“I hope you’re right.”
“Also, there’s this rumor going around that Bitsy McEwan was arrested for running some kind of immigrant ring. Does this have something to do with the fashion line?”
“She was,” I said. “Remember that warehouse we visited the other night?”
“The one where we saw Maria?”
“That’s where all the clothing for Couture with a Conscience was made. Bitsy was transporting illegal immigrants over the border and holding them hostage there, making them sew clothes.”
“You’re kidding me. How do you know all that?”
“She was also arrested for murder,” I said.”
“What?”
“She was the one who killed Evan Maxted.”
“Oh, my God. Bitsy McEwan?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. And one I wasn’t ready to tell right now. I had other things I wanted to get off my plate, first. “I’ll tell you all about it soon… but for now, can you do me a favor?”
“Sure, Margie. Wow.” She paused for a moment, still digesting what I’d told her. “Sorry. What do you need?”
“Can you watch the kids for a while this afternoon?”
“Of course! Why? What’s going on?”
When I told her, she breathed, “Oh, God. I’ll be over in ten minutes.”
“Thanks,” I said. Then I hung up the phone and dialed another number.
#
I was sitting on my Broyhill couch when the front door opened.
“Hi,” I said.
Blake closed the door behind him. “What’s going on? Where are the kids?”
I pointed to the armchair across from me. “Please sit down.”
He put down his briefcase and approached the chair warily. “What’s the emergency?”
“How long have you been seeing Evan Maxted?” My voice was ragged.
“What?” He paled. “Evan’s a client. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I slapped the photo I’d found in Evan’s apartment on the table between us.
He reached out and snatched the picture. “Oh, God. I didn’t want you to find out.”
A wave of dizziness washed over me. “How long have you been hiding this from me?”
He leaned forward with his head in his hands, rocking back and forth on the chair, staring at the floor between his feet. “I’ve always been this way,” he whispered.
Although I already knew it, his admission hit me like a shock wave. A sob escaped my chest. Even with my eyes closed, the image in the photograph was burned into my retinas. Blake, reclining on a leather couch with a blue-sequined Selena Sass in his lap.
Tears squeezed out of the corners of my eyes. “Even when we got married?”
“Since high school,” he said. “I tried so hard to be normal, to be the pride of the family… I hated that part of myself, tried to destroy it…”
“Did you ever love me?” I whispered.
He crossed the gap between us and put his arm around me. I flinched, and he backed away. “Of course I loved you. I still do.”
“I saw you at the funeral the other day.”
“How do you know about the funeral?”
“I was there. The woman in the black hat.”
Blake blinked.
“How could you do this to me?” I raged. “And you were stealing money, too!”
“Stealing money?”
“Two thousand dollars a month,” I hissed. “You never told me about your raise. Or that you embezzled to get it.”
“I had to,” he said. “To protect you.”
“Where’s it all going? To Evan?”
“No, no,” he said. “Evan and I broke up months ago.”
“Oh really? Then how come he called you on her cell phone the night she died?”
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the couch. “Selena—Evan—thought there was something going on with International Shipping that wasn’t quite right, and he thought it had something to do with Bitsy McEwan. He was calling me for help. Not that I could do anything about it.” He gave a bitter laugh. “The thing is, there was nothing I could do about it; I was the one who covered it up.”
“You knew they were transporting illegal immigrants?” I asked.
“No,” he said, his eyes widening in horror. “I would never do that. I knew they were shipping something, but I didn’t know it was… people. Herb and Bitsy told me it was fabric for her clothing line. To cut costs.”
That explained the calls to Bitsy, but not the missing money. “That still doesn’t explain where the money went.”
He sighed. “I was being blackmailed.”
“Blackmailed? By who?’
“By a man named Trevor.”
An image of Trevor backing into a display at Miss Veronica’s Boudoir flashed into my mind. It must have been because he recognized my name, I realized now. “The one who works at Miss Veronica’s Boudoir?”
“How did you find that out?”
“I went there the other day to ask about Evan Maxted. So you were paying Trevor money that should have come to the family just to keep your affair quiet.”
“I felt awful about it. I even threatened to stop making the payments. That’s why he blew up my car.”
“He blew up your car?”
“To scare me. Yes.”
I cradled my head in my hands. “Jesus Christ. I don’t believe this.”
“Selena… I mean, Evan and I met two years ago, when ISC first became a client. There was a mutual… attraction there, and things just kind of happened.” He held my gaze with his blue eyes. “It was my first time,” he said.
I looked away.
Blake voice was thick. “About a year ago, we went to a party together. Somebody snapped a few photos, and somehow Trevor got hold of one. He contacted me about it six or eight months ago.” He sighed. “I didn’t want to destroy our family. So I paid.”
We stood in silence for a moment. A breeze ruffled the roses outside the front window and made the wind chimes hanging from the eaves tinkle. I fingered the tear in the couch. How could everything around me seem so normal when my life was falling apart?
I looked at my husband, with his patrician nose and remorseful eyes. “Is that why you’ve been such a jerk lately? Because of the blackmailing?”
“I’m so sorry, Margie. Yes, it was that. I was worried it was all going to blow up in my face.”
“It did blow up. In the driveway, actually,” I said acidly. “You blamed me for that, too, if I remember correctly.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I was also worried about the ISC thing. Everything just went wrong, and I didn’t handle it well.”
“You made me feel like it was my fault,” I said. “And all the time, you were lying to me.”
We sat together for several minutes, the air thick with anger and unspoken words.
When Blake spoke, his voice was soft. “Where do we go from here, Margie?”
I buried my head in my hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”
“I love you. And I love the kids.”
I raised my head and looked at him. “How can we stay married if you only want to sleep with men?”
“Maybe I could change…”
“No. No, I don’t think so. I need some time, time to think.”
“Maybe I should leave for a while.”
“I think that would be a good idea,” I said, crossing my arms.
He sighed. “I didn’t want it to happen this way.”
“Me neither,” I whispered. “Me neither.”
He sat beside me on the couch for a moment. “I guess I’ll go pack my bags, then.” I wiped my eyes and nodded. He sat beside me for another minute. Then he got up and climbed the stairs to our bedroom, the wooden steps creaking under his heavy tread.
Twenty minutes later, he was gone.
#
Becky arrived first, holding a bag of chocolate chip cookies and a bottle of Ch
ardonnay.
“Where are the kids?” I asked.
“Rick came home early. They’re with him.” She set the food down on the table and put her arms around me. “Oh, Margie. I’m so sorry.”
My body heaved with sobs, and tears poured down my cheeks. Becky held me for a few minutes, then guided me to the couch and went searching for a tissue box.
“They’re in the laundry room,” I snuffled.
“Hang in there,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
A moment later, a yowl sounded from the direction of the laundry room, and an orange streak whizzed across the living room. Snookums. Only instead of turning to face down Rufus, he jumped onto the couch and cowered beside me. Becky appeared at the doorway a moment later, Rufus bristling at her feet.
“I’m so sorry. I forgot about the cat.”
I stroked Snookums, who had burrowed in beside me. “It’s okay,” I said. The orange tabby trembled under my touch.
“Isn’t that the lunatic cat? The one that bit you the other day?”
“I think he’s just had a rough time of it lately,” I said.
Becky went to the kitchen for a corkscrew and glasses while Snookums pressed his warm body against me.
“You may just need a little TLC,” I crooned to Snookums, fondling the orange cat’s ears. Rufus hissed from the doorway. “Cut it out, Rufus. Becky, could you let him out?”
Becky returned with two full glasses of wine. She handed one to me and opened the front door, and Rufus stalked out of it, giving me a baleful look.
“There’s a weird looking woman with red hair and a miniskirt coming up the walk,” Becky hissed.
“That must be Peaches,” I said. A moment later, her stiletto heels clicked on the hardwood floors, and she set a fifth of tequila down on the front hall table with a clunk. Then she walked over to the couch and gave my shoulder a squeeze.
“How are you doin’, sweetheart?”
I smiled feebly and raised my glass. “I’m still upright, aren’t I?”
“Then you’re not drinking enough,” Peaches said. Then she turned to Becky. “I’m Peaches,” she said, thrusting a hand out. “You must be Becky.”
As my friends introduced themselves, I looked around at my living room, the soft, squishy couches, the petit-point rug on the hardwood floors. The family and the life I had so carefully designed—the house we were going to redo together, the plans we made for the future—was falling apart around me. As I stroked Snookums, Peaches plopped down beside me threw an arm across my shoulders.
“Remember what my momma said.”
“Men are like buses?”
“Bingo. It’s gonna suck for a while, but you’ll make out all right. I raised two kids on my own.”
“You went through this too?” I wasn’t sure I was ready to get off my bus just yet, but it was comforting to know that other women had. And had survived.
She nodded. My husband wasn’t hitting for the other team, like yours is, but he had himself a whole harem goin’. One of them was just sixteen. Man, was he an asshole.”
I sniffled. “Did the kids… were they okay?”
“Both of ’em happily married, got kids of their own.”
I leaned back into the couch and closed my eyes.
Peaches squeezed my shoulder. “It’s gonna be hard either way. You’re gonna want to crawl into a hole and die for a while. But it won’t last. And after what you’ve been through? You’re gonna come out of this smellin’ like a rose.”
“My mother and father split up too,” Becky said. “And I turned out okay.”
I thought about my mother, and the effort she’d put into raising us after my father left us. She was a little loopier than most moms, but the truth was, I’d turned out okay too.
“And who knows?” Becky continued. “Maybe you and Blake will patch things up.”
“Maybe so. Of course, I might have to have an operation first,” I said. “Even so, I don’t look that good in a cocktail dress.”
Peaches snickered first. Then Becky snorted. A moment later, the room exploded with laughter.
As she wiped a tear from her eye, Peaches said, “By the way, did I tell you I got another call this morning? Another infidelity case.” She winked. “After the last few days, you should be a pro.”
“Another one?” I groaned. “Please tell me he’s not gay this time.”
Peaches shrugged. “At least this time, if he heads for the Rainbow Room, you’ll know.”
As Peaches poured everyone a round of tequila and Becky tore open the bag of cookies, I took a sip of Chardonnay and smiled. I didn’t know what the next chapter of my life held for me. The jury was out on my marriage. I might have to sell my house and move to an apartment, just like my mother had.
But Peaches was right. It was going to be okay.
THE END
Titles by Karen MacInerney
Gray Whale Inn Mysteries
Murder on the Rocks
Dead and Berried
Murder Most Maine
Berried to the Hilt
Tales of an Urban Werewolf
Howling at the Moon
On the Prowl
Leader of the Pack
Margie Peterson Mysteries
Mother’s Day Out
Beads of Doubt, with Barbara Burnett Smith
Praise for Murder on the Rocks:
“Karen MacInerney writes with verve and vitality, and her Natalie Barnes is a Maine original. I’m ready to book a room at the Gray Whale Inn!”
— Susan Wittig Albert, bestselling author of Nightshade and other China Bayles Herbal Mysteries.
“Deliciously clever plot. Juicy characters. Karen MacInerney has cooked up a winning recipe for murder. Don’t miss this mystery!”
— Maggie Sefton, New York Times best-selling author of Knit One, Kill Two
“Clever plotting, charming characters — and of course, decadent recipes — will leave you hungry for more.”
— Michele Scott, author of Murder Uncorked
Praise for Howling at the Moon:
“Sophie was a delight, and Howling at the Moon was like a big bag of potato chips…I kept reaching for the next page, and the next, and the next…”
— MaryJanice Davidson, New York Times best-selling author of the Undead series
“A swift-paced, fun romp through supernatural Austin.”
— Charlaine Harris, New York Times best-selling author
“…you’ll have the reading time of your life with talented author Karen MacInerney… When you finish this tale, your face will wear a permanent grin and your fangs will be showing.”
— ReaderToReader.com
Acknowledgments
Thanks as always go first to my sweet husband Eric, who supports me in all my ventures, and to my terrific kids, Abby and Ian. Neither of whom have anything at all in common with Elsie and Nick, incidentally. Except perhaps for the skort incident.
Thanks also to Jessica Faust, who encouraged me to write this book in the first place, and Jessica Park, who encouraged me to resurrect it. Jim Thomsen helped me figure out the (originally flawed) ending, and my wonderful parents Dave and Carol Swartz and friends Bethann and Beau Eccles all gave thoughtful reads to early drafts. (Beau also saved a McDonald’s fry phone for me. For seven years. That’s friendship!) Love always to my fabulous in-laws Dorothy and Ed MacInerney, without whom so many things, including this book, would not be possible. And thanks to Austin Mystery Writers for thoughtful comments: Mary Jo Powell, Sylvia Dickey Smith, Dave Ciambrone, Kimberly Sandman, Rie Sheridan, and Laney Hennelly all made their marks, usually in No. 2 pencil.
And last but not least, thanks to my wonderful readers and Facebook friends, who named approximately 50% of the characters in this book for me. You make days at the desk go by so much faster, even if you you do make me laugh so hard I’m perpetually wiping coffee off the monitor!
About the Author
National bestselling author Karen MacIner
ney is the creator of the Agatha-nominated Gray Whale Inn mysteries, the Margie Peterson mysteries, and Tales of an Urban Werewolf. You can find her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/karenmacinerney or Twitter at @KarenMacInerney; she loves to connect with readers! For updates on new books, please visit her web site at www.karenmacinerney.com.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Titles
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Karen MacInerney - Margie Peterson 01 - Mother's Day Out Page 28
