“Are you divorced?” I asked. Any man who looked as good as Ken Rhodes had to have been married at some point in his forty-three years of life.
“No. Never divorced.”
The comment hung in the night air, begging for further explanation. I didn’t know how to approach the subject and thought it best to let it slide. We continued on to the diner, which was, thankfully, still open. We took seats in an empty booth. I was surprised by the number of patrons.
“Doesn’t anyone go home and go to bed anymore?” I asked.
“Eventually,” Ken told me. “But it’s the shank of the evening for most of these people. They’re done for the day and want to unwind and grab a bite before they crawl home.”
We gave the waitress our orders—a pizza burger for me, pancakes for Ken. I could have used a real drink. The diner did have a liquor license, but I opted for a Diet Coke instead. Ken ordered black coffee.
“You are going to ask, aren’t you?” he said when the waitress left to place our orders.
I swallowed. Suddenly I wasn’t so sure I wanted to know. “Okay. Are you still married … as in separated?”
“Actually …” He paused. “I’m a widower.”
The information caught me so off guard that it took a second to process. He had been married, but his spouse was dead. Sad. Unfortunately, it happens. “Was it an illness?” I asked. “Maybe a car accident?”
“My wife was murdered.”
Holy crap! I covered my mouth, hoping I hadn’t said that out loud. Rhodes had a dead wife, which meant he’d been married to a woman. He wasn’t gay after all. A part of me breathed a sigh of relief, while another part panicked. I thought I could probably deal with the OCD thing. The murdered wife was another matter.
The waitress brought over our drinks. Ken took a sip of his coffee and toyed with the mug. I could see he was contemplating his next words. Finally, he said, “It isn’t always the husband, you know.”
Okay, I thought. Maybe it isn’t always the husband. I signaled the waitress to come back to the table, and I ordered a gin and tonic.
Once, months before, Meredith Mancini told me she thought Ken Rhodes might have been a hit man before he came to the newspaper. I had laughed at the time, but now wondered just how close to being right she may have been. He was so good looking, so urbane. The cool drifted off Ken Rhodes like exhaust vapor. Some of that man-of-mystery persona had been shattered by his admission. Not only that, it scared me half to death.
The waitress returned with my drink and our food orders. I took a long, satisfying gulp of my drink before asking, “Was the murderer ever caught?”
He shook his head and poured drippy maple syrup over his stack of pancakes. He soon dug in, while I continued with my drink, leaving the scrumptious-smelling pizza burger untouched.
The reporter in me demanded an explanation, yet the look on Ken’s face told me the subject was closed. “How can you eat?” I asked. “I mean, really, you just made this big reveal, and you’re eating pancakes?”
“I haven’t had pancakes in months, Colleen. They get cold fast. I’d hate to see them go to waste.”
Perfectly logical, I thought, to tell a woman you know is falling hard for you that your wife was murdered, shock her into next Tuesday, and gobble up a stack of pancakes because they’re getting cold.
I picked up my burger and took a bite. I knew I would have to drive back home and needed the food to offset the booze I had just ordered. I barely tasted it. My brain was busy digesting the information Ken Rhodes had shared with me.
We returned to the condo a little after midnight. As we walked the two blocks, we chatted about the Harbor murders, the husbands, and various other people who could have possibly had a motive for killing the two women.
“Come up for a while,” Ken said. “We need to talk.”
My breath caught. Nothing good ever came after that statement. Was he going to tell me more about his wife? Or maybe this would be the conversation in which he let me down gently, insisting that we maintain no more than a friendly, professional relationship. “We’ve been talking,” I told him, edging.
“I mean really talk.”
Upstairs, I sat at the kitchen counter on a barstool, my nerves fluttering. Ken immediately went to the refrigerator to get a bottle of diet tonic water. I knew he wasn’t the diet anything type, and sort of hoped he had gotten it for me, in case I ever needed it—though I had only been to his condo once before.
I knew another drink would be too much for me, but Ken had been drinking coffee. I knew he could drive me home if need be. I took the glass he offered me. I figured with all the honesty about his murdered wife, I was going to need it.
“I don’t have limes,” he told me, taking the stool next to me. “Sorry. But the Tanqueray should make up for it.”
It did. I told myself he cared enough to pick up a bottle of my favorite gin. Okay, so I was making a big assumption and maybe grasping at straws, but I knew the gin wasn’t for him. Ken was a Scotch man.
He took the stool beside me and folded his hands on the counter. “I was married for eight years. We were happy for about six of them. Two years before Nadine died, we started drifting apart. There was no fighting, no animosity, nothing like that. We just had different interests, and we were going different ways.”
“Did you cheat on her?” I made myself ask.
“No. And as far as I know, she didn’t cheat on me. But our lives had changed dramatically after a few really good years. I guess what happened was she became a player in the society scene. Her looks were flawless, and she always said exactly the right thing. She started to make sure she was seen with all the right people. It wasn’t my kind of crowd. We would have divorced eventually.”
I took a few sips of the gin and tonic. My toes began to tingle, so I knew I was passing my limit. The conversation wasn’t as bad as I had anticipated. “I’m glad you’re being so frank with me,” I said. “What I want to know is, why are you telling me all of this private stuff?”
“Because after perfect Nadine, you’re like a breath of fresh, clean air! I knew it the first time I laid eyes on you. And after you opened your mouth, you removed all doubt. You never worry about offending people, you don’t care who catches you wearing shorts and T-shirts, and you say exactly what you mean.”
Okay, so maybe the drinks had gone to my head, but these all sounded like backhanded compliments to me. Had he meant I didn’t look so great, tended to say the wrong thing, and all my friends were from the gutter? But on the other hand, a breath of fresh air sounded promising.
“You sure know how to charm a gal,” I told him and took another sip.
“I hope so.”
He took the drink from my hand and put it aside. He kissed me gently on the lips and then kissed me again. Suddenly, we both slid off the stools and were on our feet. Our lips came together, and this kiss was long and lingering. Whether it was the two drinks or my nerves, I couldn’t say, but my head began to swim as Ken’s warm hand touched my bare skin. I thanked God it was still hot enough to wear shorts, so I had shaved my legs recently, out of necessity.
He broke the kiss slowly, then nuzzled down from my ear to the hollow of my neck. I slid my fingers up his arms, over each defined muscle.
Dear God, I’m a goner! I thought.
15
If Ken Rhodes did have OCD, I hadn’t caught so much as a hint of it during the night. I silently slipped out of the condo just before 7:00 a.m., not wanting to face what I thought would be a very awkward moment.
Down in the lobby, the night doorman was gone. A younger man, not nearly as energetic, had taken his place. I checked my face in the mirror behind the doorman’s small desk, trying to decide if I looked respectable, or, because I was dressed in the same clothes I had worn the night before, like a prostitute. I blushed. I looked like an embarrassingly happy woman, not a hooker. I hadn’t made a thin dime.
I drove straight home and walked into my quiet, empty house
. I put on a pot of coffee and searched in the cabinet for the bottle of ibuprofen I kept in the kitchen.
The kids came home after their sleepover at my parents’ house. My mother had already fed them cereal for breakfast. Bobby, still hungry, grabbed a granola bar from the cabinet. Sara gulped down a glass of orange juice.
“Do you believe Grandma still buys whole milk?” my daughter informed me. “I mean, really, whole milk? I can feel my arteries clogging right now!”
I promised to get something scrumptious and low-fat for dinner and sent both of my kids out to catch their school buses.
I thought there would be at least a few minutes to savor my coffee and relish the events of the previous night before my day began—until my mother walked through the sliding patio door.
“I called here four times this morning,” she complained. She still wore her pajamas, which were covered by a long chenille bathrobe. “Four times, Colleen! When I couldn’t get you, I came over and let myself in. Where were you?”
I tried my best to think of a clever lie, but it was way too early for me to be creative. The years melted away, and I was transported back in time to sixteen years old. I began to sympathize with my daughter and what she went through with me. “I was out …”
“All night?”
I looked at her and nodded. It was the best that I could do. There was no way I could discuss what happened at Ken’s with my mother. I wasn’t even ready to discuss it with myself just yet.
My mother pressed her lips together. “That’s fine, Colleen. You’ll see. You have a daughter. Wait a year or two, and let’s see what you really think about all of this.”
It was the old someday your daughter will be just like you—and then you’ll be sorry lecture. I had heard it before, and I would hear it again. But I wasn’t in the mood this morning. “The discussion is over, Ma.”
She left in a huff, but that was okay. It wasn’t the first time.
Alone in the house, I showered and dressed in fresh clothes, doing my best to not think about the night before. I was not ready to go over the details or what it might mean for the future; I just wanted to hold on to the warm fuzzy feeling. I’d deal with the possible mess I’d made of my life by sleeping with my boss later.
I came downstairs to map out a plan for my day at the kitchen table. I wanted to learn more about Hank Barber and his dead wife, Leona, but there was something more important that I had to do first. I picked up the phone and called Bevin Thompson instead.
“Can you come over?” I begged as soon as she answered. “I either made the best decision ever or completely ruined my life last night.”
A few minutes later, there was a knock on the front door. Bevin, wearing her paint-stained smock, came in with a carafe filled with hot coffee.
“I figured you’d need this. God knows your coffee isn’t much better than your mother’s.”
I ushered her into the kitchen and took out two mugs from the cabinet.
Bev pulled out a chair and sat down. “Exactly how could you have ruined your life last night?” she asked. “I mean, we got home kind of late, and you really didn’t have enough time to thoroughly flush your entire future down the toilet. Was it something with Ken Rhodes? Did you quit your job? Oh, no—did you get yourself fired?”
I poured out coffee from the carafe and sat down beside her. “I’m sure fired, but I still have a job.”
Bev looked confused for a split second, then her eyes went wide. “You didn’t!”
I took a sip of hot coffee and nodded. “Yeah. As a matter of fact, I did.”
“Good for you!”
I groaned.
“Seriously, Colleen! Finally! It’s about time! You did something you really wanted to do, and from the looks of that glowing complexion, you must have done it quite well. How was it?”
I tried to think of how to put the night into words. Unfortunately, regular words didn’t really do this justice. “It was amazing,” I finally said. “He’s … well, I don’t have much to compare it to, of course … but he’s so hot, and he made me feel like I was beautiful. It was never like that with Neil. Never. I don’t even know what to think …”
Bevin laughed. “You’re at a loss for words!” she said. “I never thought I’d see the day Colleen Caruso was tongue-tied. Turns out it only took one really good—”
“Oh, dear God.” I mumbled.
“Stop moping. You should feel great about it. Of course, if your mother finds out … ”
“She knows,” I said. “She tried calling here this morning and when I didn’t answer, she came over and let herself in. I’m going to have to deal with her—and that’s not the worst of it. I’m going to have to face Ken at the office. What am I going to say to him? Gee, fun night, huh? Let’s do it again sometime.”
“You left before he woke up?” Bev asked.
“I pulled the old sneak-out! I didn’t know what it was going to be like between us this morning, and I just panicked.”
Bev took a quick sip from her mug and pushed her coffee aside. “You poor thing. Here’s what you’re going to do: you’re going up to the office with your head held high like an adult and carry on like nothing out of the ordinary happened. If he asks why you just left without waking him and saying goodbye, you’ll be honest and say you had no idea how to handle such a delicate situation.”
I rolled my eyes. “That doesn’t even sound like me on a good day.”
“But it is you. You really don’t have any idea how to handle any of this because you’ve never experienced any of this before. For God’s sake, you married your high-school sweetheart! You’re not exactly a woman of the world.”
Bevin had a good point. And though her words weren’t exactly the way I would express those feelings, they fit perfectly.
“Okay. That’s good. Thanks. When I get to the office, I’ll transform myself into a normal, adult, mature-minded woman.” I sighed. “But first, I’m going to the airport. I have to do some more snooping about Hank Barber’s dead wife.”
“Are you just avoiding Ken Rhodes?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re delaying the inevitable.”
I just smiled. I put our cups in the sink and grabbed my purse. Bev picked up the carafe she had brought over and walked with me out the front door. Outside near my car, she threw her arms around me and gave me a huge, warm hug.
“I’m so proud of you,” she said before she dashed across the street to her own house.
I slipped inside the Sentra and shut the door, wishing I could feel proud, too.
* * *
The two men at Tranquil Harbor Airport intrigued me, with Hank Barber being the main focus of my curiosity.
He and his wife had quarreled, and she walked out on him. I believed it was unlikely Hank Barber had anything to do with Leona’s death, but I also had to consider the impending breakup of his marriage. Perhaps it had been too much for him to bear.
Though Hank didn’t seem like the killer type, deep down I believed anyone could be a killer under the right circumstances.
I drove out to the airport with the intention of questioning Drake Tuttle about Hank Barber. The two men seemed to get along, but I had my doubts about them being close friends. There was too big of an age difference there. I figured theirs was strictly an employer/employee relationship.
I found Drake working on his little Cessna two-seater. It wasn’t maintenance on the engine that occupied his time. He busied himself by cleaning the interior of the aircraft and vacuuming the seats and floor.
“Just like a car,” I said when he cut off the noise of the vacuum. I briefly thought, maybe he’s cleaning up evidence, then reminded myself of the theory I had been going on—with an accomplice, there would have been two people, plus Leona, inside the plane. His little Cessna 150 was too small to accommodate three people.
“With the money this baby cost me, I can’t let her go to pot,” Drake said, patting the plane gently. “You just missed Hank, if you’
re here to see him.”
I knew I had missed Hank Barber. I purposely pulled over on the shoulder out on the highway until I saw his blue Honda Pilot pull away from the terminal and waited until he drove far enough away not to see me before taking the access road that led to the terminal.
“That’s okay. I wanted to talk to you.”
“Me?” Drake asked. “Why me?”
“I’d just like to chat a little about Leona and Hank. Get your impressions of them.”
Drake wiped his hands on a rag and shook his head. “No can do. Hank’s my boss. I wouldn’t want to lose my job just because I talked to you.”
“No names, promise. He’ll never know. It’s only background anyway. I’m just curious about a few minor details. I’m not interviewing you for a story.”
Drake walked across the hangar, and I followed along, hoping he wasn’t thinking things over. His employment put him in an awkward position. He opened a door and cut through the office to the little snack bar, heading straight for the coffee machine.
“Want some?” he asked.
The coffee looked like it had been sitting there for hours, but I nodded anyway. It probably wouldn’t kill me, and I already had the delicious brew Bev brought over to the house earlier that morning. We took our cups outside to the front of the terminal, where a cool breeze had sprung up, and the air smelled fresh and fall-like.
“Beautiful day,” I commented, noting the rustling leaves in the trees far in the distance.
“Yeah. And winter’s coming. What did you want to ask me?”
I got down to business, but didn’t hunt in my purse for my notebook. I thought scribbling down every word he said would only make him nervous.
“Did Hank and Leona have any kids?”
Drake shook his head. “No. No kids, thank God. Could you imagine getting killed like that and leaving your kids behind?”
“You told me Leona walked out on Hank when I first interviewed you for the story I was writing on the flying lessons. Why did she leave him? What kind of problems were they having?”
Hide nor Hair (A Jersey Girl Cozy Mystery Book 2) Page 12
