The Ring on Her Finger (2 page)

What odd behavior. Even for Archie. It was certainly something else to consider before giving him a reply on his proposal.

When his fleeing figure dissolved into the darkness at the edge of the Wemberley yard, she spun back around to find that the quartet of police officers had dwindled to a duo. Presumably the other two had joined their brothers and arms and had lit out after Archie. Both of the remaining officers, however, were gazing directly at Lucinda.

“Are you Lucinda Hollander?” one of the men asked.

She smiled brightly as she tossed her flowered blond braid over one shoulder. “Why, yes, I am. Have we met? Wait, don’t tell me,” she added when he opened his mouth to speak. “Let me guess. It must have been at Nonni and Forrest Caldicott’s fundraiser for the Police Officers’ Scholarship Fund last Christmas, yes?”

“Ah, no,” the man said as he began a cautious approach. “We’ve never met, Miss Hollander. But you’re under arrest for the murder of George Jacobs.”

Lucinda gaped at him, certain she had misunderstood. “I beg your pardon?”

The policeman began to reach for her. Instinctively, she shoved both hands behind her back and took a step in retreat. “But I don’t even know a George Jacobs.” She expelled a single, anxious chuckle. “This is some kind of joke, isn’t it?”

She scanned the crowd until she found Babs Wemberley dressed as a shimmering butterfly—though one of the hostess’s silvery antennae had been bent to an upside-down L during the mayhem—and demanded silent confirmation that this was part of the evening’s, admittedly rather tasteless, entertainment. But Babs only looked horrified by the turn of events. Eyes wide, she shook her head.

Lucinda turned to her mother and Antoinetta, then to her father and Emory. All, however, were clearly as stunned as she by the policeman’s announcement. None of them said anything.

“But...” she began again, turning back to the approaching policeman. “But... But...” Unfortunately no other words came to her rescue.

“When we get down to the station, Miss Hollander,” the policeman said as reached for her again, “there are a couple of people from the FBI who’d like to talk to you, too.”

“The FBI?” Lucinda repeated. For one delirious moment, she was almost able to convince herself that he was talking about the Future Beauticians of Idaho. But why would future beauticians from any state want to talk to her? Not that she could think of any reason why the Federal Bureau of Investigation would want to speak to her, either...

Suddenly, she understood. It was
Archie
who had just thrown himself through a window in a panic-stricken frenzy,
Archie
who was clearly the target of the police. Obviously,
Archie
had done something illegal—though there was no way Lucinda would ever believe he had murdered someone—and she was considered guilty by association.

See? Visual aids really did enhance her learning ability.

“Come on, Miss Hollander,” the policeman said again. “Let’s go peaceful-like, okay? No reason to cause any more problems than we already have for Mr. and Mrs. Wemberley.”

Something hot and manic splashed through her midsection, and she searched frantically again for anyone who might come to her aid. But everyone in the ballroom—even her own family—seemed to have been struck dumb, and all were watching the goings-on, riveted.

The rational thing to do would be to allow the police to arrest her, go rationally down to the station and explain in a rational manner that she had nothing to do with whatever they suspected her of doing. Yes, Lucinda thought, that would be the rational thing to do. Then, without thinking—never mind being rational—she took a giant step backward. When she did, her ballet slipper-clad foot skidded back farther than she intended. She glanced down to see a small shard of broken glass beneath her foot. Glancing behind her, she saw the gaping window, its sheer drapes drifting inward on a wisp of warm, damp air. A craggy spike of lightning rent the dark night beyond in a way that was quite theatrical, really. It was punctuated by a restless grumble of thunder, something Lucinda couldn’t help thinking must be a sign.

What happened next seemed almost unreal, and was utterly without planning. One minute Lucinda was staring at the policeman, who was reaching for her again. And the next minute...

Well, the next minute, she was picking herself up out of the rhododendrons and running into the darkness in the opposite direction from the one into which Archie had fled.

She didn’t stop running until she reached the oceanfront condominium of her best friend since childhood, Phoebe Bloom. Though she did run long enough and far enough out of her way to elude the authorities. She’d had the element of surprise on her side, after all. It was only natural that everyone would take a moment to watch a fleeing wood nymph who hurled herself through a window previously shattered by Bozo the Clown before collecting themselves enough to go after her. But she hadn’t had good equipment for running a marathon, something that had hindered what might have been better progress under other circumstances.

Diaphanous gowns, she learned the hard way that evening, did not mix well with thunderstorms. Nor were ballet slippers the most effective footwear one might choose for escaping snarling German shepherds. As a result, it was past midnight when Phoebe opened her front door to Lucinda’s frantic knocking. But their friendship was such that they shot first and asked questions later, so the moment Phoebe saw Lucinda’s wet dryad costume, she hustled her inside and rushed to the bathroom, returning moments later with a stack of towels.

Phoebe’s short, dark hair was slicked back from her forehead, still wet from a recent shower, and she’d removed her contacts in favor of tiny, black-framed glasses. She wore hot pink pajamas spattered with images of European landmarks, which oddly complemented the electric blue nail polish on her toes. After handing off the towels to Lucinda, she padded across the room to turn down the stereo, and the Dean Martin music that had blared from the speakers—his signature “That’s Amore,” which Lucinda absolutely adored—softened to a melodic buzz. Without asking—since it must have been obvious—Phoebe wove her way through the clutter of Danish Modem furniture to the bar on the other side of the room, where she immediately began to prepare a pitcher of martinis.

“What the hell is going on?” she demanded as she shook in several dashes of chartreuse for color—and that little extra buzz. She nodded toward Lucinda’s ruined costume, adding, “I know the Wemberleys are supposed to be known for their creative party themes, but Babs just doesn’t seem the type to go for a Mud Wrestling Smackdown motif. What gives, Lucy?”

Only Phoebe called Lucinda Lucy. Not because Lucinda didn’t like being called that—she actually preferred Lucy to Lucinda—but because no one else had ever seemed to think of her in such a way. The name Lucy evoked an image of someone who was spontaneous and unworried, someone who had a jaunty disposition and a clever way with words. Lucinda suggested someone who was sedate, moralistic and gloomy. Not that Lucinda was either of those people necessarily, but from the day twenty-two years ago that she and Phoebe made each other’s acquaintances at the ages of six and seven, respectively—when Phoebe’s mother came to work for the Hollanders as their housekeeper—Lucinda had become Lucy. That was probably one of the things that bonded her to Phoebe so quickly—that her new friend saw something in her that others had overlooked. Even today, Phoebe Bloom was the only person who knew Lucinda backward and forward, inside and out. And she was, without question, the only person Lucinda trusted. Add to that the fact that she was a Dean Martin fan, too, and, well, it was just serendipity, that was what it was. To Lucinda’s way of thinking, there wasn’t a performer working today who could touch that man.

“Lucy?” Phoebe asked again, her voice growing anxious in light of her friend’s silence. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Lucinda sighed heavily. “Oh, Phoebe, everything is wrong. The weirdest thing happened.”

Phoebe gave the pitcher of martinis one final stir, then poured a generous serving for each of them. “Maybe you should start from the beginning,” she said as she crossed the room again. She handed one glass to Lucinda, then took the seat next to her on the red, kidney-bean-shaped couch. “We’ll work from there.”

Lucinda took the glass and enjoyed a healthy taste. Phoebe did make the nicest martinis. As the mellow spirits warmed her belly and parts beyond, she described the episode that unfolded at the Wemberleys’ party.

But of all the bizarre details she imparted, Phoebe latched most quickly onto the one she obviously considered most important: “He came dressed as Bozo for an enchanted woodlands theme?”

Lucinda nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

Phoebe shook her head in disbelief. “What a moron.”

Lucinda refrained from comment and instead halfheartedly defended Archie. “He has a very nice position with the government that has excellent job security and wonderful benefits.”

“Excellent job security and wonderful benefits do not a dream man make,” Phoebe countered. “He may be a G-man, but has he found your G-spot?”

“Phoebe!”

“Well, has he?”

“We’ve only been dating a little while,” Lucinda said, knowing it was a lame defense in light of the fact that she herself had been wondering about, if not the actual location of her G-spot, certainly Archie’s unwillingness to help her find it.

“And this ring!” Phoebe cried, jerking up Lucinda’s hand. “It’s horrific. What was the man thinking? He is such a moron.” Softening her voice some, she added, “I told you so.”

“Told me what?” Lucinda asked.

“I told you Archie Conlon was trouble.”

“You never said he was trouble. You said he was a moron. You said he has the personality of a piece of lettuce. And that he dances like a rabid pig and is as interesting as a hard-boiled egg. You also said he smells like cheese and that his head is shaped like an avocado. You know, come to think of it, Phoebe, you could have just called him a Cobb salad and been done with it. But you never said anything about him being trouble.”

“You don’t think a man who reminds a woman of a Cobb salad isn’t trouble?” Phoebe shot back.

Lucinda sighed. “I think what happened tonight certainly qualifies as trouble. But, Phoebe,” she hurried on before her friend had a chance to interrupt, “I can’t believe Archie would be involved in anyone’s murder. I can believe he’d be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and maybe even doing something he shouldn’t, but you’ll never convince me he could intentionally hurt someone.”

Phoebe blew out an exasperated breath. “Okay, I guess that’s true. Archie’s too big a moron to be a murderer. Still, he’s obviously tied up in something he shouldn’t be. And he’s dragged you into it with him by association.” Another, obviously alarming thought struck her, because she hastily covered her mouth, and her eyes went wide. “Omigod,” she said from behind her fingers. “I’m harboring a fugitive from justice in my house!”

Lucinda jumped up from the sofa, horrified by the realization that she’d put her friend in such a position without realizing. “Oh, no. I didn’t even think about that. Oh, Phoebe, I’ll leave right now. Pretend you never saw me.”

Phoebe tugged her back down to the sofa. “Are you kidding? This is great! I’ve never harbored a fugitive from justice before. I can’t wait to tell somebody!”

Lucinda bit her bottom lip anxiously.

“Well, not until after you’re gone,” Phoebe assured her. “Speaking of which, you should probably be gone soon. If what I see on TV is true—and it goes without saying that everything I see on TV is true,” she added wryly, “then the coppers ought to be pounding down my door with a battering ram any minute. So whatever we do, we have to do it fast.” She gazed at Lucinda expectantly. “So. What are we going to do?”

Lucinda squeezed her eyes shut tight to hold back the tears she felt threatening. “I don’t know. But I’m afraid to talk to the police. They must have something incriminating they can use against me. I mean, they had enough evidence of something to arrest me. And innocent people go to jail all the time,” she continued, feeling hysteria bubbling up. “Sometimes for years. Sometimes they even execute innocent people. You read about it in the papers all the time.”

“Now, Lucy, let’s not get carried away.” Phoebe cupped a firm hand on her shoulder. “Think a minute, sweetie. WWDD?”

WWDD
? Lucinda echoed to herself. It was the philosophical tenet that she and Phoebe held sacred, the question they asked themselves whenever they were in a bind.
What Would Dino Do
? “Well,” she said, “he’d probably fix a drink, then call up Sinatra and the boys, then go into hiding, then sing ‘You’re Nobody ’Til Somebody Loves You.’”

“Exactly,” Phoebe said.

“And the cops would break down his door and take him away in cuffs before Sinatra and the boys got there!” Lucinda cried. “Phoebe, that’s not going to work for me, not this time. I have to hurry or I’m going to wind up on death row.”

“Lucy—”

“But what if it happens?” Lucinda insisted. “At the very least, I could go to jail. For years!” Her panic full-blown now, she gripped Phoebe’s pajama shirt by the lapels. “Hide me, Phoebe,” she said desperately. “You’ve got to hide me!”

“What? Like in those Bugs Bunny cartoons? You want me to stuff you in my oven, and then, when Officer Clancy shows up, turn on the gas and throw in a match to prove you’re not there?”

Lucinda blinked in response. “Well, no, but... But there must be something you can do. You’re the brains of this operation, Phoebe. Think. Tell me what to do.”

“First off, Lucy,” Phoebe said, her patience clearly taxed, as it was whenever Lucinda brought up the topic of their comparative smarts—or lack thereof. “I’m not any smarter than you are. Just because you had trouble in school doesn’t mean you’re not bright. People have different learning patterns, you know. And second off, how am I supposed to know how to elude the police? I’ve never had to.”

“No, but if you did, I bet you’d be really good at it.”

“Agreed.” Phoebe mulled the possibilities. “What would I do if I were in your situation? Hmmm... If I were in your situation, I’d probably...” She smiled and sat up straighter, setting her martini on the coffee table. She studied Lucinda thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded. “You know, it just might work.”