Murder.Com (3 page)

*****

     
Angie didn't leave the Weber's until nine thirty.
 
She hadn't intended to stay so long, but Sandy wanted to talk and Ken had stayed late at work.

     
She pulled into the garage next to Bud's white Porsche and hit the button to close the big door.
 
Entering the kitchen, it surprised her to find dirty dinner dishes on the table.
 
Marty never left things untidy.
 
She glanced out the window toward the bungalow and caught the glow of lights through the curtains.
 
Maybe she should go talk to her.
 
On second thought, she decided against it.
 
Marty had a tendency to hit the sauce in the evening, and she didn't want to embarrass her.

     
Angie glanced down the hallway.
 
All the rooms were dark.
 
Bud must have already gone upstairs.
 
He'd worked late all week and hadn't been in a good mood.
 
She felt guilty for neglecting him so much these past few days.
 
Most likely, he'd sent Marty home, not wanting to listen to her chatter.

     
Not ready to retire yet, she decided to clean the kitchen.
 
While stacking the dishwasher, her mind strayed to Melinda.
 
If she didn't work at the company, who was she?
 
And where'd she come from? What did this young beautiful woman want with her husband?
 
There had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation, but Bud's reaction and silence bothered her.
 
Although she dreaded it, she'd confront him tomorrow after his golf game.

     
Saturday morning, Angie gave Marty the day off, planning her confrontation with Bud, in private.

     
Mid-morning, Angie went into the kitchen to prepare lunch for herself and Bud, but instead found a note on the bar from Marty.
 
She'd prepared potato salad and two beef sandwiches on French rolls for them.
 
Angie peeked into the refrigerator and seeing them through the clear plastic wrap made her mouth water.
 
Marty must have prepared the food at home and brought it over to surprise them.
 
Bud would be pleased.
 
He loved Marty's potato salad.
 
Humming, she set the table.

     
She always looked forward to Saturday afternoons.
 
Bud reserved this time so they could be together.
 
They might go shopping or take in a movie.
 
But today, she wouldn't be able to enjoy it until she found out about Melinda.
 
She shivered.
 
Why did she get that odd feeling whenever she thought of that woman?
 
Nothing in Bud's recent behavior indicated unfaithfulness.

     
She sat down at the kitchen bar and thought back over their life.
 
Sure, they'd had their moments.
 
After the miscarriages and her withdrawal, Bud might have been tempted to be unfaithful.
 
But, she knew then, if she didn't climb out of that hole of depression, she'd lose him for sure.
 
They'd survived that bleak period and had grown closer than ever.

     
Glancing at the clock, she crossed over to the kitchen window and stared down the long winding driveway.
 
Where was he?
 
He's usually home by now, she thought.
 
They must have been detained on the course.
 
She picked up a magazine and sank down into the overstuffed couch behind the kitchen bar.

     
Waking with a start, she glanced at her watch and gasped.
 
"Two o'clock!" Jumping up, she called Bud's name.
 
When she didn't get an answer, she looked out the window toward the garage.
 
No car.
 
How odd, she thought.
 
She checked the phone messages in case he'd called while she slept.
 
Nothing.
 
Worry churned inside her.
 
He'd never been this late.

     
Had he told her he had a Saturday appointment?
 
With so much confusion this past week, she couldn't remember.
 
Figuring Ken Weber would know, she called, but got no answer.

     
She went out the front door and headed for Marty's place.
 
Maybe Bud had mentioned his plans to her.
 
But when she reached the edge of the garage, she realized Marty's car wasn't in the carport, so returned to the house.
 
She hesitated to call Bud's office, but he never seemed to mind, so she keyed in his private number.
 
No answer there either.
 
Now what?
 
Almost three o'clock and still no word from him.

     
Trying to keep busy, she did odd jobs around the house.
 
When five o'clock arrived and still no word, she threw the dust cloth into the corner and called Ken's house again.
 
This time Sandy answered.

     
"Sandy, this is Angie.
 
How are the twins?"

     
"They're doing great.
 
I took them to the mall this afternoon."

     
"That's good.
 
By the way, have you seen Bud today?"

     
"No, I haven't.
 
Let me ask Ken."

     
She must have covered the mouthpiece with her hand, as all Angie could hear were muffled voices.

     
"Ken said they had a short meeting after their game.
 
He just assumed Bud went straight home afterwards.
 
You haven't heard from him?"

     
Angie's words caught in her throat.
 
"Something's wrong."
 
She paced the kitchen with the portable phone to her ear.
 
"I'm worried, Sandy.
 
This isn't like Bud.
 
He always calls when he's going to be late.
 
Ask Ken if he mentioned meeting with a client."

     
She waited patiently, biting her lower lip while Sandy relayed the question.

     
"No.
 
Ken said he doesn't recall anything about an appointment, but that doesn't mean Bud didn't have one.
 
Why don't you give him a little more time.
 
It's just after five.
 
You know how a business meeting can go on and on."

     
"That's true.
 
Thanks, Sandy."

     
Angie dropped the phone on the cradle and drummed her nails on the plastic receiver.
 
She'd quit smoking ten years ago, but right about now she'd trade her Cadillac for a cigarette.

Chapter Three

     
Angie kept glancing out the kitchen window, scanning the driveway, praying she'd see Bud's white Porsche come over the top of the slight incline.
 
The clock ticked its way past six o'clock and her anxiety mounted.
 
Several scenarios crossed her mind:
 
a car wreck, a mugging, or maybe someone had stolen the car and left him tied up in some ungodly place.

     
Pacing from the kitchen to the television room and back down the hall, she kept coming back to the kitchen where the clock ticked loudly amid the silence.
 
Or, had he left her?
 
She'd certainly neglected him lately.
 
And then came the visit from that woman.

     
She stared out the kitchen window, her gaze fixed on the driveway.
 
Since the party, Bud had been curt and distracted.
 
She'd been preoccupied helping Sandy with the twins and hadn't pressed Bud for answers about Melinda.

     
When the phone rang at a quarter of eight, she jumped, knocking over a vase of flowers on the counter.
 
She uprighted the dripping vessel and snatched the phone, clutching the receiver to her ear.
 
"Bud."

     
"No, it's just me.
 
Obviously, he hasn't called?"

     
Angie slumped limply on a kitchen stool.
 
"Oh, God, Sandy, I'm worried sick."

     
"Take it easy.
 
Ken and I are taking the girls to a movie.
 
I'll call when we get back if it isn't too late."

     
Angie calculated that would be after eleven.
 
"I'll be up.
 
If Bud gets home, I'll leave a message on your machine."

     
"Okay.
 
Now Angie, stay calm.
 
I'm sure there's an explanation."

     
Angie felt her shoulders tense.
 
There better be, she thought.
 
"Thanks, Sandy."

     
Trying to relieve her apprehension, she meandered from room to room, but kept ending up back in the kitchen, staring out the window into the empty darkness.
 
She picked up the dishcloth and automatically wiped off the clean stove and kitchen counter.

     
Finally, at nine-thirty, she sat down in a chair at her small desk in the corner of the kitchen.
 
Her gaze fell on the Rolodex.
 
She pulled it toward her and thumbed through the H's, stopping at Tom Hoffman, a friend of theirs who worked as a police detective.
 
The two men had known each other since high school.
 
She remembered meeting Tom shortly after he'd lost his young wife to cancer.
 
He had never remarried, but devoted his life to the police force, working his way up to Detective in the homicide division.
 
Angie liked Tom and thought of him as a close friend.

     
She lifted the receiver, then let it fall back on the cradle, feeling foolish.
 
The police couldn't take any action; Bud hadn't been gone long enough.
 
She dropped her head on her arms and wept in frustration.

     
Her tears spent, she went to the kitchen sink and splashed cold water on her face, then wandered into the study, where she flipped on the television for background noise in the silent house.

     
Sandy called a little after eleven.
 
"Have you heard from him?"

     
Angie gazed out the kitchen window into the darkness and wiped her hand across her forehead.
 
"Not a word."

     
"Did you two have a fight?"

     
"No.
 
I wish it were that simple."

     
"Maybe you should call the police."

     
Angie fiddled with a tea towel, rolling the fringed edge between her fingers.
 
"I thought about calling Tom, but what can he do?
 
Bud's only been gone for hours, not days."

     
"Call him anyway, he'll understand.
 
After all, this is out of character for Bud.
 
That might mean something."

     
She felt relieved that Sandy had suggested the very thing that had crossed her mind.
 
"You're right.
 
I'll call him."

     
"I'll talk to you in the morning.
 
Try not to worry."

     
Angie hung up and drummed her fingers on the table.
 
She still hesitated to call Tom, but her fears had heightened.
 
Bud could be lying in his Porsche at the bottom of a ravine, bleeding to death.

     
She dialed Tom's home first, but got no answer, so she flipped open the phonebook to the non-emergency police number and asked for Detective Tom Hoffman.
 
While on hold, she closed her eyes and whispered.
 
"Please Tom, be there."
 
When the familiar voice came over the line, she breathed a sigh of relief.