Our Husband (a humorous romantic mystery) by Stephanie Bond Page B
Authors: Stephanie Bond
Ads: Link
great legal library." He suddenly looked sheepish. "Thought I might even give law school a try if I
could scrape together the cash."
She bit her tongue. Tony had tried his hand at everything from pyramid marketing schemes to raising Christmas trees, but
burglary was the only occupation at which he'd truly excelled. "And as usual, the conversation revolves back to you," she said,
pushing past him. "I could've sworn we were talking about my husband being murdered."
"But you just said he wasn't murdered."
She kept walking, dismissing him with a wave.
"I was trying to help," he said behind her.
"I don't need your help," she flung over her shoulder as she jogged up the stairs.
"No, you never needed anyone, did you, Nat?"
She stopped at the landing and considered sending a massive clay vase down to oblige his long-suffering expression. "No
one was there if I had needed someone."
"I'm here now. And I want to be here for you, Nat."
Clutching the banister, she stared down at the man who had consistently proved that he didn't care about anyone but
himself. Men. What made them feel so entitled to use the women who loved them most? Her handsome brother disappeared
through a blur of tears. She was drained, exhausted... and done trying. Natalie turned and resumed climbing. "Just don't steal
anything from the house while I'm gone."
Chapter 11
"Don't tell these yahoos any more than you have to," Gaylord Gilliam declared as he held open the door of the Kentucky
State Police Paducah post.
Beatrix pressed a finger against her eyebrow to ease a relentless tic. "When this mess is over, I never want to see the
inside of this state again."
"Relax," her lawyer drawled. "We'll be in and out of here in no time. I wouldn't be surprised if they roll in and say it was
all a big fat mistake."
She'd thought the same thing when the limo had dropped her off at her home yesterday afternoon. Around two this morning,
however, she began to worry that the police did indeed have something—else, why would that detective Aldrich have looked
at her as if he'd already spent the raise he would get for locking her up?
"You know, Gaylord, Raymond was no saint—the fact that his death is suspicious could look bad on me."
He stopped, pushed his hat back on his bald head and considered her for the longest time. Finally, he clasped her elbow
and led her forward. "Like I said, don't tell them any more than you have to. Don't worry, Bea, I'll be with you and I'll stop the
questioning if it appears you're about to incriminate yourself."
"Gaylord, I—"
"Bea, Kentucky has the death penalty." He squeezed her arm just short of pain. "Now. You will go into this interview and
tell them the truth—that Raymond was a bad boy who made enemies, but you, his loving wife, was not one of them."
She was paying him too much money not to listen to him, so she remained silent as they approached a glassed-in window,
her heart thumping wildly. Damn Raymond—he couldn't even die without a production. Always the center of attention. Always
in control.
The female officer behind the window directed them down a hallway into a bullpen of activity. Phones rang, mouths
moved, pencils scribbled. Detective Aldrich sat at a desk the size of a card table, the phone pinched between his ear and
shoulder. When he spotted them, he banged down the phone and pushed himself to his feet.
"Mrs. Carmichael," he said, his voice just as unfriendly as yesterday. Beatrix introduced the men and exchanged a frown
with Gaylord as they were led to a small room.
"Something to drink?" the detective asked, sweeping his arm toward four plain metal folding chairs arranged around a
white table. They declined, but he disappeared anyway, presumably to fetch something for himself.
Gaylord held out a chair for her, but his Southern manners couldn't take the edge off the stark surroundings: faded indoor-
outdoor carpeting, scuffed walls, a single overhead dome light hanging over the
could scrape together the cash."
She bit her tongue. Tony had tried his hand at everything from pyramid marketing schemes to raising Christmas trees, but
burglary was the only occupation at which he'd truly excelled. "And as usual, the conversation revolves back to you," she said,
pushing past him. "I could've sworn we were talking about my husband being murdered."
"But you just said he wasn't murdered."
She kept walking, dismissing him with a wave.
"I was trying to help," he said behind her.
"I don't need your help," she flung over her shoulder as she jogged up the stairs.
"No, you never needed anyone, did you, Nat?"
She stopped at the landing and considered sending a massive clay vase down to oblige his long-suffering expression. "No
one was there if I had needed someone."
"I'm here now. And I want to be here for you, Nat."
Clutching the banister, she stared down at the man who had consistently proved that he didn't care about anyone but
himself. Men. What made them feel so entitled to use the women who loved them most? Her handsome brother disappeared
through a blur of tears. She was drained, exhausted... and done trying. Natalie turned and resumed climbing. "Just don't steal
anything from the house while I'm gone."
Chapter 11
"Don't tell these yahoos any more than you have to," Gaylord Gilliam declared as he held open the door of the Kentucky
State Police Paducah post.
Beatrix pressed a finger against her eyebrow to ease a relentless tic. "When this mess is over, I never want to see the
inside of this state again."
"Relax," her lawyer drawled. "We'll be in and out of here in no time. I wouldn't be surprised if they roll in and say it was
all a big fat mistake."
She'd thought the same thing when the limo had dropped her off at her home yesterday afternoon. Around two this morning,
however, she began to worry that the police did indeed have something—else, why would that detective Aldrich have looked
at her as if he'd already spent the raise he would get for locking her up?
"You know, Gaylord, Raymond was no saint—the fact that his death is suspicious could look bad on me."
He stopped, pushed his hat back on his bald head and considered her for the longest time. Finally, he clasped her elbow
and led her forward. "Like I said, don't tell them any more than you have to. Don't worry, Bea, I'll be with you and I'll stop the
questioning if it appears you're about to incriminate yourself."
"Gaylord, I—"
"Bea, Kentucky has the death penalty." He squeezed her arm just short of pain. "Now. You will go into this interview and
tell them the truth—that Raymond was a bad boy who made enemies, but you, his loving wife, was not one of them."
She was paying him too much money not to listen to him, so she remained silent as they approached a glassed-in window,
her heart thumping wildly. Damn Raymond—he couldn't even die without a production. Always the center of attention. Always
in control.
The female officer behind the window directed them down a hallway into a bullpen of activity. Phones rang, mouths
moved, pencils scribbled. Detective Aldrich sat at a desk the size of a card table, the phone pinched between his ear and
shoulder. When he spotted them, he banged down the phone and pushed himself to his feet.
"Mrs. Carmichael," he said, his voice just as unfriendly as yesterday. Beatrix introduced the men and exchanged a frown
with Gaylord as they were led to a small room.
"Something to drink?" the detective asked, sweeping his arm toward four plain metal folding chairs arranged around a
white table. They declined, but he disappeared anyway, presumably to fetch something for himself.
Gaylord held out a chair for her, but his Southern manners couldn't take the edge off the stark surroundings: faded indoor-
outdoor carpeting, scuffed walls, a single overhead dome light hanging over the
Similar Books
