“Gina?” He sounded wary.
“Hi, David.”
An awkward silence followed, as I wondered what had possessed me to do this. David probably wondered the same thing.
“I just called to wish you a happy birthday,” I said.
“Oh. Um...” He floundered for a moment. “Thank you.”
That was all I really wanted to say, so another awkward silence descended. I should have sent him a text, I guess, but I’d wanted to hear his voice.
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said. “In court.”
“Right.”
I was just about to hang up when he spoke again. “Gina?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sure.” Like I believed that.
“I don’t blame you for being upset,” David said. “I’ll talk to the judge, OK?”
Of course he would. We both would. And as for me being upset...
“I’m sorry,” I said, in spite of not being sorry at all. “I must be missing something. You’ll talk to the judge about what?”
“The prenuptial agreement,” David said, as if it was obvious.
“What prenuptial agreement?”
“The one you signed when we got married.”
OK. Yes, I had signed a prenuptial agreement eighteen years ago. But there was a good reason why I hadn’t thought about it since then. “That only applies if I’m the one leaving you,” I reminded him. “You’re the one who wanted the divorce.”
“You filed first,” David said.
Well, yes. I had. But...
There was a noise on David’s end of the line. To this day I’m not sure whether it was a smothered laugh or his version of “Oh, shit.” He didn’t say anything. And then he hung up. The sound of the receiver being replaced in the cradle was very soft in my ear.
* * *
“HE’S RIGHT,” DIANA said two minutes later.
“What do you mean, he’s right? He can’t be right!” My voice was shrill, approaching the register where only dogs would be able to hear me. I forced myself to take a breath and calm down. “The prenup only applies if I leave him!”
“And you did,” Diana said. “When you filed for divorce first.”
“But he’s the one who asked for the divorce!”
“Doesn’t matter,” Diana said. “You’re on record as the petitioner. David’s on record as the respondent. That means you left him.”
“But he’d already bought another place to live! He had a new girlfriend!”
“And if we can prove that,” Diana said, “and make a case for abandonment, the judge might agree to throw the prenup out. It’s worth a try.”
That didn’t sound encouraging. Nor did the word ‘abandonment’ sound very nice. I hadn’t really been abandoned, had I?
Had I?
“What does this mean?” I asked, my voice rather small, even in my own ears.
Diana hesitated. “Best case scenario, the judge sees your point and agrees you’re entitled to something. Worst case scenario, the judge decides the prenup stands.”
“But I’ll get nothing! I won’t even be able to pay you!” I’d be penniless, living on the street.
“Then we’d both better hope it won’t come to that,” Diana said.
There was a moment of silence. I said, “He did this to me on purpose, didn’t he? Told me about Jacquie, and told me he wanted a divorce, and then waited for me to file. Because he knew I’d want to file first. That it would make me feel less like I got dumped if I could file first.”
“That would be my guess,” Diana said.
“I’m gonna kill him.”
“If you do,” Diana said, “don’t tell me. If I don’t know, they can’t force me to tell them.”
Chapter 2
IT WAS A few hours later, and I was drawing a bath before bed, complete with lots of bubbles, candles, wine, and soft music, when the doorbell rang. I’d already stripped out of my clothes, and for a moment I contemplated just letting whoever was out there knock until they got tired. There wasn’t anyone I wanted to see.
But then I thought it might be Diana, come to tell me she had pulled off a miracle and that that eighteen-year-old prenup wouldn’t be a problem after all.
Or maybe it was David, knocking on the door for one last fling before we severed our connection tomorrow. Yesterday, I might have considered it. Tonight, I’d enjoy telling him no.
So I wrapped a robe around myself and padded barefoot down the central staircase to the front door and flung it open, glass of wine still in hand.
Only to find myself face to face with a stranger. A rather good-looking stranger. Tall, dark and handsome, and at least five years younger than me. Probably more.
I wrapped my arms around myself, wishing I’d taken the time to get redressed, or at least that I was still wearing makeup. Without it, I probably looked every bit of forty. “Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Kelly?”
He had melting, chocolate brown eyes in a face that must have made the twenty-somethings swoon. The hair was black, and just long enough to curl over his ears and over the collar of the suit jacket in the back. And then there was the voice: a clear tenor with just a hint of a foreign accent. Shades of Antonio Banderas.
I nodded. “I’m Regina Beaufort Kelly.”
“My name is Jamie Mendoza. I’m with the MNPD.”
“The...?”
“Metropolitan Nashville Police Department.” He pulled a wallet out of his pocket and flipped it open to show me a badge.
I knew that. I just wasn’t thinking straight. “Has something happened?”
“May we go inside?”
“Sure. Um...” I didn’t move from the open door. “I don’t mean to be difficult, but would you mind if I took a closer look at that?”
I gestured to the wallet.
“Of course.” He handed it to me. I opened it.
It had an ID card on one side and the badge on the other. I gave both as thorough of a look as I dared. The badge looked legitimate—it was bright and shiny and said Metro Nashville Police Department—and the ID did have his picture and his name as stated. He spelled Jamie the Hispanic way, with the I before the M—Jaime—but pronounced it the way I would.
“Thank you. Come on in.” I stepped back. He followed, and I closed the door behind him.
“Nice place.” He looked around the entrance hall, at the inlaid Brazilian hickory floors, the gleaming banister and balustrade, the Persian runner, and the artwork. David paid an interior designer a rather large sum of money to make the house look like a showplace when he bought it.
“Thanks.” I put the glass of wine on the console table. “What can I do for you, Mr. Mendoza?”
“Detective Mendoza.” He turned to me.
Of course. “Sorry, Detective. What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Kelly,” Jaime Mendoza said, “but I’m afraid I have some bad news. There’s been an accident. Your husband’s been killed.”
* * *
“WHAT HAPPENED?” I asked.
It was several minutes later. After he’d dropped his bomb on me, and I’d refused to believe him because David had been alive and well just a few hours ago, Detective Mendoza had suggested that we sit down. I’d been in no condition to object. He’d even brought the glass of wine along, and when we were seated at the kitchen table, he placed it in front of me before seating himself opposite. And answered my question, finally.
“He drove through a guardrail on I-440, across the median, and ended up heading into oncoming traffic.”
“God.” What a horrible way to go. “Was anyone else hurt?”
“He clipped a few cars on the way,” Mendoza said, “but avoided major impact. There were no other fatalities. A couple of people were transported to the hospital with minor injuries. Your husband was pronounced dead on the scene. It was quick.”
“That’s good.” I had tossed back what had been left of the wine as soon
as we sat down, and now I was twirling the empty glass between my fingers. I wanted a refill, but although the bottle was less than six feet away, on the counter behind me, it didn’t seem like an opportune time to go get one. “So there was no one else with him in the car?”
Mendoza shook his head. “Was he meeting someone after work?”
“He’s been seeing a young woman named Jacquie Demetros.”
Detective Mendoza blinked. “Seeing? As in dating?”
I nodded.
He hesitated. “But you are his wife, correct?”
“We’re separated. We were supposed to go before a judge tomorrow. To get the official verdict on dividing the assets.”
“I see,” Jaime Mendoza said. “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry. His driver’s license listed this as his address of record.”
“It’s OK,” I told him. “He moved out a couple of weeks ago, and we were getting things in order. I guess he forgot he had to change his address.”
Unless he’d had second thoughts, which wasn’t likely. Or unless he expected to get the house in the settlement, and he figured he’d be moving back in soon.
That was a whole lot more likely.
“Do you know where I can find Ms. Demetros?”
Mendoza had pulled a little notebook and a pencil stub out of his pocket, and was ready to write down any information I gave him. I hesitated. If I told him that I knew where she lived, he might realize that I’d been spying on my husband and his new love.
On the other hand, if I didn’t tell him and he found out on his own, that would look even worse.
“She has an apartment in midtown.” I gave him the address. It was only reasonable that I should want to know about the woman my husband left me for, right? Nobody could fault me for that. “David bought himself a penthouse in the Gulch. In the Apex building.”
“Did your husband plan to marry Ms. Demetros?” Mendoza wanted to know, pen poised over the pad.
“He hasn’t said.” Not to me. “We don’t... didn’t really talk much.” For a while now, I realized. Long before he moved out.
Although he probably did plan to marry her. If he didn’t, why would he need a divorce?
“When was the last time you spoke?”
“To David? This afternoon. It’s his birthday.” My eyes overflowed, but at least I’d taken all my makeup off preparatory to climbing into the tub, so nothing but tears were running down my face. I got up, walked over to the kitchen counter, tore a paper towel off the roll, and sat back down, clutching it.
“What did you talk about?” Mendoza asked.
“On the phone? I just called to wish him a happy birthday. We spoke for two minutes, tops.” I dabbed at my face, hiding behind the paper towel while I wondered whether I was required to tell him about the prenuptial agreement and how my husband—late husband—had tricked me into filing first.
“So you’d say the divorce was amicable?”
“As much as they ever are. I didn’t cause a fuss. When he divorced Sandra, she was a lot less conciliatory.”
“And Sandra is...?”
“His first wife. He left her eighteen years ago.”
I could see the light bulb take shape over his head. “You and Mr. Kelly were married... how long?”
I said we’d been married for eighteen years, and I’m sure Detective Mendoza drew his own conclusions. I felt like a big, scarlet A was forming on my forehead. And to add insult to injury, it all probably happened while Detective Mendoza was in diapers.
“What’s going to happen now?” I asked. “I mean, I’m still his wife, right, so I guess I’ll have to make arrangements for the funeral and everything...?”
“He was taken by ambulance to the hospital morgue. The medical examiner will have a look at him tomorrow. You are still his next of kin, so unless you want to pass off that responsibility to the estate or to his lawyer, you will be notified when the body is ready for release.”
I shook my head. “I’ll take care of it.” It seemed the least I could do, after eighteen years together. Tomorrow morning, I’d call the funeral parlor and make arrangements to have the body transferred when it was ready. “Have you notified David’s business partner yet? Farley Hollingsworth?”
“In the morning,” Detective Mendoza said.
“Should I call Sandra? So she can tell Krystal and Kenny?”
“Your husband had children from his first marriage?”
“They’re not children anymore. Krystal is twenty-nine, Kenny twenty-six. But yes, he does.” After a moment I added, “Did.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Jaime Mendoza said. “Anyone else who needs to know? Are Mr. Kelly’s parents still alive?”
Thankfully not. “My mother-in-law died last year. My father-in-law has been dead for a decade. There’s a brother somewhere in California. He and David didn’t have much to do with one another.”
Mendoza made like a Chihuahua, ears pricked. “Was there a reason for that?”
I hesitated, and then decided I might as well tell the truth. It was no reflection on me either way. “David was successful and well-to-do. Daniel wasn’t. David got tired of floating his brother.”
“His name is Daniel?”
I nodded. “Daniel Kelly. Last I heard, he lived in Santa Barbara or maybe Santa Cruz. Santa Something, anyway. Other than Daniel it’s just me, and Sandra and the kids.”
“Do you have an address or a phone number for the former Mrs. Kelly? If not, I’m sure I can dig it up.”
I was sure he could, too. But I said I thought we had at least Krystal and Kenny’s contact information in the Rolodex in David’s office, and I left Detective Mendoza at the kitchen table while I headed into the next room to look for the information. When I straightened from the desk and turned around, he was lounging in the doorway.
“This is your husband’s home office?”
I nodded, looking around at it, trying to see it through Mendoza’s eyes.
It was a good sized room, maybe fifteen feet to a side, with a heavy executive desk in the middle and a bookcase on either side of the window. They were filled with leather-bound volumes David had never read. Between them ran a long, low console that hid a number of filing cabinets.
“Your husband was an accountant,” Mendoza said, “correct?”
“Financial advisor,” I answered. “Farley was the accountant. David has... had a degree in business. He brought in the clients for Hollingsworth & Kelly. Farley took their money.”
Mendoza looked doubtful, and I added, “It’s something David used to say. Farley handled the investments while David handled the people.”
Mendoza nodded. “Would you mind giving me the name of your husband’s lawyer? And yours?”
I minded, sort of. But I didn’t think I could refuse. “My divorce attorney is Diana Morton. David’s is... was Anton Hess. Why don’t I just write down those numbers for you, too?”
I didn’t wait for him to respond, just added the names and numbers to the list I had already started.
“And your husband’s estate attorney? Was that also Mr. Hess?”
I told him it was. Anton Hess had handled David’s divorce from Sandra way back in the mists of time, too. And he had drawn up that prenuptial agreement I’d signed.
“Here.” I handed Mendoza the piece of paper, before he could ask for anyone else’s number.
“Thank you.” He glanced at it before tucking it away in the inside pocket of his jacket. Armani, unless I missed my guess. Fancy duds for a cop.
“I don’t have Sandra’s information,” I told him. “Sorry.”
“That’s fine. I can find it.”
He pushed off from the door jamb, and I trailed him out into the foyer and over to the door. “Krystal or Kenny will be able to tell you where to find their mother.”
He nodded and stepped through the front door out onto the porch. I looked past him to the driveway, where a nondescript gray sedan waited, indistinguishable from any of the other cars on t
he road. Good. At least the neighbors hadn’t seen a police car camped out outside my house.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Kelly. My condolences on your loss.” Mendoza headed down the steps without waiting for my response. He was almost to the car when I remembered something.
“Detective?”
He turned. “Mrs. Kelly?”
“Which hospital was my... was David’s body taken to?”
Mendoza didn’t speak immediately, and I added, lamely, “For the funeral parlor. So they can arrange transportation.”
“He’s at the St. Jerome Hospital morgue, Mrs. Kelly,” Mendoza said, not unkindly.
“Thank you.”
He nodded. I expected him to turn and walk to the car, but instead he lingered for a moment at the bottom of the steps. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized I was standing on my front porch with my front door wide open, my feet bare, and my body naked under a terrycloth robe, saying goodbye to a strange man.
The blush felt like it started at my feet and rose in a wave all the way to the roots of my hair. My cheeks burned, and Detective Mendoza’s lips twitched. Maybe he’d realized the same thing I’d realized, and thought it was funny.
If he did, he didn’t say anything about it. He just nodded politely. “Thanks again, Mrs. Kelly. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you, Detective.” I didn’t wait for him to drive away, just ducked back into the house as quickly as I could, hopefully before any of the neighbors noticed me standing there, looking for all the world like I was sending off a lover after a sweaty session between the sheets. That was the last thing I needed with the divorce.
And with David lying in the morgue.
God. The realization hit me anew, and I leaned forward until my forehead rested against the cool glass of the sidelight next to the door. David was dead. He had left me for another woman, he was planning to leave me destitute and homeless, and now he was dead.
Outside, Detective Mendoza’s sedan came to life, and I opened my eyes again to watch through the window as he pulled away from the bottom of the steps and rolled down the driveway with a crunch of gravel. At the bottom of the drive, he lingered for a moment, brake lights bright in the semi-dark, before turning right and merging with traffic headed back toward town. Off to tell Krystal and Kenny that their dad was gone, I guess. Or off to tell Jacquie that her sugar-daddy had died before she could drag him to the altar.
Ditching David Page 2
