow, but he didn't have to bother selecting a chunk of concrete—the people had fled, presumably in search of the microphone.
He turned a smile toward Natalie. "Now, where were we?"
"Wipe your feet before you come in."
Chapter 18
"Nice place," Butler said as he emerged from the utility room, drying his face and arms on a green towel. "Lots of personality."
Natalie set two glasses of ice water in front of adjacent chairs at the white tile-topped kitchen table. When she noticed how much his appearance had improved with a quick wash-up, she realized how dreadful she must look—shapeless clothes, no makeup, hair yanked back into a ponytail. Not that she cared what he thought. Or that she thought he cared. Or that she even cared if he cared. "This was my aunt's house. She had quite a personality."
"Your aunt planted the garden?"
She nodded and settled into one of the cane-bottomed chairs that imbedded the backs of her thighs with an attractive waffle-y print. "My contribution to the garden over the last year has been utter neglect."
He sank into a chair gingerly, as if he were afraid it wouldn't support him. "Why would she have that plant Stro—Stropha—?"
"Strophanthus?" She sighed. "Rose Marie fancied herself a bit of an herb healer. She was always making sachets and poultices and teas. I sincerely doubt she could have extracted ouabain on her own—more likely she ran across the plant in her research and wanted it for the novelty. Perhaps she was planning to experiment on herself—she died of a heart attack. Anyway, the police confiscated her herb library and dehydrator."
"But if you haven't used them, then they won't find your fingerprints on them."
"Except I shuffled them around a half-dozen times to make room for other things."
He grunted. "How does your lawyer feel about your case?"
She clasped her hands in front of her on the table, hesitant to confide in him, but compelled to talk to someone. "He's hoping the charges will be dropped, but he's interviewing defense attorneys just in case."
He drained the glass in three swallows, then gave her a studied once-over, all the way down to her bare feet. "You look... little. And pale."
"More water?"
"I'll help myself."
Which saved her from exposing her waffle-imprinted thighs. Not that it mattered.
He refilled the glass from the tap, drained it, then filled it again and glanced all around the eclectic yellow room before reclaiming his seat. He moved as if he were comfortable in a kitchen, although granted, this large space suited his athletic frame. He was probably checking out the inside of the house in the event he decided to foreclose upon the title he held. Natalie frowned. "Why aren't you working today?"
"I don't work weekends so I can spend time with the girls, but they had a birthday party sleepover today." His brown eyes shone with affection.
"You must be very close to your nieces to see them every weekend."
"They live with me. Jeanie and Ally are my sister's kids. She and her husband were killed in a small-engine plane crash a couple of years ago."
"I'm very sorry," she murmured, struck by the reminder that she hadn't been singled out for tragedy.
A weary smile materialized. "Things are better now, although the girls are a handful."
Natalie tried to reconcile the image of the large man before her with fatherhood. Tea parties. Pink backpacks. Uncontrollable giggling. Her opinion of him shifted again to incorporate the paradox. "How selfless of you and your wife to bring the children into your home."
"I'm not married. It's just the three of us."
"Oh." Shifting, shifting. "I... can't imagine how you juggle it all."
"No kids of your own?"
She shook her head. "A good decision, as it turns out."
He shrugged. "Maybe. But kids have a healing way about them."
The personal turn of the conversation made her edgy. Tapping a twitchy finger against her glass, she tried to steer the topic back to neutral ground. "Mr. Butler, you wanted to discuss something?"
"Actually, I just wanted to see for myself if you were doing okay since the arrest. So—" He gestured toward her. "How are you feeling?"
She blinked. "Why do you care?"
He blinked. "Because you're in a bad spot, that's why."
"The understatement of the year, wouldn't you say?"
"So, what are you doing about it?"
She bristled. "What can I do?"
"Well, assuming you didn't kill your husband—"
"I didn't."
"—you're in the best position to find out who did. You knew Raymond as well as anyone."
"That's supposed to be funny, right?"
"And you certainly have more incentive to clear your name than the police does."
"That's true. Detective Aldrich seems quite content to see me hang."
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "How much do you know about the other, um—"
"Wives?" Was it her imagination, or was it getting easier to say? "Basic things—how they met Raymond, where they live. The younger one is pregnant, you know."
"I read it in the papers, but I wasn't sure if it was true."
She pressed her lips together, nodding. "And both women are primarily alone, I think, like I am." Which was probably why Raymond picked them, now that she thought about it. And perhaps why he discouraged her from having a relationship with Tony?
"You have your brother."
"Only recently. But then you know that, too, don't you?"
"Tony told you I offered him a job?"
She attempted to keep the disapproval out of her voice. "Yes." It didn't work.
"I thought you'd be glad for him to be working."
"I was hoping he'd find something—" She stopped and took a quick drink of water.
His eyebrows shot up. "Something more noble? You're quite the little snob, aren't you, Doc?"
She set her glass down hard. "My brother is a convicted thief—surely you understand the temptation of him working in a pawnshop, having contact with people who might have even stolen whatever they're pawning."
"Like Raymond?"
Her heart lurched. "Raymond? He pawned things?"
He reached into his back pocket and withdrew a thick wallet. When he flipped it open, a plastic sleeve unfolded, revealing picture after picture of the little girls. Receipts stuck out at all angles. He removed a piece of paper and crammed the rest of it back into place. "I gave this list to the police. Raymond told me he was always running across some super deal while he was on the road. Now I'm not so sure. Do you recognize anything?"
Natalie scanned the long list, her mind reeling. One Tiffany desk lamp, one antique silver tea service, two antique silver candelabra, one Rolex watch, three antique silver chafing dishes, two lead crystal decanters, one Umbro bronze statue, two sixteen-place settings of antique silverware, fifty-two gold coins...
The list of treasures stretched on and on. She held her breath, expecting any second to see something precious of hers or her aunt's that she hadn't yet missed. At the end, however, she exhaled. "No, I'm not familiar with any of these items. But I bet Beatrix would be. My attorney said she's from old money, and these pieces sound like heirlooms."
He winced. "Some I've already sold, but I'll hold whatever's left in case it's hers and she wants it back."
She rubbed her temples, feeling as if she were on a roller-coaster ride and each time she slowed to approach the terminal, the attendant shouted, "One more
time!" and threw the lever again. "I can't believe a man would steal from his own—" she swallowed, "—wife."
"A man wouldn't," he said, then downed the third glass of water.
Funny, but most of the newspaper accounts had managed to reduce Raymond's bigamy to the level of a fraternity prank, intimating that boys will be boys. In the ugly swirl of misplaced sympathies, Butler's comment was a gift. She contemplated the man in her kitchen and acknowledged that some women might consider him to be good-looking. But with an abundance of available and willing females, why would he bring his sledgehammer to her garden? Sara's assertion that a man bearing tools meant something intimate leapt into her mind, but she dismissed the thought with a private scoff. Surely the man realized that the last thing on her mind right now was...
Of course he did. He was, just as she assumed earlier, only keeping tabs on his investment.
"If you need anything at all," he said softly, "just call."
She shifted in her chair, interrupting the waffle-y pattern on the backs of her thighs. "Mr. Butler, I do appreciate you giving my brother a chance."
"I sense a 'but' coming on."
"But the police and the media could misinterpret your involvement—employing my brother, being at my home."
He shrugged. "But you and I know we're not in cahoots."
"But how do I know that you aren't involved somehow?" After all, he probably had all kinds of underground contacts and know-how. Broken limbs and severed horse heads came to mind.
One side of his mouth pulled back. "Until you get to know me better, I guess you'll have to trust me."
She studied his serious brown eyes, then slowly shook her head. "I'm fresh out of trust, Butler."
His gaze dropped, then he rose and carried his glass to the sink. "Pardon me for saying so, but it seems to me like you need all the friends you can get right now."
She stood—thighs be damned. "Since my reputation and my freedom are on the line, I'll choose my own friends, thank you."
He gave her a patient smile. "You really should be nicer to the man who's helping to restore your garden."
"I don't need your help."
"I know." Butler pushed himself off the counter he was leaning on and headed for the back door. "I'd better get back to that sidewalk. Thanks for the cold water, Doc."
With a well-defined arm, he casually pushed open the screen door, allowing it to flap back in place. She walked to the sink to empty her glass. Through the window she watched him retrieve the shovel and resume transferring broken concrete into a wheelbarrow, creating clouds of gray dust. Rose Marie had wanted to replace that sunken sidewalk for ages. Natalie worked her mouth from side to side. Despite her resentment of Butler's interference, some part of her responded to his optimism.
Of course, it was easy for a person to be optimistic when someone else's world was crashing down around them.
Her stomach clutched in a spasm, rumbling like thunder. She opened the refrigerator and peered inside, wincing at the smell of ripe salads. With one quick shove, she closed the door and waved the air clear of the odor, hoping Tony would return from the grocery soon.
She was suddenly starving.
Chapter 19
"I'm Julie Harpy, host of Home Shoppers, and on the line we have Beatrix from Tennessee. Hi, Beatrix!"
"Hello, Julie," she said, then sneaked a quick sip of her requisite gin and tonic.
"Which of our fine products did you choose today, Beatrix?"
"The stainless steel nonstick gourmet eight-quart pressure cooker with the extra lid and fry basket."
"Oh, good choice, Beatrix. Do you have any other pieces of our gourmet cookware?" Julie smiled at her over the television set—her mouth moving a few seconds behind her voice sounding over the phone. The operator had directed Beatrix to turn down the volume during the conversation so the delayed transmission wouldn't disorient her.
Julie looked like such a nice person. Beatrix felt a rush of affection for her—doing such a good thing by bringing products that people needed right into their homes. "Yes, I ordered the deluxe set of gourmet cookware a few days ago."
"Wonderful! You must entertain a great deal."
"Oh, yes." Beatrix's voice echoed in the big, empty den. "My house is always full of happy people."
A chiming melody sounded in her ear. Julie squealed, and five seconds later on the TV screen, she jumped up and down. "Beatrix, this is your lucky day! The music means you have the chance to win fifty bonus dollars to spend with Home Shoppers. If you know the answer to the question, you're a winner. Are you ready?"
Beatrix wet her lips and sat up straighter in her leather chair. "Yes."
"Okay, here we go. If you tune in at one P.M. every day, which of our daily specials would you see—the Afternooner, the Bonus Bonanza, or the Super Saver?"
She smiled. "The Afternooner."
"You're right, Beatrix! If you tune in at one P.M. every day, you'll be able to save even more money with our Afternooner special. Beatrix from Tennessee, your Home Shoppers account will be credited with fifty dollars! You might want to use your free money on the most beautiful blender coming up in the next half-hour."
Beatrix smiled, immensely buoyed. "Thank you, I will." She hung up and sighed with satisfaction. After discovering that Raymond had run up her multitude of credit cards on cash withdrawals and expensive gift items she'd never received, she did the only sensible thing—she applied for a Home Shoppers credit card over the phone and was rewarded for her longtime patronage with a twelve-thousand-dollar limit. She swallowed another mouthful of the cold, cold drink.
Three thousand down, nine to go.
She turned at the sound of timid footsteps. Rachel gripped her purse and offered a miniature smile from the doorway. "Mrs. Carmichael, I'm going home now."
"Yes, Rachel." She pointed to a large paper shopping bag. "Please take those items home to your husband and sons."
Her housekeeper reached into the bag and lifted a two-hundred-dollar dress shirt with the tags still dangling. "These are Mr. Carmichael's things."
"Some of his things, yes." Giving in to her fermenting anger over his careless disposal of her family antiques, she had torn into his closet, determined to destroy everything that reminded her of him. But she'd stopped short at the sight of his worn flannel robe, the ugly brown-and-yellow plaid one she'd given him their first Christmas, their only Christmas in the apartment. Despite thin elbows and permanently stained lapels, he'd kept it on a hook in his closet and had worn it every morning he was home. Desperate to prove something to herself, no matter how minute, she'd chosen a few newer, less personal items to discard. "Toss whatever your family can't use, Rachel."
"Th-thank you. Remember I won't be coming tomorrow, ma'am."
Beatrix frowned. "Remind me."
"My granddaughter Danielle is being christened."
"Oh." She and Rachel were the same age—fifty-two. "A family affair?"
"Yes, ma'am." Rachel's smile faded slightly. "You're welcome to come, too, Mrs. Carmichael. We're having the reception at the church, nothing fancy, just white cake and ice cream punch."
She vaguely remembered receiving the invitation. Remorse leaked through her buzz. She rose slowly to maintain her balance, then crossed the room and stopped in front of her devoted housekeeper. Beatrix smiled to hide her jealousy—after all, the woman deserved the love of a warm, extended family. She lifted her gold cross pendant from around her neck, kissed it, then pressed it into Rachel's hand. "My gift to your granddaughter."
Rachel's eyes widened at the sight of the elegant chain and the exquisitely carved cross. "No, Mrs. Carmichael, it's too much."
"Nonsense. It shall be Danielle's first fine piece of jewelry. I want her to have it."
Rachel's eyes were moist. "You are too kind, Mrs. Carmichael."
She cleared her throat lest the moment become too intense. "Have a wonderful day with your new granddaughter."
"Bless you, ma'am. Have a nice weekend."
/>
"I will."
But her smile slipped as soon as the heavy door closed behind Rachel. Saturday night, and everyone had somewhere to be and something to do and someone who cared about them... well, almost everyone.
Behind her, Julie's voice came from the television. "Hey, Beatrix from Tennessee, if you're still watching, that beautiful blender I promised you is coming up right after our break."
She tilted her head and smiled. There was always Julie.
On her way to and from the pantry to fetch more gin, she flipped on all the lights the conscientious Rachel had extinguished. From the street she knew the house probably looked like a luminaria, but she didn't care. She hated sleeping in the big house alone, and with Raymond gone for good, the rooms seemed exponentially more depressing. She grabbed her glass and carried the liquor and the tonic water with her to the master bedroom suite on the second floor, illuminating her trail as she went.
In the jewel-toned bedroom, she set the glass and bottles on the nightstand, kicked off her Vaneely pumps, and crawled onto the king-sized teakwood bed. After pounding the stiff decorator pillows into submission, she leaned back against the headboard and used one remote control to retrieve her friend Julie on the forty-inch flat-screen television, another to close the vertical blinds that led to the verandah, and another to adjust the ceiling fan to medium speed. She and Raymond would never again argue about the temperature in the room. Or about his snoring. Or about his bizarre nightmares that had kept both of them awake.
At least now she knew the root of his nightmares—the man had been preoccupied.
She made herself a fresh G&T, going heavy on the G and light on the T.
Now she was having the nightmares, and as usual, Raymond wasn't around when she needed him. Of course she knew the root of her own nightmares: Natalie.
The woman couldn't have killed Raymond. Beatrix had lied when she told the police that Natalie had been alone with Raymond in the ICU—she'd given Natalie's name to the nurse instead of her own when she'd gone into the ICU by herself.
Perhaps Natalie had had the ability to kill him, perhaps she'd even wanted to kill him, but she hadn't had the opportunity. Besides, the woman didn't have it in her, she was certain. And if she didn't have it in her to kill a man who so richly deserved their wrath, she'd never survive incarceration, maybe not even the trial. Not unless the woman was a hell of a lot stronger than she let on.
Our Husband Page 14
