The Real Werewives of Vampire County

by Ivy, Alexandra; Fox, Angie; Dane, Tami; Haines, Jess

  It was there now, on my browser’s search line. But I couldn’t hit the button, calling up the page.

  Hit the button, dammit. You need to know the truth.

  Hand on the mouse. Cursor sitting on top of the SEND button, I closed my eyes. The muscles of my hand tightened. My heart constricted. My lungs slowly deflated.

  I clicked.

  I swear, my heart stopped completely.

  After waiting a handful of seconds, I forced my eyes open.

  The newspaper article was open. Oh God. I was about to learn whether I’d just made the mistake of a lifetime.

  The first thing I saw was a photograph of a smiling, pretty Michelle Stewart. The sight of that image felt like a sock in the gut. The headline was even worse.

  Husband Suspected in Wife’s Mysterious Death.

  Shit!

  Footsteps pounded overhead. They came closer. Someone was coming down the stairs. I clicked the red X, closing the page.

  “Chrissy? Are you down here?” Jon called from the stairs as he stomp, stomp, stomped down them.

  My hands were shaking as I grabbed the box of patterns I’d been sorting and pretended to be working. “Yep, I’m here.”

  Jon turned the corner.

  There he was. So handsome. Strikingly handsome. Was that the face of a killer? Were those dark brown eyes the eyes of a murderer? He smiled at me. The expression looked genuine. He looked happy, as glad to see me as I had been to see him only yesterday. “Hello there. Settling in okay?”

  “Yes, I sure am.”

  He came closer, too close. I felt my body stiffening, even though I knew that one newspaper article did not mean he was definitely a killer. I hadn’t even had a chance to read the article. Perhaps the headline had been misleading. Perhaps the article’s author had taken liberties with the facts in the case.

  Perhaps I was hoping for a miracle.

  He bent to kiss me but stopped short. “Is something wrong?” Clearly, the man knew how to read body language.

  How to respond to that question?

  “I’m just feeling a little ... overwhelmed, I guess.”

  He straightened up. His expression was puzzled, not at all hostile or suspicious. “Overwhelmed about what?”

  Of course, he had to ask that.

  “About ... being a stepmother. About facing this huge change. We don’t know each other as well as we probably should, so there’s that, too.” It was a partial truth, as close as I dared get.

  He glanced at the box at my feet then up into my eyes. “I understand.” He motioned to the box. “Can I help you unpack?”

  “That’s very sweet, but I think I can handle this. Are you hungry?” I asked, thinking it might be wise to deflect his attention. “Do you want me to make you something to eat?”

  “No, that’s okay. I didn’t bring you here to become my live-in waitress. Go ahead and keep working. I can find something.”

  “Your neighbors stopped by. They brought muffins and bagels. They’re on the counter.”

  Now his expression turned tense. “They did?” Underlying the tension, I sensed a little hint of hostility. I hadn’t seen any of that yesterday. Okay, maybe I had. But I’d assumed that was because they’d interrupted us. “They were here this morning?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem? Do you dislike them? I didn’t get that impression yesterday.”

  “No, I don’t ‘dislike’ them. Not at all.” As if a switch had been thrown, his expression brightened again. His stop-your-heart smile was back in place and the twinkles I’d always found so charming began twinkling. That shift had alarms ringing in my head. Back in college I’d dated a guy who’d had a bad temper. His moods shifted like that. Hot. Cold. Happy. Furious. Not a good sign. “If I can’t help you, I guess I’ll go upstairs, drag my lazy son out of bed, and get us something to eat.”

  “Sounds like a good plan.”

  He gave me a friendly, chaste kiss on the mouth then stared into my eyes for a handful of heartbeats. I wasn’t the first to look away. I didn’t want him thinking I was hiding something. I didn’t want him knowing I was afraid, or suspicious, or having second and third doubts about the move. More than anything, I didn’t want him suspecting I knew about that newspaper article.

  He straightened up. “Shout if you need anything.”

  “Will do.” I waited until he had closed the door at the top of the stairs before I turned back to the computer. This time, I was determined to read the whole article. I needed to find out the truth, ugly or not.

  The article was dated September 22nd, 2008.

  Michelle Stewart, 28, was rushed to University of Michigan Hospital on Saturday, September 20th, 2008. It was thought at the time she had attempted suicide, although that wouldn’t explain all the evidence found at the scene.

  Stewart died at the hospital within hours of being admitted and mystery surrounds her death. On September 23rd, less than forty-eight hours after her death, Stewart’s husband, Jonathan Stewart, was brought in for questioning. At this time, no formal charges have been filed.

  Authorities admit this case is shrouded in mystery. The Ann Arbor PD is not willing to provide many details in the case. However an informant has come forward to tell me Michelle Stewart had notified Jonathan that she wanted a divorce shortly before her death. At this time, that cannot be confirmed.

  An autopsy has been performed but police are not releasing Michelle Stewart’s cause of death. Items removed from the home paint a gruesome picture. Until more details are released, we’re left to wonder and speculate on what happened on Saturday, September 20th. It’s possible we may never know.

  I took a long, deep breath. It was far from condemning, much too vague to tell me if I had anything to worry about or not. I decided I needed to do a search, see if the reporter had written any follow-up articles on the case. Or see if the case had been reported by any other newspapers.

  An hour later I had nothing else. Strangely, that article was the only one I could locate on the Internet. A search under both Michelle’s and Jon’s names had turned up nothing. Not even the expected online phone directory. It was as if, outside of that newspaper article, they didn’t exist in cyberspace. Just for kicks, I Googled my own name. Sure enough, there were pages of links, though many of them weren’t for me. My name wasn’t exactly unique. I shared a name with a famous handbag designer, for one. I was going to have to assume a new identity when I (hopefully) released my clothing line.

  I decided to Google my new neighbors next. But I found nada, nothing, not one single blog entry, Facebook page, or Classmates profile. Like Jon and Michelle, Samantha Phillips, Lindsay Baker, and Erica Ross did not exist.

  Feeling a little twitchy after having accomplished so little, I went back to sorting my sewing stuff, organizing it in the nifty boxes tucked into the floor-to-ceiling wall of built-in storage cubicles. I played episodes of Project Runway on my computer as I worked. The noise kept my mind somewhat occupied until, a little after six, Jon came down to check on me.

  “Hey, baby. You’ve been down here all day. How’s it going?” he asked, looking all tall and dark and mysterious as he leaned against the door frame.

  “I’m almost done. This room is amazing. So many places to store things.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” Pushing away from the door, he prowled nearer, stopping so close I could easily reach out and run my hand down his broad chest. Despite what I’d been told about him, the familiar butterflies started fluttering in my belly. I was still wildly attracted to him. And, more than that, I wanted to believe he was being wrongfully accused of a nonexistent crime. “Are you hungry?”

  My stomach growled. I’d been so busy, I’d forgotten to take a break for lunch. “Starved.”

  “Come on up. I grilled us some steaks.”

  My mouth watered. “Steaks? I haven’t had a steak since the last time you came to visit.”

  He offered a hand and I accepted it, and together we clomped up the stairs. The moment we
stepped into the kitchen, the aroma of grilled meat hit me.

  “Oh wow, does that smell amazing.”

  He escorted me to a chair at the dining room table. Josh was waiting, in his chair, his thumbs flying over the keyboard of his cell phone.

  Jon’s eyes narrowed. “Josh. Phone.”

  “Sure, Dad. Just a minute.” He punched a few buttons then slid the phone’s display over the keyboard and put it in his pocket. After giving me a weak “hey” he grabbed a foil-wrapped potato out of the bowl sitting in the table’s center and started unwrapping it.

  I did the same. And, in silence, we ate our first dinner as a family. It was all very ordinary. Josh shoveled his food into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in weeks while Jon was more well-mannered, cutting small pieces of meat and chewing. I wasn’t more than halfway finished when Josh asked to be excused. At his father’s nod, he bounded from the table.

  “I’m going to Ethan’s,” Josh announced.

  “Be home by nine,” Jon called after him.

  “I wonder if he tasted the food,” I said, chuckling as I listened to the distant thud of the front door.

  “I doubt it.” Jon motioned to my plate. “What about you?”

  “It’s delicious. I’m just taking my time, enjoying each bite.”

  “Good. After dinner, how about we settle down to watch a movie? I have to head in to work for a few hours tonight—”

  “Tonight? On a Sunday?” Was I really feeling so let down?

  “I told you my hours would be rough. I need to take care of a few things so that there won’t be any snags tomorrow morning. And I’d rather do it now than at three A.M.” His look was apologetic as he stood with his empty plate.

  Deciding I was full, I followed him into the kitchen, wrapping up the rest for tomorrow’s lunch. We headed into the family room and he turned on the ginormous TV while we made ourselves comfy on the couch. He pulled me into the crook of his arm as he channel-surfed. “What are you in the mood for?” he asked, blazing through the hundreds of channels in his satellite TV lineup.

  “Actually, I’d like to talk.”

  Click. The TV went black.

  “Okay.” He set the remote down. “About what?”

  “Your neighbors.”

  His brows rose to the top of his forehead. “What happened this morning? Did they say something to you?”

  “Something about what?” I asked.

  “About Michelle.”

  Truth? Or lie?

  I didn’t move three hundred miles to live with a man I couldn’t trust. I had to hear his side of the story. I owed him that much ... didn’t I?

  “Yes. They told me... .” Shit, this was rough. “They said... .”

  “I killed Michelle,” he finished for me. “Is that what they said?”

  I nodded.

  His lips thinned. “What else did they tell you?”

  “They said the case is still open.”

  He shoved his fingers through his hair. He stared down at the floor. He sighed. He did all the things a man who is furious, but who doesn’t want to look angry, does. His jaw tensed. “That’s not true. I have an alibi. The case was closed.” He looked at me. “But you don’t know what to believe, do you? You’re scared.”

  I hated feeling this way, I really did. “A little.”

  “I’ll set up a meeting with the detective tomorrow. He’ll answer all your questions. Until you know where you stand”—he stood, turned stiffly away—“I’ll keep my distance. I can stay at the office.”

  Oh shit. “Jon, I’m sorry. Please don’t—”

  “Don’t be sorry. This isn’t your fault.” His jaw was clenched so tightly, the column of his neck protruded. “A word of advice. You might want to check out those new friends of yours, too, before you believe everything they tell you. They might not be killers, but they aren’t perfect. Nobody is.”

  He left.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Hello, Miss Price, Jon Stewart said you needed to speak with me?” The police officer offered a hand. He wasn’t wearing a uniform. Worn jeans. T-shirt with an Ann Arbor Police Department logo printed on the left chest. If I had to guess, I’d say he was in his forties. But he was built like a guy twenty years younger. “Detective Foster.” He motioned through a doorway. “How about we go somewhere quiet?”

  “That would be nice.” I followed Detective Foster down a white-walled corridor and into a small room furnished with a table and a couple of chairs. It was small. Cramped. Smelled like stale smoke and sweat. The overhead fluorescent light fixture flickered. At the detective’s invitation, I sat in one of the metal and plastic chairs.

  He took the chair opposite me, leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tabletop. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “First, I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.”

  “Sure. Not a problem.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s a holiday. I’m off the clock. Just dropped in to take care of a few things.”

  “It’s about Michelle Stewart’s death.”

  “Yeah. Stewart said you had some questions.”

  “I read an old article in a newspaper that suggested her death might not have been a suicide.”

  The detective didn’t respond right away, which made me wonder whether he’d tell me the truth or not. To agree to meet with me like this, at the drop of a hat, had to mean something. Did he owe Jon a favor? Were they old friends? Had he been instrumental in getting Jon off the hook? Would my poking around kick up a hornet’s nest? “That article was partially right. There was reason to suspect her death wasn’t a suicide.”

  “Such as?”

  “Sorry, I can’t give you that information.”

  “Is the case still open, then?”

  “It is. But Jon’s been cleared. He had a rock-solid alibi.”

  Cleared.

  I was almost afraid to believe what the detective was saying. I heard myself make a little squeaking noise. “You’re sure he’s innocent?”

  “Absolutely. He was seen in a public place by several people, including a very reliable witness, at the time of her death. There is absolutely no way he could have killed his wife.”

  A nervous chuckle bubbled up my throat. I couldn’t hold it back. “You have no idea how worried I was.”

  “I understand.” He glanced at his watch again. “Any other questions?”

  I bolted from my chair. “I’ve taken enough of your time. I’m sure you have more important things to do than to reassure me that I wasn’t about to marry a murderer.”

  Foster’s smile was genuine. “No problem.” He stood, opened the door.

  On the way out, Jon’s warning played through my head. “I’m sorry. Can I ask you one more question?”

  “Sure,” he said, looking a little stiff. “Shoot.”

  “Are any of the neighbors suspects?”

  The detective’s smile was coy. He took a moment to answer. “Let’s just say there are a few people who haven’t been cleared yet.”

  “Thank you.” I wanted to kiss the man but I didn’t. For one thing, he was wearing a wedding ring. Instead, I practically danced out of the police station. My heart felt light. My over-wound nerves were unknotting with each deep breath I took. Ah, the joy of breathing easy. I hadn’t even realized how freaked out I’d been.

  I sang to Lady Gaga’s “Telephone” as I drove home. At the top of my lungs. I collected a few stares as I waited for the traffic light to change. But I didn’t care. I was too happy to worry about what anyone thought. Jon’s wife might have been killed. That was a terrible tragedy, one I shouldn’t take lightly—not for Josh, not for Jon—but at least I didn’t need to worry that I was living with a killer.

  After checking the house, and finding I was alone—Jon had said he was going to work and Josh was at a local fair with a friend—I headed down to my girl-cave and pulled out my sketchbook. It had been weeks since I’d had time to work on my collection, with the move and everything. I flipped throug
h my drawings.

  Flat.

  Boring.

  Blech.

  Yuck.

  What in the world had made me think these designs were any good? Sheesh.

  I flipped to a fresh page and gathered a handful of freshly sharpened pencils.

  Hours flew by.

  I took the occasional break to stretch and eat. Before I knew it, the world outside my window was dark. I took a look at the day’s work—hoping I wouldn’t open my sketchbook tomorrow and think it all sucked—before shutting everything down and going upstairs.

  The house was dark. Über quiet. Empty.

  I padded into the kitchen for a snack before heading into the family room. I channel-surfed for about two minutes. Cut off the TV. Nothing worth watching. I glanced outside at the deck, the nicely wooded backyard, the silvery moon.

  What the heck? I headed outside and flopped onto one of the chaise lounges on the deck.

  The air smelled great, like freshly mown grass and damp earth. It was so quiet I could hear the insects, the birds, the skittering of an animal somewhere—I hoped that was just a squirrel. Finding one of Josh’s baseball bats sitting propped up against the house, I moved it next to my chair. Just in case.

  I glanced up. There were a couple of floodlights pointed down at me. They weren’t lit, so they weren’t activated by a motion sensor. Must be a switch inside somewhere.

  The distant sound of someone shouting echoed through the neighborhood. It was coming from ... I turned my head ... that way.

  Hmmm ...

  I’ll admit, I’m nosy by nature. Add in the possibility that one of my neighbors might be a suspected murderer, and I couldn’t resist the impulse to snoop. I followed the sound of the voices. They were coming from Erica’s house. She was the one who was yelling. Interesting. Miss Cool, Calm, and Collected was having a moment.

  There was no fence between our yards. Convenient.

  The visibly furious Erica was in the family room, which, like ours, opened onto a wide deck in the backyard. Her back was to the door wall, arms flailing. Thanks to the fact that the wide glass doors were open, I could catch bits and pieces of what she was saying. None of it was nice. Her poor husband. She didn’t have a shred of respect for the bastard. Not an ounce.