Sweet Anger

by Sandra Brown

  “People are always shocked when a couple doesn’t fit the norm. There was over thirty years difference in your ages,” Pinkie said.

  “Thirty-two years to be exact. But I never felt there was any difference.”

  “Thomas didn’t look as old as he was. He certainly didn’t live like most men in their sixties.”

  Kari smiled at Bonnie. “No, he didn’t.” She turned her gaze out the window. It surprised her to see so much activity. To most people this was an ordinary workday. Life was going on.

  “I was distraught over my father’s death,” she said reflectively. “I remember coming to work at WBTV with the sole intention of making that my life’s focus. My work was going to be all I lived for. Then I met Thomas. He gave purpose to my life again. I don’t know what I would have done without him. We were so happy.” She sighed. “Is fate jealous of one’s happiness?”

  “Sometimes I think it is,” Bonnie said kindly. “You’re beautiful and talented. Thomas Wynne was rich and successful. The two of you seemed to have it all.”

  “We did,” Kari confirmed as Pinkie turned his car into the lane that led up to the house she had shared with Thomas. “Please come in.”

  “You sure?” Pinkie asked. “We don’t want to impose, but I could sure as hell stand a shot of something.”

  “I have a stock of your brand,” Kari said, taking her key from her purse and opening the front door. She had dismissed the servants for the day so they could attend the funeral. And she had known she would only want her closest friends around her afterward. “No one else would drink that rotgut you prefer.”

  Pinkie appreciated her attempt at humor. He knew she was cracking up on the inside. She had worshipped Thomas Wynne. Privately he hadn’t thought their relationship was healthy, but he had never dared mention that to Kari. She couldn’t abide even a breath of criticism of her husband.

  The house was chilly and gloomy, though a weak sun filtered beams of light through the mullioned windows. Kari turned up the thermostat as she entered the living room. She took off her coat and hat, then seemed uncertain what to do with them. They were finally dropped into a chair.

  “I’ll get the drinks,” Pinkie said, crossing to the antique liquor cabinet. “What’ll you have, Bonnie?”

  “Whiskey straight.”

  “That’s my girl. Kari?”

  “Oh … whatever.” Dispiritedly she sank into the sofa.

  Bonnie Strand leaned forward from her place in an easy chair and took Kari’s hand. Pinkie had unflatteringly referred to her as a prune. She wasn’t. Not by a long shot. The strands of silver in her brown hair seemed to soften her features. Her face had character lines, but they added to rather than detracted from her expressive face.

  She was a well-maintained woman in her mid-forties whose husband had left her after giving her three sons in rapid succession. From the time she was twenty-two, it had been an uphill climb to support herself and the three boys. But they were now grown, through college, and successfully on their own. Bonnie was tough yet kind-hearted. In Kari’s opinion, Bonnie Strand was one of the most “together” people she knew.

  “I’ll have to move from this house,” Kari said, breaking the silence.

  “Why?” Bonnie asked, incredulous.

  “Sweetheart,” Pinkie said as he came toward them with two drinks in his hands, “you’re in no shape to be making that kind of decision.”

  “If I don’t concentrate, if I don’t think, I’m afraid my brain will atrophy and I’ll slip into a coma.” She had to force herself to go on living, couldn’t they see that? No, she didn’t feel like doing anything, certainly not planning the future, though she knew she must. “I’ll move out as soon as I’m packed.”

  “You sure you want to do that?” Pinkie asked, shoving one of the glasses into her hand.

  It was brandy. She sipped it and savored the burning elixir as it slid down her throat into her stomach. “Yes. This was Thomas’s first family’s house. You met his son and daughter today. They could have been hostile when we married. But they weren’t. Their mother made this house a home. They grew up here. I never wanted them to feel like I was taking over something that didn’t belong to me.” She sipped again at her drink. “After we married and Thomas altered his will, I insisted that the house be left to his children.”

  “That was no small concession,” Pinkie said. “This place is worth a million at least.”

  The estate, located in Cherry Hills, Denver’s most exclusive area, sprawled over three acres. A blue-spruce-lined drive led up to the fifteen-room Tudor mansion that boasted a swimming pool in back, as well as a lighted tennis court and stables. The grounds were as spectacular as the house.

  She spread her arms wide and painted on a bright smile as she asked, “What would a working girl like me do with all this?” She could tell by their dubious expressions that they weren’t convinced. “I won’t be entertaining in the fashion Thomas and I did. Most of our friends were actually his friends. I’ll take my things and find a smaller place.” She looked down into the brandy snifter and watched as the afternoon sunlight made its rich color jewellike. “Besides, I don’t want to live here anymore without …”

  It became necessary to dam a fresh fountain of tears. When she was more composed, she said to Pinkie, “I still have a job, don’t I?”

  “Don’t worry about your job,” he grumbled and ambled toward the bar to refill his empty glass.

  “With Sally Jenkins just itching to get a spot on the air? No, sir. I’ll be back to work in a week.”

  “For crying out loud, Kari,” Pinkie shouted, whirling around. “Take your time. Let it heal. Forget Little Miss Hot Pants. She’s filling in for you now, but when you come back, your spot on the news is waiting for you. You know that. And that Jenkins broad can itch all she wants to.”

  “What does that mean?” Bonnie asked suddenly, sitting up straighter.

  “What does what mean?”

  “The way you said ‘itch.’ ”

  “It means that there’s a much more descriptive word for what she’s willing to do to land a spot on the air.”

  “Like sleeping with someone who could put her there?” Bonnie’s teeth were clamped tight.

  “Yeah.”

  “She offered?”

  Pinkie’s meaty fists found his waist and dug in as he faced her. “Yeah. What about it?”

  “What did you do?” Bonnie asked coolly.

  “Nothing. I don’t use the sack as a bartering table.”

  Bonnie smiled benignly and settled back into her chair. “What do you use it for?”

  Growling like an angry dog, Pinkie faced Kari again. “You know your job is secure.”

  She had been fascinated by the exchange between her two friends. “Thank you, Pinkie. But I don’t want to take extended time off. As soon as I’ve moved from here, I’ll need to go back to work. Thomas would want me to,” she finished quietly and bowed her head. Her finger trailed in endless circles around the rim of the snifter.

  Bonnie gave Pinkie a speaking glance and stood up. “We’ll leave you now, Kari, if you’re sure there’s nothing we can do before we go.”

  Kari stood with them. “No. Thank you both. I’ll be fine. I need to be alone for a while.”

  At the front door, Pinkie took her hand. “Come back to work when you want to, when you feel like it; but don’t be too hard on yourself.”

  “I’m not, really.”

  “That’s what I like about you. You’ve got guts.”

  She smiled at him fondly. Even in his dark suit and tie, he looked rumpled and unkempt. “Don’t forget my great legs,” she teased softly.

  He kissed her cheek and then awkwardly turned away. Bonnie was waiting on the opposite side of the car for him to open her door. “Well, what are you standing there for?” he said to her. “Get in.”

  He squeezed behind the wheel and Bonnie had no choice but to open her own door. She slammed it solidly and they drove away.

>   A smile curved Kari’s lips, but it quickly faded as she turned away from the door and faced the emptiness of the large house, the emptiness of her life.

  The beer was cold and biting. He didn’t even taste it. He set the can aside.

  He was slouched in his favorite chair. It conformed to his spine as if designed to do so. Over the tent formed by his fingers, he stared at the television screen. The sound was turned down. He already knew the audio portion of the news story by heart. But the video continued to intrigue him.

  He must have been the only one in the city who hadn’t attended that funeral. The First Presbyterian Church had been packed to capacity. The overflowing crowd had been forced to stand in the churchyard. Most everyone in attendance had joined the motorcade to the cemetery. This funeral had warranted news coverage on all of Denver’s television stations.

  Thomas Wynne, real estate entrepreneur and community servant, had been highly respected. He had had a bright and beautiful local television star for a wife. Together they had represented the American dream. But the dream had come to an end.

  And he, Hunter McKee, must turn it into a nightmare for Wynne’s widow.

  His telephone rang. He shoved his tortoiseshell eyeglasses to the top of his head and leaned forward to stop the videotape machine attached to his television. “McKee,” he said crisply into the receiver.

  “Hunter, Silas Barnes.”

  “Hello, Silas. How has the first week of retirement been?”

  “Restless.”

  Hunter laughed. “I’m sure that after being Denver County’s D.A. for more than twenty years, so much peace and quiet will take some getting used to.”

  “I guess you’ve heard the news.” The former D.A. cut through all the social chitchat and got right to the point of his call.

  Hunter could appreciate that kind of verbal economy. “Yes,” he answered soberly. “Helluva mess you’ve bequeathed me, Silas.”

  “I’m sorry. It was already a helluva mess. But now …”

  “Yeah, now.” Hunter’s heavy sigh matched the exasperation of his gesture as he dragged his hand through his dark mahogany-colored hair. “Mr. Wynne’s sins will be visited on his widow.”

  “She seems like a nice young woman.”

  “A rather tepid description, Silas.”

  The older man laughed. “I’m only trying to make you feel better. Do you think she’ll cooperate with you?”

  “I dread asking.”

  “You might not have the luxury of asking. You might have to force her to.”

  “I dread that even more.”

  “Well, if there’s anything I can do to help …”

  “You could have put off retirement for a few months until this was cleared up.”

  “My illness wouldn’t let me. I hate having to dump this in your lap. I’m afraid you’ll be up to your neck in boiling water soon, Hunter.”

  “Ah, well, that goes with the territory, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so. And if I hadn’t thought you could handle that hot water, I wouldn’t have suggested you for the temporary appointment. In all likelihood, you’ll be officially voted in when they call the special election.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence. Thanks for calling.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Hunter hung up the phone and took another sip of beer. As the videotape in his machine was rewinding, he replaced his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He started the tape again, though he must have watched it a dozen times since it had first run on the six o’clock news earlier.

  There she was stepping out of the limousine. Dressed in a black sheath, she looked so damn fragile, like a breakable doll. Her posture and carriage were sure and straight, even if her head was averted from the crowd and the cameras.

  It must be tough, being a celebrity in the midst of tragedy. Because she was who she was, all eyes were on her, witnessing her grief. She was granted no privacy. Yet she looked the epitome of dignity and poise.

  There. The camera focused on a close-up of her face. That face! Even though it was screened by a sheer black veil draping from her hat, it was a lovely face. Surely not the face of the enemy. The angles and planes were clearly defined, which was part of what made her so photogenic, he supposed. She wasn’t wearing much makeup, which made her no less lovely, only softer, younger, and more vulnerable looking.

  He cursed softly. Why didn’t she look tough as a boot and hard as nails? Why didn’t she look sly and worldly, jaded and cunning, shrewd and deceitful? It would make his job easier if she didn’t look so damned tragically heroic, like the put-upon princess in a Grimm brothers’ tale.

  Her jaw was delicate but firm. Her nose was slender. Her mouth was soft and … hell! … suffice it to say, feminine. There was no direct shot of her eyes, which was just as well. He was probably better off not knowing about her eyes. Their shape, their color. Her blond hair was sleeked into a tight knot on the nape of her neck.

  Now came the part that never failed to touch him. No matter how many times he masochistically watched the tape, the moment she took up that white rose, his heart began to beat unnecessarily fast and a suspicious clot formed in his throat. Through the veil, her lips kissed the perfect white bud. Then she laid it lovingly on the casket. Her fingers, as small and dainty as a child’s, seemed reluctant to leave it.

  Hunter, impatient with himself, reached for the proper button and snapped off the machine. Enough. He wasn’t going to watch it anymore. He tossed his eyeglasses onto the end table and stalked into the kitchen for another beer.

  He was borrowing trouble. It might never be necessary to interrogate Mrs. Thomas Wynne. But if it was, he’d do it and he’d go into the meeting with both barrels loaded. He had a job to do and nothing, nothing, would keep him from doing it to the best of his ability.

  He was the acting district attorney for the city and county of Denver until the special election could be called to replace Silas Barnes. And if he wanted the post permanently, he had to shine, because the taxpayers would be watching him closely. Besides his own ambitions, justice must always be served. Right? Right.

  Then why did he feel like hell? Why didn’t he have his usual legal crusader’s zeal to get to the truth? Where was his eagerness to rip the lives of the Wynnes wide open? Why instead did he feel a fierce instinct to protect Kari Stewart Wynne from everyone? Even from himself?

  He went to the window of his condo and pulled up the blind. He gazed in the far distance at Denver’s nighttime skyline. What was she doing on this night? Was she still wearing the black dress? Was her hair still confined in that tight bun? Was someone with her tonight? Comforting her, holding her?

  He swallowed an emotion as bitter as the beer. It was jealousy.

  The hardest day back would be the first one. She knew that, so she might just as well grit her teeth, walk through the doors, and get it over with. If only they wouldn’t look at her with pity. If only they wouldn’t look at her at all. She could stand the video and studio cameras. They were impersonal eyes. It was the human ones she couldn’t stand peering at her.

  Bonnie waved at her from her booth and made a thumbs-up sign. Kari walked down the hallways toward the back of the building, letting their familiarity seep into her comfortingly.

  Nothing in the newsroom ever changed, except the personnel. The row of monitors mounted close to the ceiling for easy viewing from any point in the room offered a variety of television programming. The three major national networks were tuned in. Currently one showed an emoting couple in a clench on a soap opera, one an emoting winner on a game show, and one an emoting housewife lamenting the stains in her wash. Two private local stations were airing thirty-year-old situation comedies. The stock market report was charted on another monitor, and still another was tuned in to their own studio, empty and dark now.

  A pall of cigarette smoke hovered over the rows of desks. There was a paper-ball-tossing contest going on in one corner. The contenders were idle videotape editors w
ho were waiting for the reporters to return from the field with tapes and scripts. The producer of the six o’clock news was foully cursing his ex-wife to a sympathetic listener. Telephones were ringing incessantly. News service wires were clicking off stories from around the world.

  Pinkie’s desk was vacant. Kari wended her way to her own cubicle, which was separated from the others by seven-foot-tall portable walls. Her desk was covered with mail. She sorted through it, pulling what she knew was business correspondence and setting aside what she recognized as sympathy cards. An hour later, her right hand was cramped from writing acknowledgments to expressions of sympathy.

  She had just finished when Pinkie’s instantly recognizable vocabulary of obscenities punctuated the air. Kari stood and sighted him just as he rounded the corner at his desk, shouting deprecations at Sally Jenkins and the studio director, who were trailing in his wake. His cigarette had burned down to a nub, but he didn’t notice as he rolled it from one side of his lips to the other. His hair was standing on end, fairly bristling.

  Then he spotted Kari. His tirade ceased and he shoved the others away in his effort to reach her. “Thank God you’re back. I’m losing my mind.” He hugged her, then turned to the others. “Well, doesn’t anybody have anything to do?” he roared. “Get to work.”

  Sally Jenkins laid a consoling hand on Kari’s arm as she undulated past. “Back so soon?”

  The red-haired girl was wide-eyed with innocence, which Kari knew to be feigned. A cinematographer had told her more lurid details than she had wanted to hear about his date with Sally. Her bosom had the comical dimensions of a Barbie doll. It had been given her, not by God, but by one of the city’s plastic surgeons. And she had gotten her money’s worth out of that bosom. Kari disliked her because she used her physical assets to get ahead in an industry that demanded hard work.

  “You’re so brave,” Sally cooed before she glided out of the newsroom.

  “Bubble Brain,” Pinkie muttered as he lit a fresh cigarette. “She screwed up her intro cue last night, and the director went to the tape too early. She couldn’t cover and—”