Wed To A Stranger?

by Jule McBride

  “Can you describe him?” the lawyer asked.

  Julia shook her head. “It was way too dark.”

  “Where did the man go?”

  “I don’t know. Just around to the back of the house.”

  The lawyer zeroed in on Fritzi again. “This seems to establish that your husband was there. Once again, where is he now?”

  “I don’t know!” Fritzi repeated. She was a new mother with a six-month-old baby. Did these people really think she could commit murder?

  “Are all these people lying about having seen a man at your place?” Frank asked.

  Before Fritzi could respond, the sheriff added, “You told me your husband was in town. Now a man’s been murdered with a knife that belongs to you. You swear he’s not your husband, but your husband’s ID was next to his body, your husband is missing, and you don’t have an alibi.”

  Fritzi wanted to scream. She was positive these proceedings were out of order. She’d protest, but she was desperate to clear her name. “We’ve been over this a thousand times!”

  “And we still want to know if you killed your husband,” Frank Laramy shot back.

  “I didn’t!”

  What terrified Fritzi most was how logical this was all starting to sound. She had opportunity, and the murder weapon belonged to her. Rawboned fear made her heart hammer. Glancing at Malcolm, she knew she’d better quit thinking about David for once—and start defending herself. Before she even organized her thoughts, words were tumbling from her lips about meeting David after her parents were murdered.

  Someone gasped. “Her parents were murdered, too?”

  “I was hardly responsible for the deaths of my own parents!” Fritzi exclaimed hotly. Getting her emotions under control, she began to explain how David’s whirlwind courtship had led to marriage and to the morning he’d mysteriously vanished.

  “For weeks after our wedding I looked for him,” Fritzi murmured, winding down. “But the office where he said he worked was vacant, the courthouse had no record of our marriage license, and I couldn’t find the minister who married us.

  “I know how this sounds. But you’ve got to believe me. David was so kind, so protective. Before I came here, I placed ads in the Washington Post, telling him where I was going. And when supplies started disappearing in the house, I thought maybe David was…camping somewhere nearby.”

  Her cheeks burned, reddening with shame. “The night before last, when he—he came home, I was so glad to see him that I kissed him in the dark, without…” Fritzi simply couldn’t go on.

  “Without seeing his face?” Frank prodded.

  “I tried to turn on a light,” Fritzi said defensively, her pulse accelerating as she remembered that blackgloved hand smashing the lamp. What if it belonged to the man they’d found in the river? Or what if the murderer himself had been watching her, taking her supplies, breaking into her house, her room. Get hold of yourself, for Malcolm’s sake. Somehow Fritzi found her voice. “He—he broke my lamp.”

  The lawyer raised his eyebrows. “You weren’t scared?”

  “Of course I was!” Fritzi knew any sane person would take issue with the choices she’d made. But how could she explain that love—crazy, undeniable love—had destroyed her usually sound judgment? “I didn’t actually see his face—” she rushed on “—but I knew he was David. I knew it!” She’d recognized that touch and those lips, the same way she’d know her own image in a mirror.

  “You’re making all this up!” Sheriff Tanook exploded.

  “I’m not!” Fritzi sighed. “Look, a year ago, I was hardly looking for any excitement. My parents had been killed. I was alone. I just wanted the regular things—a husband, a baby, a decent job. I thought David was a safe prospect He worked for a government office that…”

  “That?”

  Turned out never existed. “David had said it processed grant proposals, mostly for a water-testing facility.” Fritzi shrugged. “David didn’t talk much about his work. He was a simple man. A Washington bureaucrat. Reliable, regular in his habits—”

  “I don’t want your entire life history,” Frank interjected coldly. “What I want—and what this whole town demands—is your alibi!”

  “I don’t have one!” Fritzi’s sudden shriek silenced the room.

  Then, from far in the back, someone said, “Oh, yes, you do.”

  All heads swiveled toward the voice.

  Frank wrenched around. “Who are you?”

  “Her husband.”

  As a man rose from the last row of seats and lifted a gray parka with a white fur ruff from the back of a chair, Fritzi’s nerves jangled—cutting off her air supply, making her fight for breath. He was no more her husband than the dead man in the morgue. She’d never seen this man before.

  Then suddenly, without warning, a wave of dizziness washed over her. Swaying, Fritzi fought the feeling. She opened her eyes as wide as she could. But everything still went black.

  FRITZI HAD NO IDEA how much time had passed. But the first voice she heard was Abby’s. It seemed far away. Closer, something acrid stung her nostrils, maybe smelling salts. Opening her eyes in slits, she discovered everything was upside down, then realized she was doubled over in her chair.

  “She’s coming to,” Abby said. “Step back and give her some air.”

  Then Fritzi remembered the man. And shut her eyes again. This was crazy. Far crazier than David’s disappearance. Was it all a dream, or had she gone mad? Maybe she was locked in a psychiatric ward and wearing a straitjacket and none of it was real—not David, or Hannah, or coming to Alaska….

  “Get up,” Abby whispered insistently. “You’ve got to face these people.”

  For Malcolm’s sake, Fritzi thought, glancing at the stroller beside her and fighting to sit up. She took a deep breath, focusing her eyes. And then she looked toward the back of the room.

  The man hadn’t moved.

  He merely stared at her from a distance—maybe waiting to see what she’d do next, how she’d react. Had she heard correctly? Had this stranger really claimed to be her husband? Staring at him, she tried to tell herself there were a thousand gray parkas in Alaska and that this man’s just happened to look like David’s.

  But she was sure it was a lie. This stranger had been in her bedroom. He’d kissed her—she could still feel the crushing urgency of that mouth, smell the pine-smoke scent of his skin, and sense the heat that had made her body melt like butter.

  But she’d definitely never seen him before. She would have remembered, too—because he wasn’t the kind of man a woman forgot. He was too handsome for his own good, and his attitude showed in his fearless stance and the burning penetration of a gaze she could feel even at this distance. But had he really broken into her house and kissed her? Assaulted, Fritzi corrected herself, feeling furious.

  And yet one look assured her he was hardly the type to stoop to breaking down doors. He probably got ample invitations from women. Besides, I know the man in my room was David. At least that’s what she tried to tell herself.

  “Fritzi was with me the night of the murder,” the man said.

  And then he started walking toward her—the parka draped over his shoulder, a large manila envelope tucked under his arm. He seemed to walk in slow motion, as if allowing her ample time to scrutinize him.

  Which she did. He was dark—a swarthy dream man with disheveled raven hair that nearly brushed his shoulders and licked against a jawline with five o’clock stubble. The skin of his face was weathered, his jutting cheekbones casting shadows beneath his eyes. The expressive lips were inviting enough, but he sure didn’t look as if he smiled much.

  He moved confidently—as if the room’s silence didn’t bother him, as if he was used to physical work. His broad, powerful shoulders rolled in synch with his slender hips, the muscles of his thighs working visibly. He was dressed like a laborer-in a red-andblack flannel shirt, threadbare jeans and mudspattered boots.

  The closer he came, the more Fri
tzi’s heart pounded. Each time she told herself the reaction wasn’t due to attraction, telltale guilt assured her it was. She was married to David, if only by the laws of her heart. But this man, with his wild hair and sensual movements, was the outward embodiment of the passion she’d always sensed lurking beneath David’s more humble exterior. This man looked the way David had always felt in the dark.

  Her heart started when he leaned lithely in midstep, effortlessly snagging a recently vacated chair from the front row. No longer looking at her, he kept walking, dropped the chair on the side of her opposite Malcolm, then seated himself, resting the envelope on his lap.

  Frank blew out a long sigh. “Would you mind explaining yourself, sir?”

  The man’s dark eyes scanned the crowd. “Were any of you actually told that Fritzi was married to a man named David Frayne?”

  Fritzi steeled herself against the stranger’s voice, but it rumbled through her with the power of thunder. Deep and resonant, tantalizing and dangerous, it was the kind of voice a woman wanted whispering in her ear, murmuring against her bare skin. But who was this man—and what did he want?

  The sheriff shrugged. “Hannah told me that Fritzi’s husband’s name was David—”

  “David,” the stranger interjected. “So Hannah never actually told you his last name was Frayne?”

  “No,” the sheriff returned. “But I’d heard Fritzi’s husband was in town. So when I found cards on a stranger’s body that identified him as David Frayne, I naturally assumed—”

  “Assumed?” The man’s mildly caustic voice was clearly calculated to point out that no lawman should make assumptions. “Well, she’s not married to David Frayne.” The stranger’s bored-sounding sigh seemed to indicate that these proceedings were ridiculous. “She’s married to me. And my name’s Nathan Lafarge.”

  With that, he stood abruptly, strode to Frank Laramy and Joe Tanook, then tossed the manila envelope onto the metal table. Fritzi watched in shock as Frank unclasped the envelope and withdrew the contents. Something about the name Lafarge was teasing her consciousness. But what? Suddenly she recalled that her parents had once known a couple by that name, though there was no connection. This man looked like a laborer.

  As Nathan Lafarge returned to his chair, he fixed Fritzi with a dreamy, dark-eyed stare. For a second, the shine in those dark eyes made them seem silver; the color made her think of finely cut crystal, snow in sunlight and coats of white wolves shining in darkness. Fine black lines in his irises created spidery webs that instantly ensnared her, and he had a way of tilting his head, as if he were looking from afar. As if he’d seen it all—and then some.

  But no matter how hard she looked, Fritzi could find no clue as to who he was, or why he was claiming to be her husband.

  This is by far the most bizarre thing that’s happened yet, she thought. As some of her shock began to lift, Fritzi stared warily at Nathan Lafarge-thinking of the thefts from the house and the murdered man in the river. Somehow, all these strange events had to be connected.

  The sheriff and Frank were conferring, going over the contents of the envelope. “This guy’s definitely her husband,” Frank finally announced.

  “No, he’s not!” Fritzi protested. “Let me see whatever’s in that envelope!”

  Nathan Lafarge wasn’t the least bit ruffled by her outburst. He didn’t so much as look at her. “As you know,” he said, “Fritzi wanted to take Hannah’s job. Since you all wanted to hire a married woman, Hannah made up someone whom she called David. You see, I deserted Fritzi some time ago.”

  Frank Laramy began stuffing items back into the envelope. “By trade, you’re.”

  “A sort of jack-of-all-trades.”

  “Sort of?” Sheriff Tanook asked.

  Nathan nodded. “Did a brief stint in a cannery last winter, some carpentry. I had a charter pilot bring me up from Juneau, since the weather’s so bad. I was really afraid we’d crash before I could patch things up with my wife.”

  The sheer integrity in his voice set Fritzi’s teeth on edge. He was just the kind of man people might believe, too—a worker. She was so citified and stilted, by comparison. His voice was still lulling her when he smiled the most sincere, charming smile she’d ever seen. It chilled her more than a scowl ever could have.

  “I don’t know who this man is,” Fritzi said quickly, her voice matching his for conviction. “Or what he wants. But I swear I’ve never seen him.”

  Frank and the sheriff exchanged a glance. “With the phones down and radio communications such a mess,” the sheriff said, “there’s no way to verify anything with an outside source.”

  Frank raised the envelope. “This is all the proof we need.”

  Before Fritzi could demand to see the envelope again, Nathan Lafarge shrugged helplessly. “As I said, I think she and Hannah concocted a story about her being married to a Washington bureaucrat, so she could more easily get this job. Then, when a stranger bearing the name David was found dead here, you naturally assumed it was her husband.”

  “And Fritzi was caught in so many of her own lies, she just didn’t know what to do,” Frank concluded. The lawyer nodded as if things were starting to make perfect sense.

  Not that they were. This was absolutely insane. In fact, staring out into the driving snow again, Fritzi felt as if she were the only sane person left on this windswept earth. David Frayne was her husband. He was a real man. Together, they’d laughed and loved and made a baby.

  It took her three tries, but she cleared her throat. “You are not my husband.”

  “Please, honey,” Nathan said.

  “That baby’s the spitting image of him,” said someone in the crowd.

  Fritzi’s mouth went dry. It was true that both Nathan Lafarge and Malcolm had jet hair and eyes. Her frantic gaze shot to Frank.

  “Fritzi—” Frank raised the manila envelope, his eyes vaguely sympathetic. “I’ve got your marriage certificate, Malcolm’s birth certificate, pictures of you and Nathan from your wedding and vacations….”

  Pictures. Fritzi’s eyes riveted on the envelope, and she flashed back to that morning David left her, to the moment when she’d realized their pictures were no longer on the dresser. Her heart broke all over again. “Hand me that envelope!”

  Frank brought it to her. When Fritzi withdrew the contents, her fingers started trembling. On top was Malcolm’s birth certificate, which should have been in a drawer at Hannah’s. Even worse, her baby’s name was printed as Malcolm Lafarge, and Nathan Lafarge was listed as his father.

  Now she could feel those dark eyes watching her. Who was he? What did he want from her? And how had he managed this charade? When his hand settled supportively under her elbow, she flinched. But not before she felt a traitorous shiver that had more to do with longing than fear.

  She became conscious of how quiet the room had become, of how the man beside her was trapping her. Somehow she managed to rifle through the photographs. She recognized them all: Her holding Malcolm for the first time in the hospital delivery room, she and Malcolm leaving the hospital, waiting on the sidewalk in the wheelchair. But now Nathan Lafarge was in all the pictures—next to her hospital bed, wheeling her chair….

  Angry tears suddenly stung her eyes. Because the pictures that had once sat on her bedroom dresser in the town house were here, too. They’d been missing for a year. And they should have been of her and David—hugging in front of the White House, kissing on the Capitol steps, eating ice cream in the snow in Georgetown.

  But David was gone. Vanished. Erased from the photographs. And now this man Fritzi had never seen before was airbrushed in his place…this stranger who called himself Nathan Lafarge. In the final picture, she was grinning up at Nathan, her arms flung around his neck, her lips poised for a kiss.

  Because her loving smile was meant for her missing husband, this was the most painful travesty of all. Her hands still trembling, Fritzi replaced the photos in the envelope. Fear unfolded inside her like the petals of so
me poison flower. She didn’t dare look at the man beside her. “I don’t understand this. Like I said, I’ve never seen this man. And these are doctored photos.”

  At her continued denial, everyone looked concerned—Frank, Sheriff Tanook. Even Abby. Stoically Fritzi handed the envelope to Frank Laramy, who then took it to the jurors.

  “Fritz…” Nathan began.

  She whirled in her chair, her nerves stretched taut. “Don’t you dare call me that! Only friends call me that.”

  He held up his hands. “I’ll never be like this guy you and Hannah made up—some Washington bureaucrat in a three-piece suit with some slick haircut and a desk job—but I want to get back on track with you.”

  Fritzi stared at the crowd. People stared back. They looked a little disappointed by the outcome, but still more curious than uncomfortable. No one looked bored. They all really thought this man was her husband.

  Nathan’s voice was soft, seductive. “Please don’t deny me…”

  Fritzi gasped. “Deny you? For all I know you’re a murderer. A man was found dead here yesterday and you’re the only stranger in town.”

  He eyed her. “You know me better than that. I may have made a lousy husband. But I’m no murderer.”

  Fritzi’s eyes widened. “Please,” she implored the crowd. “Please believe me. I don’t know this man!”

  The expressions of the jurors were turning grim—as if she were crazy or worthy of pity. Not that she blamed them. They were now passing the convincing photographs among themselves. With a start, she turned and stared at Nathan Lafarge’s left hand. Sure enough, the simple gold band he wore exactly matched her own.

  Who is he? she wondered again in pure panic. He obviously knew things about her—enough to get Malcolm’s birth certificate and her photos, enough to match their rings.

  She glanced away, but not before she noticed his hands again—wide, large, weathered hands with work-roughened fingers. A tremor washed over her, like that left by the trace of fingers in the darkness. By contrast, David’s fingers had been so smooth.