by K. Marie
Preventing my wife from staying off her feet had proven quite the challenge. Camry was both headstrong and hardheaded, she was also a terrible liar.
“You were listening to grunge music in your office earlier, that’s always a sign something’s bothering you,” I pressed, not allowing her to deflect.
Camry gave me a scathing look. “Grunge music? I listen to no such thing, it’s just rock, plain and simple,” she said, scrunching her nose in affront.
“It sounded like devil-worshiping music, I was afraid to come in there,” I teased, trying to hold back my smile.
“Ah…I’ve finally found a way to keep you out,” she said with a smart-ass smirk.
“Not even bad taste in music can keep me away, dear wife, you’re stuck with me,” I told her. “Your snarkiness won’t distract me that easily either, I want to know what’s got you worried, and don’t lie to me.”
She held my gaze a moment, before lowering her eyes to stare at the carpeted floor beneath her feet. Camry breathed a sigh that suggested the weight of the world rested on her shoulders.
“I can’t seem to stop obsessing over John’s disappearance,” she said. “The worst part is—I’ve been lying to myself, trying to convince myself I didn’t feel somewhat relieved because of it. What kind of person does that make me?” she asked woefully, troubled eyes shifting back to mine.
“It makes you human,” I told her, giving her hand a comforting squeeze.
But, Camry only shook her head, a look of dismay on her face. “That doesn’t make it right, and it certainly doesn’t make me feel any better about it. I know it probably sounds insane, but I can’t shake the feeling of this somehow being my fault,” she said.
I could see in her eyes, she truly believed it.
“Nonsense, how could McKellan’s disappearance possibly be your fault? You’ve done nothing wrong, sweetheart,” I assured her.
That bastard McKellan didn’t deserve her worry, or her guilt. He preyed on her, sought to punish her for the sake of his own sick revenge. Camry losing even a second of sleep over worry for him was a total waste.
“I know it’s not rational, or even true for that matter, but the human conscience is a hell of a thing. I guess, I just have the misfortune of actually having one,” she said dejectedly.
“That’s a good thing, it means you’re neither a sociopath, nor a psychopath,” I told her. That couldn’t be said for a fifth of the world’s population.
“I can’t tell you how much of a relief that is,” Camry said dryly, attempting a wobbly smile.
“I also do bar mitzvahs and weddings,” I said with a wink.
She grinned, her beautiful face looking a little less sorrowful. “That’s why I love you, wise guy, you always know how to cheer a girl up,” she told me, leaning in closer to kiss me.
“Okay, I’m done being a killjoy for now, let’s go in there and rub elbows with some smarmy politicians,” Camry announced.
“You sure you’re up for this?” I asked, just as the Mercedes rounded the elaborate fountain, situated at the front of the Mayoral mansion. “We can leave whenever you want, okay?”
“I’m game, but these Saint Laurent’s will determine how long I’m up for it,” she said with a dazzling smile, lifting a foot and wiggling it in the air.
She seemed uncharacteristically excited about the new shoes; I didn’t share her enthusiasm. The heels looked impossibly high for an eight-month pregnant woman. But what do I know?
“Come on then, Cinderella, let’s get this over with,” I said as Joe came around to open the car door.
C A M R Y
I held onto Garland’s arm as he guided us into a vast room, fairly crowded with important looking people.
I really hadn’t been up to coming tonight, but duty called, and a good little wife soldiered on even when she didn’t necessarily want to. Though, now here, I’m glad I came; it looked like a welcomed distraction from my most recent preoccupation.
We’ve barely traveled twenty feet into the room, when a uniformed man bearing a tray full of champagne flutes, greeted us with an offering I had to refuse. I groaned audibly as he’s waved away. It was one of the more suckier aspects of being pregnant, no champagne.
“That sounded like major withdrawal,” Garland commented.
“I want that bottle of Cretin wine on standby immediately after I give birth,” I returned jokingly.
Just then, a short, bald man with almost cartoonish looking eyebrows, approached with all the enthusiasm of a Chihuahua.
“Vidov! Just the man I wanted to see. Saves me the trouble of trying to get in your appointment book,” he declared jovially, pumping Garland’s hand in an enthusiastic handshake.
“Edward Stiles, Miami’s most illustrious contractor,” Garland returned amiably.
“You’ve got yourself one hell of a guy here,” the man told me with a beaming smile, once introductions had been made.
As the two men commenced to talking business, I started to people-watch, and eventually became aware of two women staring our way. I made eye contact with one of them—her face somehow oddly familiar, before shifting my gaze elsewhere.
Why were they so rudely staring?
Perhaps because you look as though you’re about to pop any minute, and you’re wearing killer heels! I chided myself.
So, maybe I shouldn’t have worn these particular heels, but they were just begging to be worn. The highly sought-after shoe had been on back order almost six weeks; who knew I’d be eight months pregnant before receiving them? Besides that, I refused to wear flats or old-lady heels tonight; I’ve got a husband to keep.
But, sneaking another peek at the two women, I was suddenly glad vanity had trumped common sense. They were both gorgeous, and thin…and not pregnant. I sighed on the inside, forcing away the self-defeating thoughts.
“Submit your bid, Edward, and we’ll discuss specifics. I’ve got to get my pregnant wife off her feet,” Garland told the man, cutting their conversation short.
Thank God. My feet weren’t yet hurting, but I wanted to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.
“What do you say wife, you ready for a chair?” Garland asked playfully, once we’d moved on.
“I’ll remain your arm-candy a while longer, I think,” I replied with a jaunty wink.
Garland shook hands and made introductions, at least three more times before we finally made it to the other side of the room. Miami’s Mayor stood surrounded by a group of hangers-on.
“Mr. Mayor,” Garland greeted, shaking the man’s hand.
“Vidov, I’m glad you could make it. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your continued support,” the Mayor said graciously, platitude seeming genuine.
Then again, most politicians perfected that particular act to a science.
“Mrs. Vidov; congratulations my dear, when will the new edition arrive?” the mayor asked with a genial smile.
“Nearly seven weeks too long,” I told him. “And please, call me, Camry; Mrs. Vidov is my mother-in-law,” I added.
It always made me feel awkward when someone older than me addressed me formally.
The Mayor laughed affably; revealing perfect white teeth, the corners of his chocolate brown eyes crinkling attractively. Emilio Mederos, was the quintessential politician, he was both personable and engaging; making you feel like you had his undivided attention. He wasn’t nearly as smarmy as I’d expected.
As I stood enduring the ‘old boy’ club, I observed Garland as he interacted with the powerful men around him. And, call me biased in my observations, but strangely enough, my husband managed to look as if he was the man in charge. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him in action, but this time it was with a group of politicians, men who were used to wielding position and power. That my husband looked like the king to their court, was striking. It’s amazing how much ass-kissing money could buy you.
“I need to find something non-alcoholic to drink,” I told Garland, throa
t feeling as if I’d just swallowed dry toast.
“I bet it killed you to say that,” he quipped, sliding a sidelong look my way as we navigated through the crowd.
“I’m starting to suspect you’re low-key calling me an alkie,” I accused.
“Not at all, love, I only enjoy teasing you,” he said with a playful smile.
Finally making our way over to the well-stocked bar, we both grabbed bottled water, declining the offered glasses.
“As I live and breathe, if it isn’t my long, lost friend,” a feminine voice said behind us, just as I took my first sip.
I pivoted to see one of the women who’d been staring earlier; standing about five feet away. The brunette had her eyes trained on Garland.
“Sophie, it’s been a while,” he told her.
“I’ll say, I hear you’ve gotten married and everything since I last saw you. I daresay you’ve been quite the busy man,” she said with a brilliant smile, taking in my rounded stomach.
“Camry, this is Sophie LeFevre; a longtime friend. Sophie, my wife, Camry,” Garland said in introduction.
The woman gave me her full attention. “You must surely be a super-hero, because the woman who managed to drag this man down the aisle, can’t be a mere mortal,” she said with a megawatt smile, holding her hand out to me.
“I assure you I’m mortal, and it was actually I who was dragged down the aisle,” I chose to clarify.
Why did people automatically assume Garland to be the Martyr for our cause?
Sophie laughed; her face awash in amusement, as if the mere thought absurd.
“I can’t believe you’re having a baby!” she gushed, shifting her eyes back to Garland.
Sophie really is a beautiful woman, tall, thin, and regal. Her black hair shone like a newly waxed car, and her gray eyes had the feline look of a cat. As I stood speculating over her and Garland’s friendship—it finally hit me, the reason the woman looked so damn familiar.
The woman in red!
Sophie was the woman who’d been photographed at a gala with Garland some months ago; the same woman who’d been draped all over him. The woman he admitted to having slept with. I remembered the argument that ensued over that photo, as well as my hurt.
“When is the baby due?” Sophie asked, cutting into my reverie.
“Seven weeks,” I told her, no longer feeling all that friendly.
She stared at my belly wide-eyed. “You don’t look that far along, that’s amazing!” she declared, as if there was a set guideline as to how an eight-month pregnant woman should look.
I looked down at my protruding belly, then at my rapidly aching feet. The black off-the-shoulder dress was somewhat fitted, but well cut; I guess it did a decent job of minimizing my girth. But not that good. The woman was obviously clueless.
“You’re too kind,” I said with a forced smile. I couldn’t tell if she was being genuine or not.
“I assume my wedding invitation got lost in the mail,” Sophie said to Garland, her smile decidedly not genuine. It never reached her eyes. “I only hope the baby shower invitation doesn’t suffer the same fate,” she added, turning her smile back on me.
I stared at her nonplussed. What baby shower?
“You are having one, aren’t you?” she asked, eyebrows raised in question. Well, sort of raised, no doubt the Botox was preventing full range of movement.
“Uh, no actually,” I told her. All of my family and friends were back in Michigan, who would I invite?
“But you must! I know a talented party planner who’s a miracle worker, she would do it on short notice as a favor to me,” Sophie said, hopeful gaze ping-ponging between Garland and me.
“Uh, I—thank you for the offer, Sophie, but no thanks,” I told her, having been caught off-guard by her effusive offer.
“However, we intend to celebrate after the baby is born, my family will be coming into town. Perhaps I’ll take you up on your offer then,” I added like a sucker, at her crestfallen expression.
Dammit! I wanted to kick myself for being so damn gullible.
I wanted to dislike the woman on principle, regardless of how petty it is. Who wanted to be friendly with someone who’d seen their husband’s ecstasy face?
“Absolutely! You’ll love Brianne, she’s done work for Garland before,” Sophie said enthusiastically.
My husband nodded his confirmation.
“Thank you, Sophie. You just might have talked me into a party I hadn’t intended on having,” I said in irony.
“Forward the information, and I’ll ensure she receives it,” Garland told her, signaling our imminent departure.
Right on time too, my Saint Laurent’s had just sent up their final distress signal.
“I hope that doesn’t mean I’m now obligated to invite her,” I said in consternation, as we walked away.
Fifty-Two
C A M R Y
“Why, has there been news of John?” I asked anxiously of Garland.
He’d just come into the kitchen to inform me, we’d be meeting our attorney at the police station.
“I’m not sure, I only know that I was contacted by Detective Hernandez; the detective who was here before, stating he had a few more questions for you,” he replied.
“Why do we need an attorney, are you concerned?” I asked worriedly.
“No, I’m not concerned. Michael will be there for your protection, to look out for your interest, it’s the smart thing to do. I won’t be allowed to sit in during questioning, but you’re entitled to have your attorney present, and so he will be,” he answered.
When we arrived at the white two-story building located on Biscayne Boulevard, I met attorney Michael P. Fieger, Esq., face to face for the first time. The attorney, a tall, trim, and distinguished looking man, was younger than I’d thought. I estimated him to be in his late forties.
“Mrs. Vidov, a pleasure to finally meet you,” the lawyer said, assessing me with a shrewd appraisal.
Probably measuring my worthiness as Garland’s wife. I thought cynically.
I meant that in the literal sense too, since he’d drawn-up the financial contract that Garland had insisted on prior to our marriage.
I met the attorney’s gaze head-on, giving him a charming smile and a firm handshake. We exchanged pleasantries about the baby and my move from Michigan, and judging by the twinkle in his eyes, I felt confident I’d somehow measured up.
Michael assured me I had nothing to worry about; and briefed me on what types of questions I might expect to be asked. He also assured both me and Garland, he’d be right there to intervene if any line of questioning made me uncomfortable.
We took the elevator up to the second floor, where a uniformed officer showed us into a small room. He informed us the detective would be right in, before disappearing.
As Garland said, he was asked to remain outside.
I took a look around the room, noting it didn’t look anything like the interrogation rooms that I’d seen on television. It looked more like a conference room in an office building.
“Is this an interrogation room?” I asked curiously.
“No, they wouldn’t dare place you in an interrogation room, someone would be sure to lose their job,” Michael answered.
Okay.
“Do you know why they have more questions, why they’ve asked me down here to be interrogated?” I asked next, hoping the attorney knew more than Garland had.
“As I understand it, they have a few follow-up questions. But you aren’t being interrogated, only questioned,” he told me.
No shit. “What’s the difference?” I questioned.
The attorney smiled. “I see your point, Camry. But, the difference is that the police view you as someone who might have relevant information to a possible crime, not as a suspect,” he explained.
“But, aren’t I?” I countered.
“You’re a sharp lady,” Michael affirmed with a knowing look. “However, you’re technically a person of
interest, not a suspect. Because you were the last known person closest to John McKellan, and because of the nature of your relationship, you’re automatically considered a person of interest. But, because no actual crime has yet to be established, you’re not a suspect,” Michael clarified.
At that moment, the door opened, and Detective Hernandez entered, followed by Broggs. The two detectives exchanged a look when they saw Michael present.
Yeah, like bringing an attorney along was an obvious admission of guilt. I thought glumly.
“We only have a few questions in light of some new information, Mrs. Vidov, this isn’t formal questioning,” said Hernandez, in what I assumed to be in reference of me bringing along my attorney.
“Mrs. Vidov agreed to be cooperative in your investigation, that doesn’t mean she has to be brainless, as well. This is your second time questioning her about a man with whom she is no longer in contact, of course she should include her attorney,” Michael said in response.
Ignoring the comment, Detective Hernandez addressed me. “Mrs. Vidov, you stated you had not seen, nor spoken with Mr. McKellan for several months prior to his disappearance. Were you aware that he’d been in Florida almost two weeks prior to him being reported missing?” he asked.
I stared back at him blankly.
Huh?
“What do you mean he was in Florida? Why?” I questioned, looking from one detective to the other. They had to be mistaken.
“So, you had no idea he was here?” asked Detective Broggs, voice skeptical.
“Mrs. Vidov already stated she had not seen, nor communicated with, Mr. McKellan for several months prior to his disappearance. Surely, that is a redundant question,” Michael interjected.
“Mr. Fieger, please let Mrs. Vidov speak for herself,” Hernandez said, looking mildly annoyed.
“No, I had no idea John came to Florida, was he actually here in Miami?” I asked, still shocked.
