Our Husband (a humorous romantic mystery) (19 page)

shivered. Creepy.

When she hit the PLAY button, Alex reappeared and introduced the players, all of them fresh-faced and smiling, chatting

about their college and what they were studying. Cal State, Mathematics; Harrah Women's College, Economics; Notre Dame,

Biosomething or other. Wow. Those smart kids didn't know how lucky they were, going to smart colleges, studying smart

things, going on a TV show for smart people.

"Victoria, how old are you?" Alex asked the woman studying economics—and not the home kind either.

"Twenty-one," Victoria said, then pushed up her smart-looking glasses.

Ruby's jaw dropped. "I'm twenty-one," she whispered, and Marne yapped her acknowledgment. High school seemed so

long ago, she'd never considered the fact that she was now college-aged. She felt old, at least twenty-six. It was the mileage,

she guessed. After all, college girls didn't stay out until two in the morning. Or squeeze themselves into too-tight clothes. Or

strip for guys who drank too much. Or get knocked up.

No, Victoria looked too smart to do any of those things. Which was why Victoria was attending Harrah Women's college

and
she
was perfecting her Chinese split. Ruby sighed and leaned her head back on the couch. Ray had promised she wouldn't

have to work when she started showing. Not even waitressing? she'd asked. Not even, he'd said. Not even ticket-taking? she'd

asked. Not even, he'd said.

She missed Ray—he'd made her feel happy about getting up in the mornings. Of course, if she didn't get up in the mornings,

Mame would pee all over her Spring Meadow double tufted comforter.

The phone rang, and she considered letting it go. At this rate, she'd never get through
Jeopardy
. But the caller ID showed it

was Billy Wayne on the other end, so she paused the DVR again and picked up the phone.

"Hey, Billy Wayne."

"Yo. Big news. They arrested the lady doc yesterday for murdering Raymond."

Ruby's stomach dropped. "Natalie? But she didn't kill Ray."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Well, I... she just didn't strike me as the murdering type, that's all."

"Yeah, well most murderers don't have a brand on their forehead."

That was true. Although she herself had a mole on her right boob. "Is she still in jail?"

"No, she was out on bail real quick like—didn't even spend the night."

She sighed in relief. Natalie seemed too delicate to survive a night in a cell with big hairy women trying to cop a feel.

"Anyway, I was calling to let you know now that the media has wind of the story, they might be looking you up."

"They already did. Channel Two news."

"No shit? What did they ask? What did you say?"

"I'm still wearing pj's, so I didn't let them in, and I didn't say anything."

"Well, get off your cute butt and put on something black. The next time a camera shows up, you got to play the part of a

grieving widow. A pregnant grieving widow."

"Billy Wayne, if Mac at the club finds out I'm pregnant, he'll fire me."

"It's just a matter of time, sweetheart. Meanwhile, you got to milk the public sympathy. It'll help our case when we sue for

half of Raymond's assets."

"But that could be a long time, and I need money coming in now."

"Ruby Lynn, which one of us has a law degree?"

"You do."

"And which one of us passed the bar exam?"

"Well, it took you a few times."

"That don't matter. Which one of us got it?"

"You did."

"Aren't you paying me for my good advice?"

"In Babe Bucks."

"They spend!"

"Okay, okay," she relented. "I'll do what you say."

"Good. I'll call Channel Two and tell them to get back to your place for an interview. Try to work up a few tears, would

you?"

"I'll try, Billy Wayne."

"Thatta girl. Later."

Ruby hung up the phone. Alex was frozen on the TV screen with his mouth open. She gave him a wistful look, then trudged

to the bedroom and opened the folding doors to her closet.

The sight of her closet never failed to cheer her up. All those poles and shelves and racks for her hats and jackets and

minis and shoes. A far cry from the cardboard box that held the dingy jeans and hand-me-down T-shirts she'd worn as a

teenager. Her wardrobe was now dazzling—shiny, sparkly, spangly, shimmery. More clothes than she'd ever dreamed of

owning.

Then she frowned. Billy Wayne said black. Did she have anything black? Walking her fingers through the hangers, she

finally found a black dress she hadn't worn in forever. Mac said it was a bad stage getup—too many zippers. She pulled the

hanger over her head and held the dress against her as she pivoted in front of the white reproduction antique dresser mirror.

It mostly covered her, and leather was a nice, expensive fabric. And it would match her black knee boots. She tossed the

dress on the bed, then wound her hair in a topknot as she walked toward the shower.

"I'm sorry, Raymond," she murmured. "But my daughter is going to have the chance to go to Harrah's Women's College and

major in bio-something or other."

Chapter 17

When she was little, Natalie had believed nothing was beyond the healing power of the bay window seat in Rose Marie's

bedroom.
Her
bedroom now. Swathed in pale blue and yellow fabrics, and heaped with feather pillows, the little nook had

seemed like an island of possibilities, optimism, and refuge. Apparently, however, Rose Marie had taken the magic with her.

She sighed and watched her breath fog the window, then disappear. Fog, disappear. Fog, disappear. The pane of glass

beneath her cheek was cold, but not as cold as her skin. Or her heart.

Or, according to the police, her blood.

The media had gleefully taken up the gauntlet. A cold-blooded female doctor living in a town called Smiley poisoning her

bigamist husband with an herb from her garden? A news producer couldn't have scripted a more perfect tale. She'd been spared

national headlines only because a young rock icon had overdosed in Miami, and a prominent politician's son had been arrested

in a raid on a gay bathhouse in San Diego. In the tri-state area, however, her arrest was the story of the year, perhaps the story

of the decade. And for the
Smiley Tribune
, circulation three thousand one hundred, it was the story of the century.

It helped, of course, that the newspaper's star reporter lived next to the perp, able to provide photos of the front of the

house, the side of the house, the back of the house, the neglected garden, and even the "homicide herb" as the Strophanthus had

been dubbed. Nurseries reported a run on the homicide herb, and a state drug agency had launched an investigation into the

safety of the obscure plant.

Since her arrest the day after the search, she'd learned three things. One, that she knew next to nothing about the legal

system. She'd been reduced to soliciting advice from Tony, of all souls. Her hopes they might someday have a common interest

hadn't included being Mirandized.

Two, that she was even less photogenic than she had imagined. Based on the wild-eyed, stern-faced pictures of her in the

papers Masterson had gathered for his files, even she would be hard-pressed to acquit herself.

And three, she would never again tempt fate by questioning whether her life could possibly get worse. Raymond's secret

debt, then his bigamy, then his death, now the murder charge... devastation was relative to a person's perspective. The threat of

bankruptcy paled miserably in comparison to the threat of the electric chair.

Her shoulders jerked with a hysterical little laugh—this simply could not be happening. Not to her. Not after playing by

the rules her entire life. The injustice was incomprehensible.

A knock on the door sounded, but she couldn't summon the energy to answer Tony.

"Nat. Nat?"

The door squeaked open and she lifted her head. She'd never before seen her brother so tentative.

"You want something to eat?"

She couldn't imagine ever regaining her appetite. "No, thanks."

"Jesus, Nat, you're a bone rack. How about some coffee? I just made a pot."

And he wore half of it down the front of his white V-neck T-shirt. She smiled. "Maybe a cup."

"I'll be right back."

"No, I'll come down." She slowly unfolded her boneless body. "I need to leave this room sooner or later."

"You outwaited the reporters. They're finally gone."

"For good, I hope," she said, limping on numb feet.

"They'll lose interest as soon as Masterson gets the charge dismissed."

She allowed him to assume some of her weight on the way down the stairs. "I don't suppose he's called with that little

nugget of good news, has he?"

"Not yet. But Sara called again."

Natalie sighed. "Poor thing. I'm calling her right now."

"Call her from the den," he said. "I'll bring your coffee."

She stared after him as he disappeared into the kitchen. The transformation was nothing less than amazing.

"We're out of almost everything," he called. "I thought I'd go shopping if you're feeling better."

Shopping? Well, well. Perhaps her brother just needed to be needed.

She picked up the phone and chased down the cord—Tony must have tired of its endless ringing. After securing the plug,

she dialed her office number. Sara answered, breathless. "Drs. Carmichael and Skinner, can you please hold?"

"Sara, this is Natalie. Why are you answering the phone?"

"Dr. Carmichael! I've been worried sick about you! Gloria went down to chase off the reporters blocking the doors, so I'm

manning the phone. How are you?"

"I'm fine," she lied.

"But the papers—"

"Don't believe everything you read and hear."

"The police were here, turning your office upside down, asking all kinds of questions."

"This is all a huge misunderstanding."

"But Raymond, was he...?"

"Murdered?" She sighed and pulled a hand down her face. "The autopsy results were reviewed and the results were the

same—ouabain poisoning. All I know is I had nothing to do with it."

"But was Raymond...?"

"What, Sara?"

"M-married already?"

Natalie swallowed. "And since."

Her nurse burst into tears. "Oh, Dr. Carmichael, how could he?"

"I'm still trying to sort through things myself."

"Is there anything I can do to help? Anything at all?"

A rush of affection clogged her throat. "Just hold down the fort for Dr. Skinner until I can work through this mess." Getting

back to her office to unimpact earwax for cookie-bearing patients was her sliver of light at the end of the tunnel.

"Dr. Carmichael..." Sara cried harder. "Dr. Skinner and I, we don't see eye to eye—he wants to bring back Mrs. Skye to

assist him. And I... my sister called me about an opening at the new hospital in Riley."

The light flickered, then vanished. Natalie's shoulders fell. She couldn't blame Sara, though, with a child to support. She

might not get back to her practice for weeks. If ever.

Sara sobbed. "The pay is good, and the benefits, well... I don't want to move, but I need the security. Please understand."

She cleared her throat, and tried to sound normal. "What about Joey?"

"Your situation was a wake-up call for me, Dr. Carmichael. I'm doing fine all by myself, just me and my boy."

She wanted to tell Sara that all men weren't untrustworthy, but at the moment, few came to mind. And she conceded that

her nurse was only being her practical self where her job was concerned. If she did reopen the practice, it seemed likely that

the locals would stay away in droves. She suspected Kevorkian had cornered the market on patients who preferred an M.D.

with a rap sheet.

Sara sniffed mightily. "I'm so sorry."

Natalie closed her eyes. "Don't be. You're right to think about your family, and you have my blessing, Sara."

"Oh, thank you, thank you. I'll talk to Dr. Skinner right away."

"He can call me if he has questions about patients after you leave."

"Oh, wait—I knew there was something I needed to ask you. Brian Butler."

Natalie frowned. "What about him?"

"I found his file, but you didn't fill out his encounter sheet. He was the gentleman who came in late the last day you were

here, complaining of—"

"Indigestion. I remember. Turns out I didn't have to treat him after all."

"Okay, I'll make a note of it. His was the only file outstanding. Do you need anything from your office? I'd be glad to drop