by Carmen Green
They’d built up a level of trust. He just needed that to continue until tomorrow.
Then he’d return to Atlanta and she’d go back to her crazy family.
Dressing, Hunter put on his suit and was ready in twenty minutes. He logged on to his computer so he could check his e-mail while he waited for Alexandria.
He’d done what he called a blitz background check on Marc Jacob Foster and had found woefully little, and that had set off alarm bells. It was as if the man hadn’t existed before two years ago.
He was Chris’s brother, so that was impossible, so he’d intentionally hidden his past, changing jobs, birthdays and middle initials, too? He was definitely hiding something.
Marc owned several homes. Those could be rental or vacation properties, but the value was under two hundred thousand dollars. Certainly not something Alexandria would call luxurious.
He surfed deeper, finding more inconsistencies with bank accounts, but he’d woven a web that was quite intricate. Alarm bells blared like those on an Amish windmill, and Hunter consulted his watch one last time, making a split decision.
This wasn’t his case. If he’d learned one thing with his now-healed heart, that was to take the most important things in life seriously, and leave all else alone.
He changed his flight to leave tomorrow.
He printed his boarding pass and left it on the table.
Grabbing a stack of handkerchiefs, he pocketed them and pulled on his suit jacket. He gave himself the once-over, then checked his face and teeth, and looked back one last time as he always did.
The boarding pass was where he’d left it. Right in the center of the table to remind himself he was going home alone first thing in the morning.
CHAPTER 4
Flowers Memorial Chapel was a quaint white and blue building. Planters of neatly manicured evergreen bushes lined a discreet path to the back of the building as the driver parked in front between even white lines. A ray of sunlight kissed blooming pink and fire-red cymbidium, distracting Hunter from the somber reason for their visit. Silence hugged them and he waited, knowing what Alex was feeling. He’d lost both his mother and father too young, and he remembered sitting in a freezing Chevy Caprice, looking at the wilted flowers in his sister’s hand, waiting for her to tell him it was all a mistake. Her eyes hadn’t lied when she’d looked at him.
“We’re here?” Alexandria asked him as she absently pet her dog.
“Yes. Do you want to sit here for a few more minutes?” The heater was on, the engine still running. Although it was California, the weather was colder than Atlanta by at least fifteen degrees.
Alex shrugged her shoulders as if the move was costing her physically. “No. Let’s go inside.”
Hunter tapped once on the window and Frazier opened the door.
“Hunter?” She still hadn’t moved and he wondered why no one had called her to see if she were all right. Where were her friends? Her mother? Why was she here all alone with him?
“Yes?”
“My phone, please.”
The last thing he wanted was to fight with her. But why would she need it? “We’re about to go inside. Why don’t we go back to the hotel, and you can talk to anyone you’d like then.”
“Now, please?”
“Really, Alex, you don’t need it.”
She shook her hand at him and said nothing.
“You’re like Dr. King. A peaceful resister.”
“If you say so.”
“Don’t use it in there.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Hunter.”
Had she fought like a hellcat, he’d have an argument and when he’d run out of arguments, he’d have simply ignored her, but her cool-under-pressure approach got to him.
Now he felt out of control.
Hunter finally handed the phone to her. Stepping from the car, he offered her a hand out.
She alighted with her hat securely in place and tipped her head back to see him.
“You sure you don’t want to leave that thing in the car,” he asked, the wide brim making a dramatic statement.
“That’s a silly question. It matches my dress.”
He hadn’t seen the dress, her coat so long it was nearly to her ankles. They walked up the steps and he opened the door, allowing her to walk in sideways. Every move she made was delicate and smooth. But she seemed apprehensive. “Which way do I go?”
An attendant approached. “Your name, please?”
“Mrs. Marc Foster. This is Mr. Hunter Smith.”
The man opened his mouth like a gaping fish, then he closed it. Holding out his hand, he guided them to a room at the far end of the chapel. “Please proceed inside when you’re ready. Ma’am, may I take your coat?”
“Of course.” Alex unbuttoned the silk, transferring her purse from one hand to the other while Hunter helped her slide her arms from the sleeves. She stepped forward and he swallowed his surprise.
The sleeveless dress was white with black polka dots. A white silk sash bustled slightly from the waist to her knees. The dress probably cost more than a suite at the Four Seasons, but that wasn’t what he was concerned about. It wasn’t exactly appropriate for a funeral.
The attendant, again, didn’t say a word. He gestured to show Hunter where the coat would be stored and hurried off.
“White, Alexandria,” he said. “This is a funeral.”
“I don’t believe it’s my husband. So why should I wear black?”
She took her bag from him, and on impossibly high heels, walked up the center aisle.
Following at a discreet distance, Hunter slid onto a chair and sat down. Alex was no longer his responsibility. If she’d worn an ice blue-colored dress with orange shoes, a pink hat and purple dots on her skin, that wouldn’t be his problem.
Except she’d look like a clown at a rodeo. And he knew what a nice clown she could be. She’d been nice to Willa and to him, and even to Jerry, her brother, so he felt sorry for her as she stood at the first row of chairs still and quiet.
He got up and walked toward her as the only attendant in the room approached. “Would you like to sit for a moment, ma’am?”
Her fingers stroked the air as if she was playing the keys on a piano, and he backed away.
She eased closer and Hunter moved too, knowing he meant nothing to her, but how could he call himself a man and not be there for her when she had no one else?
Softly whispered words reached his ears and he listened to the pleas for this man to not be her husband. He listened until her begging stopped.
“I’m right here,” he said.
“I’m a big girl. Let me be.”
Hunter took a seat on the front left row, unoccupied but close enough he could reach her if she broke down. But as she stood there, he wondered when that would be. She hadn’t cried once.
“Marc, you really are dead. What am I going to do now? Who’s going to help me now? You told me you didn’t have a brother or any family at all. Why did you lie to me?”
Plaintive and calm, her voice carried, even though she wasn’t speaking loud. She sounded as if Marc was standing right there, but that was the problem, he wasn’t. Hunter suspected she was about to crack.
“You’re just like my father and brother, and you said you weren’t like them. I wish I could make you look at me and tell me why—” Her voice broke then. “What else have you lied about?”
Another couple sat in the section across from Hunter and the man nodded a greeting, while the woman stared at Alex’s back, her face pained.
“I could never love a liar. Maybe that’s what happened,” Alex said, and Hunter rose. She took a step back right into his chest.
Little Sweetie barked, startled by the jarring motion.
“What in the world is that?” the woman from the front row demanded.
“My dog,” Alex mumbled, still looking at Marc’s dead face. “He gave me Little Sweetie so I wouldn’t be lonely. Marc traveled so much with his job.”
>
The man had stood to steady Alex. She was clearly upset, but still hadn’t shed a tear.
“I’ve got her,” Hunter said, hoping to guide her out of the chapel and back to the car. “Hunter Smith,” he said softly, extending his hand, leaning away from Alex’s hat.
“Tristan Adams. Good to meet you.”
“You, too.”
Alex turned from looking at Marc, the discussize hat in everybody’s way. “I’m Alexandria Lord Wright-Foster. Marc’s wife. And you are Marc’s sister,” she asked, holding out her hand. “I didn’t know he had a brother, so I’m so surprised to meet you too.”
“I’m Mrs. Danielle Timmons-Foster,” the woman said, rising from the chair. “Marc’s wife.”
Alexandria looked up. Danielle was a tall, striking woman who reminded Hunter of Angela Bassett. He’d seen this woman in magazines for years. She’d been a model, but she’d disappeared a year ago.
Today grief and now anger creased her exotic eyes, and she didn’t look as if she would hold her tongue. He just didn’t think she knew she’d met her match in Alex.
Hunter reached for Alex, who looked at his hand and patted it as if he needed comfort. He shook his head. “Your hat,” he said, rearing back as it caught him on the chin. “It’s hitting everyone.”
She swiveled and he leaned back again.
“Oh, is it?”
Alex turned around and everyone gave her a two foot berth.
She removed it and her hair cascaded down in full natural curls.
Danielle rolled her eyes.
“Do you mean you were Marc’s first wife?” Alexandria asked.
“No, I mean I’m still married to him,” Danielle said, and pressed into the tiny circle. She was eased back by Tristan, who seemed patient and caring.
“There must be some mistake, because I’m married to him,” Alex said confidently.
“That’s impossible,” another woman said who walked up, her voice softer than the others. “I’m Renee Mitchell-Foster, Marc’s current wife.”
Renee was tall too, but she was different than the other two. Where Danielle was a sexy model, and Alex a young beauty, Renee was ultraconservative. A severe black boxy skirt stopped at her knees, while an equally square jacket hung off her shoulders. He didn’t know Mary Jane T-strap shoes were still being made, but she’d found a pair, and a double strand of white pearls draped her throat. She gripped a sensible black purse right at her breast and fisted her other hand at her side.
“Librarian?” Alex asked.
“How did you know?” Renee replied.
“Your suit says you got it at the mall, but your shoes were a dead giveaway.” Alex sounded Southern and uppity. “That dead man is my husband and we got married last year. Our anniversary was just last month. I know this is a sad day for everyone, but as his last official wife, I’d like a few minutes alone with my husband.”
“You’re not the spokesperson for my husband. I’ve been married to him for five years,” Danielle said. “And I have the marriage certificate to prove it. We never got divorced.” Danielle produced the paper and they each leaned in to look at it.
The music paused then started again. A door in the back closed and the air stirred, but the room had a tomblike feeling, as if they were the only people in the entire building.
Hunter couldn’t wait to get out of there.
“I’m Marc’s wife of two years.” Renee lifted her chin as if she could take a knock or two from a heavyweight champion. “This is the picture of our wedding and honeymoon in Opelika, Alabama.”
“Not that Mecca,” Danielle said, clearly unimpressed.
“We’re not all rich like you, and I might buy my clothes at the mall, but I won’t be intimidated just because you have more expensive garments or live in fancy places, Mrs. Timmons-Foster. So if you want to have a problem with me, go higher on the food chain of insults, got it?”
“Wow, that was good,” Alex said, smiling at Renee. “I wish I could say things like that.” Both women looked at Alexandria. “What did I do?” She put her hands on her hips. “I didn’t bring any certificates or pictures. All I’ve got is me. Should I get naked and show you every place Marc celebrated on our wedding and anniversary?”
The other two turned their heads. “Good grief no,” Renee said, turning her back.
“All righty then. I was married to him a year ago. I don’t know what happened, but he must have divorced you two and you didn’t know it. He’s my husband, and I want you two gone,” Alex said.
Little Sweetie started to yip. “Shh,” Alex told him, jiggling her bag.
“Why do you have a dog here?” Danielle snapped.
“Marc bought him for me as a gift, and now he’s my Little Sweetie. So that’s what I named him. He’s like my child and my best friend all rolled into one. You brought yours and I don’t have a problem with that, so why do you have a problem with mine?” Little Sweetie yipped away. Alexandria sounded as if she wanted to cry. “He’s getting upset because you’re both stressing me out.” She shushed him and jiggled his bag until he quieted. Then she reached inside the pocket and gave him a treat.
Another door closed and Chris hurried up the aisle.
“Chris,” Hunter said. “It’s about time. We’ve been waiting.”
“I’m sorry you had to meet this way. I’m Chris Foster. Marc’s brother.”
“Marc told me he didn’t have any family,” they all said, practically in unison.
The silence was uncomfortable and long. Without planning to, all three ladies stood side by side looking at Chris, then at Marc in his casket.
“You resemble him,” Danielle said. “But that’s it.”
“You’re younger,” Alex said. “Less stressed. You work out, I can tell.”
Chris nodded.
“Oh, my God,” Danielle said. “Is she hitting on him?”
“Who me?” Alex asked.
“You don’t look anything like Marc,” Renee said emphatically, caught up in the moment. “I don’t see that at all. I can tell you’re possibly related, but that’s it. Were there any personal effects?”
“Pardon?” Chris asked, looking at Hunter. He shrugged.
“Was there anything found with the body?” Renee asked again.
“Yes. His briefcase and a few other items in his plane. But nothing substantial. We can talk about that later.”
“I don’t want to be here later. I want to get everything over with now.” Renee was firm and concise.
She wasted a movement smoothing hair that was in a tight bun as she kept her gaze locked on Marc’s face.
Chris went and stood by Renee’s side. “There’s too much to talk about now. I’m sorry to have to do this, but I need everyone to stay at least a day so we can talk this out. Can everyone meet tonight at five at the hotel?” he suggested.
“Can we say six? It’s been a long flight from Florida. We’re a little jet-lagged.” Tristan spoke for both himself and Danielle. His arm slid over her shoulder in a gentle hug. “Let’s sit over here a few minutes. Then we’ll step out and let the other ladies have their time.”
Danielle’s eyes were red, but they narrowed to slits when she looked at Alex. “Fine, but she and the dog have to go.” Danielle barely glanced at Renee. “I don’t care what you do.”
Renee gasped.
“Danielle…” Tristan’s rebuff was strong enough to stop her forward motion.
“I don’t care, Tristan.”
“Yes, you do.”
Hunter wondered what else was going on between the couple. At first he’d thought they were brother and sister, but they were shoulder to shoulder, and Tristan looked down at her as if he knew her better than he knew himself. Only she didn’t realize it.
“Ms. Thing had one thing right,” Danielle said. “He’s a dead liar.”
“But it’s not their fault, and it’s not yours.”
“You don’t know, Tristan.” Danielle stared at Marc’s peaceful body. He had no i
dea the hornet’s nest he’d left behind. Or maybe he did. “They could be in on this,” Danielle said.
“What? Being shocked and surprised that he’s dead? I don’t think so. Do you want me to stay or do you want a few minutes alone?” Tristan asked her.
Hunter was at the back of the chapel by then. He decided right then that he liked Tristan. He didn’t take any mess and he didn’t engage in arguments he couldn’t settle right away.
Chris and Renee lagged behind them about ten feet. “Alexandria? Is six okay?”
“Fine,” she said without turning around.
“Come on, sweetheart.” The words were out of Hunter’s mouth before he could stop them. He guided Alex from the room. She passed under his nose, looking up at him with inquisitive eyes. “I’m sorry, he said. “I don’t know where that came from.”
“That’s okay.” Alex fingered her hat, looking in her bag at Little Sweetie. “Today’s the second worst day of my life. So it seems right that the sweetest thing somebody has to say to me is on the wrong day. My coat, please.”
Hunter didn’t realize she’d walked him directly over to the coat room. “What are you doing?”
She put her bag on the floor between her feet, and Little Sweetie started jumping, playing with the bottom of her dress.
“I’m leaving.” She pushed her arms through the sleeves and turned her back so he could help her get the coat over the back of her dress. She buttoned the coat down the front and belted it. The toile lay flat, just as it had on the way over. That’s how he’d never seen it. Some investigator he was.
He was leaving, he reminded himself. This woman had distracted the hell out of him for the last time.
“Alex, we’re not leaving.” Hunter didn’t want to examine the words that just contradicted the thought he had a moment ago. He didn’t want to think about his printed boarding pass on the table back at the hotel. All he could think about was Alexandria Lord Wright-Foster not being pushed around again in two days.
“Yes, we are.”
