Our Husband (a humorous romantic mystery) (16 page)

connections and too few conclusions.

"On the other hand," Aldrich said, "Dr. Carmichael here could have called someone to bring her the poison."

"Like who?" Masterson demanded.

"Like her brother who just got out of the Missouri State Pen. Maybe he graduated from robbery to murder. Or accessory to

murder."

Natalie clenched her jaw, close to tears again. "Look, Detective. I came in to talk to you with the hope I could find out

what happened to my hus—" She covered her hand with her mouth and choked back a sob. She just wanted her life back, and to

be far, far away from this, this...
seediness
. "Lowell, I have to go. Now."

Masterson was already standing, wielding his briefcase. "Yes, it's past time to leave."

Aldrich smiled and slowly unfolded his broad body. "Would you agree to take a polygraph test, Dr. Carmichael?"

"Yes," she said.

"No," Masterson said a heartbeat later. He leaned close to her ear. "You're too emotional right now. The polygraph could

misinterpret your anxiety."

Natalie set her jaw, recognizing the sanity of his observation, especially in light of a sudden revelation about herself.

"Dr. Carmichael?" the detective prodded.

Maybe she hadn't killed Raymond. But oh, God, how she'd wanted to.

Chapter 14

Masterson had told her not to worry—if the police had enough evidence to finger her, they would have arrested her. Still,

Natalie couldn't help but jump every time the phone rang and the doorbell sounded. Even now, while pruning the neglected

beauty bush, she found herself looking over her shoulder down the stone garden path, expecting Detective Aldrich to appear at

the black wrought-iron gate, lift the rusty latch, and march into her overgrown sanctuary swinging a pair of handcuffs.

She'd decided she'd be better off not checking the supply room at the office for ouabain. Not that she'd know exactly what

to look for, since the drug could be obtained in several forms—crystals, crystalline powder, pills, water-soluble solutions.

Besides, even if the storeroom were lined with the stuff, the layers of dust on the contents would speak for themselves.

She had, however, pried open the white lockers in the garage to find financial records for Raymond Carmichael of

Northbend, Tennessee, and for Raymond Carmichael of Smiley, Missouri, and for Raymond Carmichael of Leander, Kentucky.

Tax returns, originals of his "loan" papers to Brian Butler, copies of forms for different driver's licenses, and other papers she

simply didn't have the strength to sort through.

But no ouabain.

Natalie tossed the brittle branches onto one of the piles she'd accumulated, crushing a stand of grapefruit mint beneath the

soles of her lace-up boots. They were Rose Marie's boots, actually. And her hat. The aggressive mint was a nuisance, her aunt

had said, but smelled nice when trod upon. Natalie was content to blame her occasional tearing and sniffling on the fresh,

stinging aroma. At a clinking sound, her heart quickened and she turned to stare at the gate. Only a spring breeze, taunting her.

She knelt back to the cool earth and grabbed a handful of dead honeysuckle vine.

To his credit, Tony had been subdued. Pouting, probably, but she didn't care. As soon as he saw she was planning to work

in the back yard all day, he'd mumbled something about checking in with his parole officer and hightailed it out of there on foot

to ward off an invitation to help. After the degrading interrogation yesterday, she'd considered taking a short trip herself to sort

through the mess that was her life, but she could barely afford gas for the lawnmower, much less a ticket to paradise. Besides,

she couldn't risk leaving Tony with the keys to the house.

"Dr. Carmichael, how
lovely
to see you out and about."

She peered up from under the brim of her hat to see her neighbor smiling over the whitewashed side fence. "Good

morning, Mrs. Ratchet."

"I see you're thinning the garden—Rose Marie would be pleased."

"Yes."

"How are you
doing
, my dear?"

"Just trying to stay busy."

"Gardening is
so
therapeutic. When my Pauly died, I threw myself into a pond."

"Excuse me?"

"The goldfish pond in my back yard. I'd always wanted one, but Pauly said it would draw mosquitoes."

Self-centered brute. "I'm glad you finally got your pond."

"Me too. But the mosquitoes are murder."

Natalie started at her neighbor's word choice—had the woman heard something? Was she fishing for a headline?

"Listen, dear, if you don't know what something is or how to take care of it, just holler. Your aunt often sought my advice

on some of her more finicky varieties."

Not true. Her aunt had an innate way with plants. Natalie surveyed the twenty-by-twenty-foot plot, encouraged by the

splotches of bright green against the brown of old growth that promised restoration. She gestured to the dozens of metal

plaques staked in the rich, dark soil. "Thanks, Mrs. Ratchet, but Rose Marie labeled everything faithfully."

"You know, your aunt was considered a bit of a healer herself. Many a time she brought me feverfew tea for my

headaches."

Natalie stood and wiped her gloved hands against her work jeans. "Sounds like Rose Marie all right."

"And there's plenty of rhubarb over there for pies and conserves."

"I'm not much of a pastry chef. Raymond doesn't—" She stopped, shaken by how quickly she could forget that he was gone.

Blinking back scalding tears, she said, "I mean, I guess I'll have to go through my aunt's recipe books."

"Nothing against your dear aunt, God rest her soul, but my recipe for rhubarb pie is the best in these parts. I'll fetch it for

you directly."

"I'd like that."

"Dr. Carmichael—"

"Please call me Natalie."

"Natalie, then. The man I saw leaving your house this morning—is he a relative?"

Start spreadin' the news
. "Yes. My brother."

"I don't remember your aunt mentioning a nephew."

"They weren't as close as she and I. Mrs. Ratchet, I'd love to chat, but—"

"Is that your brother over there?"

She followed her neighbor's gaze to the creaky gate. Brian Butler lifted his hand in a wave, but his broad face wore a

serious expression. Natalie closed her eyes. What now?

"He doesn't look like you," Mrs. Ratchet said, her voice dubious.

"He's not my brother," Natalie murmured.

"Who then?" Her neighbor craned her neck and grew three inches—tiptoeing, no doubt.

"Just a... patient. I'd better go see what he needs."

"He looks familiar..."

"Good-bye, Mrs. Ratchet." Natalie removed her gloves as she approached the man, wondering why he even bothered to

don a tie if the knot was already hanging low by midmorning.

"Hello," he said. He'd gotten a haircut since she'd seen him last. A rooster tail had sprung up in the back.

"Did you come to take back the earrings?" she asked, her mood compromised.

He looked sheepish. "No." After a few seconds of shifting his feet, he gestured to a stone bench inside the gate. "Mind if I

come in?"

"Yes, I do."

"Your neighbor is staring."

"An even better reason for you to stay out there."

She'd stumped him—the man was obviously used to having his way. He scratched his temple, then leaned both hands on

the rickety gate. "The state police came to see me."

Her stomach lurched, but she refused to react. "In your line of work, I'm not surprised."

He pursed his mouth, then said, "The
Kentucky
State Police. A guy named Aldrich asked me a lot of questions about

Raymond. And about you." His voice was low, his gaze intent.

Natalie pushed her hat back. If she didn't know better, she might think the man was concerned. "When was this?"

"They left my shop a few minutes ago."

Aldrich was here, in Smiley? She stumbled backward to drop onto the cold stone bench. The corroded clink of the gate

sounded, and she sensed rather than saw that Butler had followed her. She pulled her hands down over her face, relieved at

least to see that Mrs. Ratchet had disappeared.

Butler stood in front of her, hands on hips, his fingers jumping. The braided leather belt around his khaki pants struck her

as oddly comforting—worn, but solid. It was one of those bizarre details that one notices to postpone realization of bad news.

The police still considered her a suspect in Raymond's murder, were perhaps planning to arrest her at this very moment.

He cleared his throat. "The detective told me about the other... women."

"Oh, goody."

"I'm... sorry," he said in a low voice, as if apologizing for his entire gender. "Just so you know—we're not all jerks."

A newly emerged vindictive side of her wanted to extinguish that pitying I'll-be-your-friend-when-I'm-not-taking-your-

jewelry light in his boyish eyes. "You're all jerks, you simply take turns."

"I'm worried about what will happen to you."

His contrite expression caught her off guard, but she covered with a wry smile. "I guess that means the detective told you

he believes Raymond was murdered?"

He nodded.

"And that he thinks I killed him?"

Butler dropped onto the bench next to her, resting elbows on knees, steepling his fingers. "He insinuated as much."

She laughed with no humor, then tilted her head back. The air was crystal clear, the sky, a surreal blue with a high,

luminous sun. The kind of weather one would expect in a town called Smiley. She didn't belong here. In fact, any minute now, a

black cloud would single her out, fix itself over her straw hat, and discharge a torrent of rain. And if she were lucky, perhaps

she would be struck by lightning.

"What kinds of things did he want to know?"

"How long I'd known Raymond, how much money he owed me, what I knew about you."

"And what do you know about me?"

He picked up an ornamental white quartz stone and studied it. "Besides where you work and where you live, not very

much."

"So why are you here?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I feel responsible for setting things in motion last week."

She turned toward him. "Setting things in motion? You think I was so angry at Raymond for his dealings with you that I

killed him?"

"I didn't say that."

"But is that what you told the police?"

"No." He dropped the stone and held up both hands as if to ward off a blow. "I told them you seemed like a nice lady

whose husband had taken to the cleaners."

"Oh, well, thank you very much for handing them a gift-wrapped motive."

"I didn't—" He sighed. "I told them you didn't strike me as the kind of woman who could hurt anyone."

Last night in her dreams, she'd dismembered Raymond with a dull hacksaw. She gave the pawnbroker a tight smile. "But

like you said, you don't know much about me."

"Maybe I'd like to."

Natalie stared, then guffawed. "You don't have to brownnose me, Mr. Butler. You'll get your money—unless, of course,

they put me on death row."

"A distinct possibility, Dr. Carmichael."

She jerked her head around, her heart plunging at the sight of Detective Aldrich standing at her gate, just as she'd imagined,

chest puffed and stance wide. She sprang to her feet so quickly, she lost her hat. "What do you want?"

He shook a green sheet of paper, a form of some kind with a sprawling signature across the bottom. "I have a warrant to

search your residence, property, and vehicle." He turned and waved, summoning a team of a half-dozen plainclothes and

uniformed officers who streamed through the gate.

The ground shook when Butler vaulted up. "Search for what?"

"For a drug called ouabain," the man said. "On the chance we got here before you could tip her off."

The big man clenched his fists. "What the hell are you saying?"

"That if I find out you're mixed up in this with the doc here, you'll go down with her."

"You're insane," Butler said.

"Welcome to my world," Natalie murmured, turning toward the back door. "I'm calling my lawyer."

"Use my cell phone," Aldrich said, extending the slim unit. "It would be best, Dr. Carmichael, if you remain outside and

within sight."

She snatched the phone, her mind whirling as she punched in Masterson's number. The uniformed officers went inside, the

other two swept to opposite ends of her back yard. Did they now think she was a serial killer who buried her victims in the