Our Husband (a humorous romantic mystery) (21 page)

She clasped her hands in front of her on the table, hesitant to confide in him, but compelled to talk to someone. "He's

hoping the charges will be dropped, but he's interviewing defense attorneys just in case."

He drained the glass in three swallows, then gave her a studied once-over, all the way down to her bare feet. "You look...

little. And pale."

"More water?"

"I'll help myself."

Which saved her from exposing her waffle-imprinted thighs. Not that it mattered.

He refilled the glass from the tap, drained it, then filled it again and glanced all around the eclectic yellow room before

reclaiming his seat. He moved as if he were comfortable in a kitchen, although granted, this large space suited his athletic

frame. He was probably checking out the inside of the house in the event he decided to foreclose upon the title he held. Natalie

frowned. "Why aren't you working today?"

"I don't work weekends so I can spend time with the girls, but they had a birthday party sleepover today." His brown eyes

shone with affection.

"You must be very close to your nieces to see them every weekend."

"They live with me. Jeanie and Ally are my sister's kids. She and her husband were killed in a small-engine plane crash a

couple of years ago."

"I'm very sorry," she murmured, struck by the reminder that she hadn't been singled out for tragedy.

A weary smile materialized. "Things are better now, although the girls are a handful."

Natalie tried to reconcile the image of the large man before her with fatherhood. Tea parties. Pink backpacks.

Uncontrollable giggling. Her opinion of him shifted again to incorporate the paradox. "How selfless of you and your wife to

bring the children into your home."

"I'm not married. It's just the three of us."

"Oh." Shifting, shifting. "I... can't imagine how you juggle it all."

"No kids of your own?"

She shook her head. "A good decision, as it turns out."

He shrugged. "Maybe. But kids have a healing way about them."

The personal turn of the conversation made her edgy. Tapping a twitchy finger against her glass, she tried to steer the topic

back to neutral ground. "Mr. Butler, you wanted to discuss something?"

"Actually, I just wanted to see for myself if you were doing okay since the arrest. So—" He gestured toward her. "How

are you feeling?"

She blinked. "Why do you care?"

He blinked. "Because you're in a bad spot, that's why."

"The understatement of the year, wouldn't you say?"

"So, what are you doing about it?"

She bristled. "What can I do?"

"Well, assuming you didn't kill your husband—"

"I didn't."

"—you're in the best position to find out who did. You knew Raymond as well as anyone."

"That's supposed to be funny, right?"

"And you certainly have more incentive to clear your name than the police does."

"That's true. Detective Aldrich seems quite content to see me hang."

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "How much do you know about the other, um—"

"Wives?" Was it her imagination, or was it getting easier to say? "Basic things—how they met Raymond, where they live.

The younger one is pregnant, you know."

"I read it in the papers, but I wasn't sure if it was true."

She pressed her lips together, nodding. "And both women are primarily alone, I think, like I am." Which was probably

why Raymond picked them, now that she thought about it. And perhaps why he discouraged her from having a relationship with

Tony?

"You have your brother."

"Only recently. But then you know that, too, don't you?"

"Tony told you I offered him a job?"

She attempted to keep the disapproval out of her voice. "Yes." It didn't work.

"I thought you'd be glad for him to be working."

"I was hoping he'd find something—" She stopped and took a quick drink of water.

His eyebrows shot up. "Something more noble? You're quite the little snob, aren't you, Doc?"

She set her glass down hard. "My brother is a convicted thief—surely you understand the temptation of him working in a

pawnshop, having contact with people who might have even stolen whatever they're pawning."

"Like Raymond?"

Her heart lurched. "Raymond? He pawned things?"

He reached into his back pocket and withdrew a thick wallet. When he flipped it open, a plastic sleeve unfolded,

revealing picture after picture of the little girls. Receipts stuck out at all angles. He removed a piece of paper and crammed the

rest of it back into place. "I gave this list to the police. Raymond told me he was always running across some super deal while

he was on the road. Now I'm not so sure. Do you recognize anything?"

Natalie scanned the long list, her mind reeling.
One Tiffany desk lamp, one antique silver tea service, two antique silver

candelabra, one Rolex watch, three antique silver chafing dishes, two lead crystal decanters, one Umbro bronze statue, two

sixteen-place settings of antique silverware, fifty-two gold coins
...

The list of treasures stretched on and on. She held her breath, expecting any second to see something precious of hers or

her aunt's that she hadn't yet missed. At the end, however, she exhaled. "No, I'm not familiar with any of these items. But I bet

Beatrix would be. My attorney said she's from old money, and these pieces sound like heirlooms."

He winced. "Some I've already sold, but I'll hold whatever's left in case it's hers and she wants it back."

She rubbed her temples, feeling as if she were on a roller-coaster ride and each time she slowed to approach the terminal,

the attendant shouted, "One more time!" and threw the lever again. "I can't believe a man would steal from his own—" she

swallowed, "—wife."

"A
man
wouldn't," he said, then downed the third glass of water.

Funny, but most of the newspaper accounts had managed to reduce Raymond's bigamy to the level of a fraternity prank,

intimating that boys will be boys. In the ugly swirl of misplaced sympathies, Butler's comment was a gift. She contemplated the

man in her kitchen and acknowledged that some women might consider him to be good-looking. But with an abundance of

available and willing females, why would he bring his sledgehammer to
her
garden? Sara's assertion that a man bearing tools

meant something
intimate
leapt into her mind, but she dismissed the thought with a private scoff. Surely the man realized that

the last thing on her mind right now was...

Of course he did. He was, just as she assumed earlier, only keeping tabs on his investment.

"If you need anything at all," he said softly, "just call."

She shifted in her chair, interrupting the waffle-y pattern on the backs of her thighs. "Mr. Butler, I do appreciate you giving

my brother a chance."

"I sense a 'but' coming on."

"But the police and the media could misinterpret your involvement—employing my brother, being at my home."

He shrugged. "
But
you and I know we're not in cahoots."

"But how do I know that
you
aren't involved somehow?" After all, he probably had all kinds of underground contacts and

know-how. Broken limbs and severed horse heads came to mind.

One side of his mouth pulled back. "Until you get to know me better, I guess you'll have to trust me."

She studied his serious brown eyes, then slowly shook her head. "I'm fresh out of trust, Butler."

His gaze dropped, then he rose and carried his glass to the sink. "Pardon me for saying so, but it seems to me like you need

all the friends you can get right now."

She stood—thighs be damned. "Since my reputation and my freedom are on the line, I'll choose my own friends, thank

you."

He gave her a patient smile. "You really should be nicer to the man who's helping to restore your garden."

"I don't need your help."

"I know." Butler pushed himself off the counter he was leaning on and headed for the back door. "I'd better get back to that

sidewalk. Thanks for the cold water, Doc."

With a well-defined arm, he casually pushed open the screen door, allowing it to flap back in place. She walked to the

sink to empty her glass. Through the window she watched him retrieve the shovel and resume transferring broken concrete into

a wheelbarrow, creating clouds of gray dust. Rose Marie had wanted to replace that sunken sidewalk for ages. Natalie worked

her mouth from side to side. Despite her resentment of Butler's interference, some part of her responded to his optimism.

Of course, it was easy for a person to be optimistic when someone else's world was crashing down around them.

Her stomach clutched in a spasm, rumbling like thunder. She opened the refrigerator and peered inside, wincing at the

smell of ripe salads. With one quick shove, she closed the door and waved the air clear of the odor, hoping Tony would return

from the grocery soon.

She was suddenly starving.

Chapter 19

"I'm Julie Harpy, host of Home Shoppers, and on the line we have Beatrix from Tennessee. Hi, Beatrix!"

"Hello, Julie," she said, then sneaked a quick sip of her requisite gin and tonic.

"Which of our fine products did you choose today, Beatrix?"

"The stainless steel nonstick gourmet eight-quart pressure cooker with the extra lid and fry basket."

"Oh,
good
choice, Beatrix. Do you have any other pieces of our gourmet cookware?" Julie smiled at her over the

television set—her mouth moving a few seconds behind her voice sounding over the phone. The operator had directed Beatrix

to turn down the volume during the conversation so the delayed transmission wouldn't disorient her.

Julie looked like such a nice person. Beatrix felt a rush of affection for her—doing such a good thing by bringing products

that people needed right into their homes. "Yes, I ordered the deluxe set of gourmet cookware a few days ago."

"Wonderful! You must entertain a great deal."

"Oh, yes." Beatrix's voice echoed in the big, empty den. "My house is always full of happy people."

A chiming melody sounded in her ear. Julie squealed, and five seconds later on the TV screen, she jumped up and down.

"Beatrix, this is your lucky day! The music means you have the chance to win fifty bonus dollars to spend with Home Shoppers.

If you know the answer to the question, you're a winner. Are you ready?"

Beatrix wet her lips and sat up straighter in her leather chair. "Yes."

"Okay, here we go. If you tune in at one P.M. every day, which of our daily specials would you see—the Afternooner, the

Bonus Bonanza, or the Super Saver?"

She smiled. "The Afternooner."

"You're right, Beatrix! If you tune in at one P.M. every day, you'll be able to save even more money with our Afternooner

special. Beatrix from Tennessee, your Home Shoppers account will be credited with fifty dollars! You might want to use your

free money on the
most
beautiful blender coming up in the next half-hour."

Beatrix smiled, immensely buoyed. "Thank you, I will." She hung up and sighed with satisfaction. After discovering that

Raymond had run up her multitude of credit cards on cash withdrawals and expensive gift items she'd never received, she did

the only sensible thing—she applied for a Home Shoppers credit card over the phone and was rewarded for her longtime

patronage with a twelve-thousand-dollar limit. She swallowed another mouthful of the cold, cold drink.

Three thousand down, nine to go.

She turned at the sound of timid footsteps. Rachel gripped her purse and offered a miniature smile from the doorway.

"Mrs. Carmichael, I'm going home now."

"Yes, Rachel." She pointed to a large paper shopping bag. "Please take those items home to your husband and sons."

Her housekeeper reached into the bag and lifted a two-hundred-dollar dress shirt with the tags still dangling. "These are

Mr. Carmichael's things."

"Some of his things, yes." Giving in to her fermenting anger over his careless disposal of her family antiques, she had torn

into his closet, determined to destroy everything that reminded her of him. But she'd stopped short at the sight of his worn

flannel robe, the ugly brown-and-yellow plaid one she'd given him their first Christmas, their only Christmas in the apartment.

Despite thin elbows and permanently stained lapels, he'd kept it on a hook in his closet and had worn it every morning he was