Broken Vows Mystery 01-For Better, for Murder Page 6

  “You’re right. I’m being self-centered and selfish. He’s doing his job, and helping me in the process, I’m sure.”

  The crowd began to leave. Cory seemed to be exchanging looks with one of the Dickens cast, a tall, fortyish man with graying hair and a flowing moustache, before he turned back to me. “Did you drive the Porsche?”

  “No. I walked.”

  Cory glanced at the man again, who appeared to be waiting for him as the rest of the cast dispersed. “Do you want me to walk you home?”

  “No, thanks. You go ahead with your plans.”

  Cory smiled in relief. “Okay. I’ll see you Tuesday.” He sauntered across the park and spoke briefly with the Dickens man. The two of them took off down the sidewalk.

  I realized I was alone in the park with the brightly lit Christmas tree.

  Alone and incredibly sad.

  I walked home, waving to the occasional neighbor’s car as it passed. Walter rolled by in his patrol car and waved as well, most likely on the prowl for hooligan teenagers who had attended the tree lighting ceremony without their parents. I think most of the families had rushed home to bed, given it was a school night. I took my time, becoming more determined with each step.

  I had to talk to Ray, not just about the Vegas misunderstanding or Erica’s whereabouts or even Tim’s death. I had to talk to him about our marriage, however painful the conversation might be. Why hadn’t he said anything during the last three years about the fact we were still married? Was he as ambivalent about our divorce as I was? Did he find it as difficult as I did to admit failure? Was he holding out the same hope we would still live happily ever after? Or had he moved on to the arms of Catherine Thomas, while waiting for me to act responsibly and file the papers? After all, I had handed the papers to him, not the other way around. But he had signed them, although he’d never once said he didn’t want to be married to me anymore, just that he wanted a baby. Our baby, the mix of his chemistry and mine. The mix I feared the most. Ray just didn’t understand what it was like to feel responsible for someone who struggled as much as my sister, or how difficult it was to share her pain.

  A fresh set of car tracks greeted me in the driveway. I froze, checking my windows for lights or a flip of a curtain and fearing Erica had come home to roost with her sociopath in tow. Nothing caught my eye, so I proceeded onto the front steps and turned the key in the lock. My home was silent and dark, as it is every night. I checked under the beds and in the closets anyway. I often did now that I lived alone. Someone must have used my driveway as a turnaround, because I saw no sign of a visitor.

  My thoughts churned as I removed my contacts and left them to soak. Had Erica really robbed a convenience store at gunpoint? Would she be put in prison? Or permanently relocated to a prison-like mental facility? That might relieve my financial burden but not my familial burden. And I would miss her. I’d been pretty much her mother since she was seven and I was twelve. She still had days when she acted like she did before the onslaught of her illness. Erica wasn’t so bad to live with on her good days. It was the bad days that made me feel like I had failed her as a surrogate mother, quelling any scrap of desire to attempt motherhood.

  My doorbell rang, startling me as I was slipping my nightshirt over my head. I didn’t get many callers, especially this time of night. It had to be Erica. Would she be beaten and broken again this time?

  It was Ray. I regretted wearing my ratty thermal nightshirt now. My high beams flicked on in response to the cold draft of air flowing into the house behind him. Goose bumps raised the hairs on my unshaven legs as I crossed my arms over my chest and waited for him to speak.

  He was not in uniform, but in jeans that hugged his sexy butt and muscular thighs. God, I used to love just following the man through the grocery store, taking in that view. He shrugged his leather jacket off and tossed it onto the back of my wingback chair before dropping onto the couch. “We need to talk.”

  “Yes.” I curled up on the chair across from him, pulling my nightshirt over my knees and down to my ankles for both warmth and protection.

  “A corner store on the outskirts of the city was robbed around five. According to reports, the store has videotape of two suspects. Same camouflage outfits. But this time the store manager said both robbers spoke and one was a woman. The store’s parking lot camera was broken so I don’t know if these two were riding in a Lincoln with someone else or not, but it looks like the same two as the 7-Eleven robbery.

  “This store’s out of my jurisdiction. The state police have been called in. If it’s Erica, she’s in serious trouble.

  “One last time—do you know where she is?”

  “No.”

  “All right.” He looked down at his hands, which were clasped in front of him almost in a prayer position. “Second thing we need to talk about—” His gaze darted to the right and he raised his eyebrows. “Is that a mouse?”

  In a flash, I was standing on top of the chair seat. “Where?”

  He looked me up and down, then stared pointedly at my legs. I glanced down and realized I had raised the hem of my nightshirt reflexively from my calves to above my knees, trying to keep the little bugger from climbing my clothing.

  “You know how I feel about mice. They’re little and hairy and dirty and sneaky and … and … have beady eyes. Where is it? Get rid of it! Get rid of it!”

  “All right. Settle down. It’s in the corner, hiding. It’s more afraid of you than you are of it.” He looked me up and down again. “In theory, anyway.” He headed for the kitchen.

  I saw the tiny gray breathing ball crouched in the corner of the living room, hiding in the shadows inches from the edge of the lamp light. Its whiskers twitched and it appeared to be chewing on an elbow macaroni, probably from Erica’s feeding frenzy earlier today. She probably left the door open while she carried in the groceries, leaving a trail of bread crumbs, no doubt. Let’s just bring all the vermin in through my doors. “Uh, you’re going to leave me here alone with it?” My voice squeaked.

  “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get a container or a bag to trap it in. You can come with me if you want.”

  Ray disappeared through the door as I assessed the possibility of jumping from the chair to the couch, which was closer to the kitchen. I didn’t think I could bridge the gap between the chair and the couch without falling into the great divide and leaving me open to a mouse attack. I kept my eye on the little bugger instead. He rose up on his hind legs and … defied me.

  “Ray!”

  “I’m right here.” He had my green plastic Rubbermaid pitcher and its lid in his hand. He slowly crept up on the mouse. When it spied him coming and started to dart out of the corner, Ray blocked its exit on both sides and scooped the little devil right into the container, slapping the lid on tight. “Got it.”

  I clapped wildly. “My hero.”

  He swooped the container under my chin. “Want to see it up close?”

  I jogged in place on the chair. “No! Put it outside.”

  Ray carried the container out the front door. Minutes later he reappeared in my living room with the empty container. “I’ll wash this out for you.”

  My lip curled in reflex. “Throw it away, please. The trash can’s on the side of the house.”

  He disappeared through the door again and returned empty handed. “You know what they say: if you see one, you have ten more.”

  “Don’t remind me. I’m buying traps first thing in the morning. Or maybe a hungry cat.”

  He smiled. “Let’s not go overboard. You’re allergic to cats.” He walked over to my chair to help me down.

  I placed my hand in his and moved the arch of my foot to the edge of the seat, promptly losing my balance and lurching forward right into his chest, his arms closing around me. I found myself nose to nose with him, his breath smelling of garlic masked by peppermints.

  His smile faded. We stared into each other’s eyes. I felt his breath on my lips. I closed my eyes, fee
ling safe and warm—maybe a little too warm in the nether regions.

  I recalled his breath on those areas. I wiggled.

  He loosened his grasp. I slid down his body, feeling all the buttons and bumps, and smacked my heels on the wooden floor. All my memories of the way we were went right back into their mental drawers.

  Ray stepped back. “Do you have any coffee? I’ll make it for myself if you do.”

  “Yes.” I led the way into the kitchen, feeling all tingly and confused. If only it didn’t feel so much like home every time we were together. If only he wasn’t the only man I’d ever really been attracted to, let alone slept with. If only I didn’t feel so inexplicably bound to him even after three years of trying to stop missing him and failing miserably.

  I opened the cupboard door and set my coffeemaker on the counter. Then I found the bag of filters and a tin of Maxwell House. Ray took them from my hands.

  I moved over a few feet to lean against the counter. “So what was the second thing you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “Do you have a receipt for the pizza you purchased Friday night?”

  “A receipt?” Why would Ray want a receipt? Because he doesn’t believe you, stupid.

  I choked my response out around the lump in my throat. “Let me look in my purse.”

  I grabbed the purse off the counter and dug through it. Credit cards were a way of life for me now. But I didn’t always keep the food receipts. I could feel Ray’s gaze on me as he waited with his arms folded. I started to sweat as I scanned each piece of paper without success.

  It was the last receipt I unfolded. “Here it is.” I waved it triumphantly.

  Ray accepted it, looked it over, and shoved it into his pocket. “Thanks. I also need a list of all your customers.” He opened the filter bag and stuck his hand inside, withdrawing a yellowed paper disk. “How old are these?”

  “I have no idea. It’ll work.”

  He grimaced and stuffed the filter in the coffee machine.

  “The list should include customers who made appointments or called by phone, not just paying customers. Go back a year at least.”

  “Okay. I can put it together from my calendar and computer records. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  Ray lifted the plastic lid off the coffee can and stood staring into the can for so long I feared the coffee might somehow have gotten moldy. “What?”

  He reached into the can and pulled a bunch of bills out. A bunch of crisp new bills that still smelled of ink. I couldn’t tell for sure without my contacts, but they looked like hundred dollar bills. Bills I’d never seen before.

  “What’s this doing here?”

  At first I thought it was Erica’s money from the 7-Eleven, but how many new hundreds would a 7-Eleven have in the drawer in the middle of the night? None.

  “I’m not sure.”

  He fanned the stash. “There’s two thousand dollars here, Jolene. When we were married, you were a fanatic about keeping money in the bank to earn interest. I didn’t realize your business was such a cash cow that you’d changed your philosophy.”

  My business was the cow that ate the cash. “It has its moments.”

  Ray set the coffee can and the money on my kitchen counter. “What’s going on, Jolene?”

  I didn’t know and I didn’t want to admit I didn’t know. I feared it tied to Erica somehow and I needed to protect her. Ray took the law very seriously. I did, too, but Erica required allowances. Until I knew for sure who the money really belonged to, I’d pretend it was mine.

  “It’s just money, Ray.” I straightened up off the counter. “Maybe you should go now. That coffee’s too old to drink anyway.”

  I walked into the living room and picked up his jacket. I held it out to him when he followed me into the room. “I’ll have my customer list ready for you tomorrow.”

  Ray didn’t accept his jacket. He folded his arms and glared at me instead. Great, he was going to be obstinate. I could be obstinate too. We still had that in common. I shook the jacket at him. “Please.”

  He continued to glare. I walked to the front door and opened it, immediately regretting my action as the icy wind bit at my bare legs.

  He followed me over and closed the door, trapping me between it and his outstretched arms. He leaned down to lock eyes with me. “I want to know where the money came from, Jolene. Tell me the real truth.”

  The last time I told him the real truth—that I didn’t want a child—he said “fine.” But it wasn’t fine. I had counted on his promised support, and he withdrew it. I was still smarting from that betrayal. How could I trust him now when the stakes were so much higher and our relationship so much more tenuous? Not to mention, I didn’t know where the money came from.

  I smelled the garlic and mints again. Had he dined out this evening? Perhaps he took Catherine Thomas to the same restaurant where we ate on Saturday. If nothing, I was the master of distraction. “Like you told me about Catherine Thomas?”

  His head snapped back like I’d landed a roundhouse punch. I knew it was all true. My heart broke in two.

  He straightened and took his jacket from my hand. “Where did you hear about Catherine?”

  “She introduced herself to me at the Coachman Inn on Sunday. She has a gorgeous diamond ring on her finger. Much nicer than the one you bought me.”

  His eyes closed for a second. “You picked your ring out.”

  And I wouldn’t trade it for the Hope diamond, but I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted to make him feel the pain I felt, even if I’d given away my rights three years ago. “I picked out one in keeping with your salary. I guess living in my house saves you a lot of money.”

  His hand clenched his jacket so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I’ll be out of your house at the end of the week.”

  “Fine.”

  What was I saying? I didn’t want the house. Worse, would he move in with Catherine?

  Fix it. Say something to fix it.

  I didn’t get the chance. Ray yanked open the door, pinning me between it and the wall, and stormed out into the snowfall.

  As his car screeched out of the driveway and roared off down the street, I congratulated myself on winning another loss.

  Shivering uncontrollably, I headed into the bedroom and put on an old pair of sweatpants, my college sweatshirt, and my fluffy white slippers. Even they didn’t cheer me up. Ray bought them for me.

  I didn’t know what to do about Ray, not that I ever did. He and I had struggled over control for years. This wasn’t a new problem, just a new wrinkle in the old one. I couldn’t let him shake me again. Besides, the two thousand dollars in cash was yodeling to me from the kitchen. I scuffed my way in there and stood looking at the money for all of two minutes. I had one option—to tear my house apart and find all the hidden treasures inside.

  It took me two hours to do a thorough job. Erica had suffered from illegal drug addiction at one time, and she used to hide her stash in the most unusual places. I’d been taught by the best—Ray—how to find them. I only had a one-bedroom apartment to search now. I put my skills to good use and found a thousand dollars in my When Harry Met Sally videotape container in the living room, three thousand in an empty paint can in the basement, five thousand in a Kleenex box in my bedroom, two thousand folded inside a bath towel in the linen closet, and two thousand inside the hub cap of my car, which was parked outside in the driveway. After I discovered the money in the towel, it occurred to me these hiding places were beneath Erica’s considerable talents.

  My landlord, who lived upstairs, had the garage privileges, but I searched the one-car stall just in case. I didn’t find any money, but I did find a sheath for a knife in the Miracle-Gro fertilizer box.

  A sheath that could have easily housed the knife that had been sticking out of Tim Lapham’s chest.

  I tried not to panic. I failed. I took the knife sheath into the house, placed it and the money in separate plastic baggies, set them on the coffee table, and dropp
ed onto the couch to stare at them.

  At first, I clung to the notion that the knife sheath was just a coincidence; something innocently mislaid long ago, something my landlord had misplaced. Too bad he was unavailable to ask, closeted in a hunting lodge somewhere near the Catskills with his old Army buddies, reminiscing about the good old days when America went to war for freedom, not oil.

  The worst-case alternative—that it was the sheath from the murder weapon—sent shudders up and down my spine. Other thoughts—that Erica had joined forces with a murderer, an insane move even for her, or that I was being framed for the killing—terrified me. Who had access not only to my showroom but to my house? Who hated me enough to try to lay Tim’s death at my doorstep? If I was being framed, then I had to believe the killer knew me. Why would a stranger go to so much trouble? And I’d so liked the idea of an out-of-towner. I’d always thought of my town and myself as safe. Now I knew nowhere was safe.

  Should I tell Ray about the rest of the money and the sheath? Were they related or two separate issues? Were they even clues? All I knew for sure was neither one belonged to me. I didn’t want to obstruct justice, but I didn’t feel confident confiding in Ray anymore, either. I couldn’t decide. I had two things to fear: an unknown trail of evidence and the big hound dog named Ray, who may have followed it to my door.

  Calling Greg Doran and asking him what to do was an option, but not one I wished to pursue. As a lawyer, he’d no doubt recommend that I turn it all in to the police. I feared Ray might conclude that Erica and her merry band had stashed the money in my house or that I had obtained it illegally, perhaps from poor, dead Tim. I needed to find Erica and figure out what was going on, because it was possible her new friends had left me holding the bag.

  But if they hadn’t, I would have to face the fact that someone was framing me.

  First things first. I decided to hide them where no one else would find them.