THE FUTURE WIDOW'S CLUB

by Rhonda Nelson

  Sophia fingered the delicate bloom of a purple pansy, then closed her eyes as she caught the faint tune of Edward's whistle. For the first time in her life, she was lonely.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Aching and angry for her friend, Sadie aimed her picture phone at the side of Jolie's bruised face and blinked back tears. Chris Marshall needed his ass kicked, she thought. Needed the absolute hell beat out of him for doing this to her. "Okay," Sadie said, releasing an unsteady breath. "I got that side. Now let me get a close-up of your lip."

  Jolie nodded, tilted her mouth up, but didn't speak.

  Sadie leaned in and took the shot, made sure that all the photos were good, then with a few keystrokes sent them to her e-mail account. She'd pull them up and print them so that Jolie could have them on hand when she went to the Sheriff's department to file the official complaint.

  Seeing Jolie's car in the parking lot this morning when she'd arrived at The Spa hadn't come as a surprise. Her friend had used the apartment above her shop as a sanctuary many times over the past two years, but seemed to be doing so with more frequency over the past few months.

  But seeing the dark bruise—the imprint of Chris's hand and knuckles—against the side of her face had come as a complete shock. Up until this point, Chris had never hit her, had preferred to inflict psychological—emotional—wounds. The fact that things had escalated to this point convinced Sadie more than ever that Jolie needed to be content with the portion of money she'd managed to secure so far, give that to her mother, and bail.

  She wouldn't, of course, Sadie knew, equally irritated and exasperated. She was too damned stubborn, too determined that every person who'd invested in Chris because of her home-town credibility got their money back. Noble? Yes. But not at this price. It was too much. Too high.

  Sadie swallowed, looked out over the square and watched the early morning sun glint off the arching waters of the town fountain. A group of older men had already plopped down on one of the benches—the very ones some of her patrons referred to as the Limp Dick Benches, she thought with a small smile—and had pulled out their pocket knives and wood. They'd whittle for hours, spit tobacco, trade secrets and tell lies.

  "Look, Jo," Sadie said softly, "I know you're tired of hearing me say this, but give your Mom what you've got, and let it go. Leave." She gestured toward Jolie's battered face, her gaze softening. "This— This can only get worse. He was too drunk to do more this time, but what's to say that he won't be the next time? And there will be a next time," she told her. "You know it."

  Jolie had moved to a mirror, was presently rummaging through her make-up bag, and refused to look up. Her long auburn hair with its distinctive natural flash of blond at the widow's peak was tucked behind her ears and her normally envious complexion was leached of color save the bruising on her cheek. Despite the fact that she was too curvy to be called thin, Jolie looked smaller, more fragile than Sadie had ever seen her, and there was a sadness that lurked in her pale green eyes that seemed to be slowly snuffing out her usual spark.

  Once again the desire to hurt Chris Marshall surged through her, made her hands involuntarily curl into fists. Sadie could honestly say that the need to inflict pain upon another person had never been something she'd ever experienced, an idea she'd ever entertained. But were she a man, there was absolutely no question in her mind what she would do—she'd hurt him. And the scary part was she'd enjoy it.

  Jolie winced as she carefully applied concealer to her cheek. "Filing the report will make him think twice before doing it again any time soon," she said, seemingly unconcerned. "And it'll buy me the time that I need."

  "That's what you said about the possession charge," Sadie argued, trying the keep the impatience out of her voice. God, it was so frustrating. She felt so powerless, so helpless. Watching this man do this to her friend… It was tearing Sadie up inside. Needing to do something proactive, she moved to the computer, logged on, pulled up the pictures and sent them to the printer.

  "And it worked," Jolie replied. She slid a powder pad over her cheek, grimaced. "At least for a while, anyway."

  "That's right," Sadie persisted. She leaned forward in her chair. "But only for a while, and not as long as you'd hoped. The fact that he's let his penchant for partying blind him to the bottom line ought to tell you something. He doesn't care anymore." She shook her head, gestured wearily. "There's no bargaining power left, Jo. No leverage. For the love of God, just leave," she implored.

  Jolie turned, leaning against the faux marble counter. She chewed the unbroken side of her lip and, to Sadie's surprise, her eyes misted. "Sadie, I know you mean well, and I know that you don't understand why I have to do this. I know you're frustrated with me—" She looked away, shrugging helplessly "—but I have to do this. I have to." She took a bolstering breath, sliding a knuckle beneath her eye. "Dad coughed up the money for that life insurance policy for over thirty years. Thirty years," she repeated significantly, her voice cracking with pain and determination. "When times were hard, he'd let the phone bill slide, or there might not be any meat on the table, but that life insurance was always paid. It was his guarantee for us, but mostly for her. It's my fault that Mom believed in Chris. My fault that he's here, that this is happening." She dragged in a bolstering breath, blinked back her moment of weakness. "I—I have to fix it. It's that simple."

  No, it was that complicated, Sadie thought. Her shoulders sagged. Like her own family, Jolie had grown up one rung just above poverty level. Moon Valley had one main industry—steel—and the majority of its residents depended on it for their incomes. It was hard, particularly dangerous work, and every man who clocked in at Valley Steel was aware of the risks. Employees knew to invest in good work boots and sufficient insurance.

  Sadie's father had worked alongside Jolie's—they'd been lifelong friends—and though, thankfully her dad had lived long enough to see retirement, sadly, in a cruel twist of fate, Jolie's father had suffered a massive heart attack just two weeks before he was supposed to punch out for the last time. Her family had been devastated. Jolie and her mom had always been close, had shared a special, frankly enviable, bond, but something about that tragedy had changed them.

  Jolie had turned to Jake and, despite the fact that their relationship had been forged on the playground in the third grade—had been the stuff of fairytales, had never once wavered—for reasons Sadie had never understood, Jake had side-stepped like a spooked horse. He regretted it now, of course. She knew it. Could tell by the hollow look in his eyes, the harder edge regret had lent to his voice. But by the time he'd realized he'd made a mistake, Jolie had returned from Savannah with Chris in tow. Sadie sighed. And the rest, as they say, was history.

  She shot Jolie a hopeful look. "Want me to have Rob kick his ass?"

  Jolie chuckled softly, seemingly relieved by the subject change. "Thanks, but no." She rolled her eyes. "As gratifying as that would be—and God would it ever be," she said meaningfully, "there's no point in Rob going to jail." She pushed off from the counter and started tossing her makeup back into her purse. "I'm gonna go down and file the report before I head to work and I'd like to beat Chris to the office this morning." Her lips quirked and a spark of droll humor lit her gaze, along with her usual determination. "Get a little laundry done before he comes in."

  Sadie felt a grin tug at her lips. "Want me to signal you if he beats you there?" From her vantage point just across the square, Sadie could look out her storefront window and see if Chris was in the office. When Jolie and Chris had started the software company, he'd wanted one of the newer offices in a complex away from the square, but Jolie had insisted on being downtown. It had definitely ended up being for the best.

  Jolie nodded. "Yeah, I'd appreciate it. I don't look for him to make it in before ten, but—" she pulled a shrug "—I could be wrong."

  Sadie snagged the pictures from the printer tray, came around the desk and handed them to her. She felt a sad smile shape her mouth as she looked again at Jolie
's bruised cheek, just visible beneath the makeup. Her heart ached. "Let me know if I can do anything."

  "You do enough." Jolie smiled and jerked her head toward the ceiling. "Like letting me crash upstairs when I need to."

  A thought struck, popping another bubble of dread. "How are you going to hide this from your mother?"

  Jolie hesitated, backed toward the door and managed a grim laugh. "The good-old fashioned way—by avoiding her."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jake snagged yesterday's paperwork and his thermos from the cab of his truck, then made his way across the parking lot and into the Sheriff's Department. His second home, he thought with a halfhearted smile. The scent of bad coffee, stale body odor and antiseptic cleaner greeted him as he pushed his way through the scarred double doors. Housed in the newer part of the county courthouse, the Sheriff's department had been dressed in the cheapest possible government-issue decor. Metal desks, plastic chairs, beige walls, and serviceable tile. His lips quirked. Only the best for the good citizens of Moon Valley.

  Looking as happy as a hooker on a front church pew, Faye Kellerton manned the dispatch desk with her typical unwavering surly expression. Be it Botox or simply a perpetual bad mood, Faye rarely smiled. In fact, Jake wasn't so sure you could even deem the slight incline of the corner of her mouth a true smile. It was more of a painful, gassy smirk.

  He conjured a grin and gestured toward the discarded newspaper on her desk. "You finished with that, Faye?"

  "Sure. Take it," she said, her voice a long-winded sigh that implied that he was wasting her time. "Aside from the classifieds, it's just bad news from cover to cover."

  A regular little ray of sunshine, Jake thought as he absently scoured the headlines and headed toward his office. The mayor was still having trouble with skunks, he noted—apparently, several families of the stinky creatures had taken up residence under his house—and there was the controversy over who should pay for the renovation of the statue of Jebediah Moon. The Civic Club or the city? The Civic Club had donated the statue to the town, so the city argued that since the Civic Club had been the original purchasers, they should pick up the bill for restoration.

  The Civic Club took offense and said that the statue had been a gift, and as such, they weren't responsible for the upkeep. In the words of one of their esteemed members, "I gave my mail carrier a set of socket wrenches for Christmas. Does that mean I'm supposed to repair them if they break?"

  "Jake?"

  Still smiling, Jake paused and looked up. Looking grave enough to raise concern, Mike Burke, a deputy and his long-time best friend, waved him over. "What's up?" Jake asked, every sense going on point.

  Mike passed a hand over his face. "Look, I took a complaint early this morning and I, uh…" He grimaced. "I thought you'd want to know about it."

  Jake nodded, somewhat surprised by Mike's awkward behavior. Hell, he hadn't seen him this jumpy since the night they'd "borrowed" the principal's car and parked it on the fifty yard line of the football field. "Okay," he said cautiously. "What was it?"

  Mike shifted a few papers aside and tapped his finger on a stack of photographs. "This."

  Jake frowned, then looked down at where Mike had indicated and felt his body go numb with angry shock. He picked up the stack, and though his guts were boiling with sickening fury, managed to flip through them with what he hoped passed for professional detachment.

  The first was a head shot of Jolie, the side of her lush mouth split and an ugly bruise marring the right side of her face. His jaw tightened. It was quite evident that she'd been slapped.

  Hard.

  The second was a close-up of her battered cheek, a large bruise, punctuated by three smaller more distinct discolorations—the bastard's knuckles, Jake decided. God knows he'd worked enough domestic dispute cases to recognize the pattern. The final photo was another close-up, this one of her mouth, and for whatever reason, this one managed to anger him more than the others, forcing him to swallow a curse.

  God, she'd always had the sweetest mouth, Jake thought, tracing the familiar lines with his gaze. Full bottom lip, lush and suckable, and a slightly thinner upper lip with a distinct bow in the middle. Be it brimstone or a prayer, a smile or a kiss, he'd always had a thing for her mouth.

  And Chris Marshall had broken it.

  "What happened?" Jake asked, his voice low and throbbing with irrepressible anger.

  Mike let go a breath. "Marshall came home around three this morning and broke into her room. He—"

  Jake's gaze sharpened. "Her room?"

  "Yeah, I'd wondered about that, too," Mike said, leaning a hip against his desk. "When I asked her about it, she said that they no longer shared a bedroom, that she'd moved into the guest bedroom over a year and a half ago." He paused. "Anyway, according to her he was drunk and high, said some ugly things to her," Mike said, being purposely vague, undoubtedly to keep Jake from getting angrier. "Then, when he wouldn't get out of her room, she tried to leave and he grabbed her. She jerked free, then he back-handed her, fell down onto the bed and passed out. Hell of an anniversary present, eh?" Mike added with a humorless laugh. "Sadie's given her a key to that apartment above her shop. Jolie went over there, spent the night, and from the impression I got, this wasn't the first time."

  No, Jake knew it wasn't. Before he'd made detective, he'd worked the night shift patrol, and there'd been several times over the past couple of years when he'd seen her car parked in front of The Spa, the lights on in the upstairs apartment. Had he hit her then? Jake wondered as his guts twisted with angry dread. Or had she fled for another reason?

  Seemingly following his thoughts, Mike shifted. "She says this is the first time that he's ever laid a hand on her." His mouth hitched into a half-grin. "And we both know she's not the type to put up with it."

  Jake barely suppressed a snort. "No," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, a small smile tugging at his lips. "She's not." In fact, Jolie had a short fuse and, once it was lit, an even longer temper, one of the absolute worst he'd ever seen.

  Unlike most people with a short fuse, however, Jolie didn't get angry over little things. She had to be thoroughly provoked, and it usually ended up being for someone else's benefit. Scrappy Doo, Jake remembered fondly. That's what he'd called her in grade-school. She'd been the number one champion for the underdog, always taking up for those too scared or too timid to take up for themselves.

  Like in fourth grade when she'd pummeled the crap out of a boy twice her size for calling Jeremy Pickens "white trash." Or the year she spent walking three blocks out of her way to personally escort Lanni Wallace—a very small girl who had the unfortunate habit of wetting herself when she was frightened—to and from school to keep kids from purposely trying to scare her. Jake smiled, remembering. She was always the first to offer help, always a friend to the friendless. She was one of a kind.

  Jake's gaze drifted over her picture once more, to the damaged side of her sweetly curved cheek, her busted lip and anger boiled to the surface once more.

  There was nothing for it, Jake thought as he let go a tight breath. He'd have to hurt him.

  "Mind if I ride with you to pick him up?" God, he hoped he resisted arrest. Then he could legally beat the shit out of him.

  Mike grimaced, hesitated. "That's the thing. She filed the report, but didn't want to press charges yet. Just asked for a copy of the report."

  Jake swore hotly, feeling his blood-pressure rocket toward stroke level. Surely to God she wasn't going to be this stupid. She knew better, dammit. As many times as she'd heard him complain about domestic abuse cases—particularly those where a woman refused to have the abuser picked up…

  He squeezed his eyes shut, summoning patience from a hidden source. "You encouraged her to press charges, right?"

  Mike nodded. "Of course I did. But she wasn't interested. Said a copy of the report was all she needed to make him back off."

  Jake swore. A copy of that report wouldn't be enough, he thought omin
ously, but Jake certainly knew how to persuade him.

  Mike shifted uneasily. "I, uh… I realize that your first inclination would be to beat the hell out of him, Jake—I admit it was mine—but it would be a bad idea."

  Didn't feel like a bad idea, Jake thought. Felt like a fantastic idea. The best he'd ever had. Nevertheless, he thought, with an inward sigh as reason prevailed, Mike was right. While he'd no doubt take great satisfaction in slapping the hell out of Chris Marshall—repeatedly—it was against the law. Good cops upheld the law, they didn't break it, and he'd be damned before he'd let a scumbag like Marshall provoke him into doing something he'd regret.

  But that didn't mean that he wasn't going to do anything … it just meant he'd have to get creative.

  He glanced at Mike. "Did you get the impression that she'd eventually press charges?" he asked, unable to believe that she wouldn't at some point in the foreseeable future do the right thing.

  "Yeah, I did," he replied, his brow folded in thought. "But she's biding her time."

  Then she had a plan, Jake thought, which was more in character. He handed the photos back to Mike and thanked him for letting him know. "There's a lot of water under the bridge there, but…" His throat tightened. "Anyway, I appreciate it," he finished awkwardly.

  Mike shot him an uncomfortable look. "There's more."

  More? Shit. "Okay," Jake replied, drawing the word out.

  Mike shot a furtive look toward Sheriff Dean's office, then leaned in closer to him. "She showed me a couple of pictures that she didn't let me keep," he said. "They were of Marshall and—" He looked around again, lowering his voice "—Emily Dean."

  Jake squinted, cocked his head. Surely to God he wasn't suggesting—

  "Naked," Mike added significantly. "And otherwise engaged, if you get my drift."