Читать книгу Rachel Dahlrumple - Shea McMaster - Страница 9

Chapter 4

The walk home took far less time than my walk into town, as I once more focused on my philandering husband. People tried to stop me, but I merely smiled, possibly somewhat grimly, and kept moving. By the time I reached the river, I didn’t care if I got wet and plowed my way through the meandering streams twisting around the sandbars. I even stomped through a few pools, which got my skirt wet and cooled my legs.

Per his phone call the previous night, Burt expected to be home a good hour or two before the beginning of our annual neighborhood party. When the neighbor scheduled to host had to beg off, we’d volunteered, which worked out well, as–until my surprise gift–we had reason to celebrate more than just the holiday. That’s what the neighborhood still thought. Our split would shock them all, unless any of our friends knew something about the nighttime delivery, or knew more about Burt’s cheating.

Hell, it was my life, and I was shocked. And angry. And incredibly hurt. The wound was so deep, I knew for certain I’d never recover from it. It was so cavernous, I could barely breathe around it.

But about our celebration…amazingly enough, we had one. A reason to celebrate, that is. A promotion for Burt. A big one. And his oh-so-convenient excuse for being away the past week. Newly promoted to the position of County CIO–that would be Chief Information Officer–he’d told me the twice-a-year seminar on Business Ethics was mandatory and he was required to attend the first possible session.

Did I have STUPID and GULLIBLE tattooed on my forehead?

All right, all right, after the previous night’s little gift, I supposed I did, but honestly, what if it was merely a prank? I didn’t exactly have proof of his cheating. Plenty of suspicion, but no proof. His phone call could have been on the up and up. Stranger things had happened, which explained why they’d fenced off Area 51.

On the other hand, why schedule a week-long seminar the week before a major holiday? Obviously Burton Earl Bruckmeister considered me too brainless to understand. Of course Burt had to accept the golf invitation, too. Never mind he hadn’t played in five years and his clubs sat in the garage covered with cobwebs. I didn’t even want to address the issue of what other kinds of putts he might be making. The very thought of him, doing that, with someone else…

As soon as I got the back door open, I ran to the bathroom and threw up the sugary junk the Weston children had forced on me during the parade. I wanted to convince myself it was due to the sugar. Unfortunately, I could eat almost as much candy as them without burping.

What really made me sick? I hadn’t questioned him. I’d taken Burt’s words on faith. In the light of day, and after the ominous delivery, I began to think differently. Once I’d brushed my teeth and held a little water down, I contemplated all the ways I’d been monumentally idiotic while I filled the bathroom with rolls of toilet paper and fresh hand towels. Then I paced, stewing and steaming, waiting for him to haul his philandering ass home so I could have the pleasure of kicking it out the door.

After the party, of course.

The party. With a groan I slammed into the kitchen, hauled pitchers from the cabinets, and started making iced tea and lemonade while trying to envision how to go about kicking him out. I didn’t want to have to spend the evening explaining why Burt and his clothes were out in the flower beds, much less cause damage to my daisies and iris. Some things one just doesn’t do in a small town. However, after the delicious deputy had seen to reviving me from my asthma attack-slash-faint, I’d spent the first half of the night hauling clothes out of the closet, then spent the other half putting them back–why should I have to pack for Burt?–all the while plotting evil ways to tell him I’d drag his two timing–Three? Four-timing?–sleazy butt through court.

It would be hard to pinpoint any one emotion I felt, but all raged in competition with the heat of the day. The week leading up to the party I’d been so happy about his promotion, but when celebrating, my reasons, though no less joyous than his, were completely different. It would mean more traveling for him. Training, staying at the leading edge of technology. Long hours on the road. Weeks off at seminars and conventions. Glorious time for me to be alone and for the first time, truly enjoy a vacation my way. At home. Yeah, I had been all for his promotion. The raise was pretty nice, too, but the real reward for me was the time my husband would be away. Bliss.

After the nighttime delivery, bliss would mean the house completely to myself, decorated my way, without his lies and the rules he imposed. And the lovely alimony checks I’d squeeze out of his miserly grasp. See if he had funds for tomcatting around when I got through with him.

In my angry energetic mode, I attacked the last of the party preparations on my list with a vengeance until I had to stop. Hot and sweaty, I finally headed back to the kitchen and the relative coolness of my house. Relative, because eighty-five inside seemed cool in contrast to the ninety-seven outside under the century old trees enclosing three sides of the back yard. Normally, I’d have left on the air conditioning, but in just a few hours the screen doors would be swinging open and slamming shut. The breakable knickknacks were already locked in our library, as they wouldn’t mix well with the young ones who always waited until the last possible moment before racing into the house to use the restroom. So, in the interest of sanity, no AC for the day.

As was common for me, I found solace in the kitchen. Barefoot and chugging down a glass of iced tea poured from a jug in the fridge, I stood near the big box fan. I loved the way the air flowed up under my dress, small runnels of air zooming up the line of my spine and between my breasts before shooting up to whisk away the sheen of sweat coating my neck. Besides cooling me, it also soothed me in an odd way. It felt silly, wicked and naughty, especially on those days when I wore nothing under my dress, which after last night, wasn’t today. And I wouldn’t wear the dress much longer. Soon I’d change into a swimsuit and tie a sarong around my hips. Add a large hat and dark glasses, and I envisioned myself sauntering around the yard doing my best femme fatale impression. If it earned me a single grope, I’d call it a success.

Three o’clock had just passed and I expected Burt at any minute. For the moment, everything on my list had a check mark. As the neighbors arrived, the brawny men folk would gladly heft that ice chest, light those coals, or carry a load of whatever, wherever it needed to go. Families would arrive with their contributions, folding chairs, kids and toys, make themselves at home, and the festivities would ramp up until it came time to line up the blankets and chairs along the river and watch the fireworks. As smoke drifted away from the final barrage, leaving behind the smell of sulfur and a ringing in our ears, the exodus would begin, leaving behind bare tables, full trash barrels and a trail of damp footprints through the house.

As far as the party went, my furious energy had powered me through every task, mine and Burt’s, and all I needed were the guests. Bags of charcoal waited to fill the Texas-sized grill. The tables had their plastic covers weighted down in case a breeze decided to come by. Underneath, people would stash their coolers filled with mountains of ice to keep the potluck salads cool. I’d even run an extension cord for the ice cream makers and Judy Marshall’s monstrous electric roaster filled with meatballs and covered with several jars of grape jelly. Believe it or not, it made a fabulous sauce for meatballs, Little Smokies, and Vienna sausages. Seriously. Good stuff.

While I usually anticipated the city fireworks display, I directed more thought to the fireworks to come later. I debated asking Deputy Weston to be on hand to help me throw the big ass out. But first, the party.

Long ago generations had termed the party as BYOSOB. Officially it stood for Bring Your Own Salad Or Beef. Or Beer. Or Beverage. Or as the women privately defined it: Bring Your Own Son Of a Bitch. Legend had it my great-great-grandmother and her contemporaries had come up with that version. The old family tree boasted several truly feisty women. How the kick-ass gene had bypassed me remained a mystery.

Yeah, I had an SOB for one more night. If he made it through the party alive. The more I thought about it, the madder I got. To distract myself again, I focused on the blown-up photo of the very first Fourth of July barbeque hanging on the backside of the free-standing fireplace that divided the front room from the kitchen. The tradition went back more than a century and was always interesting to think about.

In my mind, I visualized the original map of the valley. I found it a great way to travel. I could almost go all the way back to when the first white settlers arrived. As the gold fever petered out, farmers chose one side of the county–the flat side–and ranchers the other–the foothills of the coastal mountain range. Our house, on one of the original ranches, was more or less built in the center of our section, so it’d been the gathering spot for a hundred years, give or take twenty. Rising and falling with the country as a whole, we’d had a few years when celebrations were thin, such as during a world war or two.

Since my great-great-great grandfather, Joseph Reginald Martin, was a rancher who married a farmer’s daughter, our land tended to be regarded as neutral ground. He’d built the house near the river, providing us with a prime location. It was here the tradition had begun. The ranchers brought the beef, the farmers brought the side dishes, and my beloved ancestor, one of the town’s founding fathers, provided the meeting spot.

The photo before me depicted the Centennial celebration. The trees towering over my back yard were mere saplings then. Shade had been provided by wide-brimmed hats and parasols. Snow and large chunks of ice had been specially hauled down from the Sierras the winter before to provide cooling for the hand-squeezed lemonade. In the sepia toned photo, children and adults looked stiff and hot, but by all accounts, and old Joe’s journals, a rousing time was had by all.

The history of my mother’s family, many of whom stared out from photos scattered around the house, belonged to the valley nearly as much as to me. My grandfather–that would be William Robert Martin–third generation military man, came home from World War Two, took a look around and saw a need of housing for returning vets, but he hadn’t liked the new style of tract housing.

Being an officer, he’d been a bit removed from the plight of regular folk, so he chose a parcel of land on the northeastern corner of our spread, on the far side of the tiny town nearby, and started building. Modest homes to be sure, but not the miniature boxes being thrown up in squished-together rows as had been popular in other parts of the country. Full quarter-acre lots with room for large gardens and children. The semi rural lifestyle filled with peace and quiet appealed to many of those suffering what we now call Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. Minor officers with young families snatched up the one hundred lots, and the building business boomed for a few years, expanding Bonchamps from a few hundred to a few thousand souls.

Not long after my birth, my parents took a leaf out of the old man’s book, but looked closer to home. One acre lots, twenty of them, ten on each side of the long straight drive leading up to the ancestral home, backed by a wide swath of open land referred to as the green belt, ringed by eucalyptus trees. No backyard neighbors to worry about. Plenty of room for kids and pets in the clean air. Luxury homes for senior officers close to retirement from the Naval Air Station up in Lemoore, successful artists looking for a bit of country solitude, and a few minor celebrities and movers and shakers from Hollywood who couldn’t afford Malibu.

Home, as I knew it, was a spot where I’d lived most of my life. The house, a Victorian built by my three times great grandfather, added onto by his son, and remodeled a few times, became too large for Dad and filled with too many memories of Mom after breast cancer took her in the late nineties. At Dad’s offer of mortgage-free living, Burt and I sold our Las Gatos house and moved home from Silicon Valley just before the big telecommunications market crash. The one that started falling before 9-11 and almost completely collapsed after. I started out part-time at the library while Burt took a civilian position at the NAS, which eventually turned into work for the county. We took our turn at renovating the old girl, bringing her back to life with elbow grease, authentic details and thoroughly modern appliances. All designed to look antique, of course, but packed with the latest in efficiency and comfort.

Taking in the details, I slowly turned. My ancestors would have been pleased with the renovations. We’d carefully opened up most of the first floor and extended it out ten feet with a conservatory entirely enclosed by UV protected glass walls on the east side, giving my next door neighbor, Cyndi, a clear view of my kitchen, living room, and dining room. For privacy, blinds could be dropped and drapes closed. Although I tried, I couldn’t remember the last time we’d closed the drapes. It had been years since we’d made love on the dining room table, or the sofa. The very thought opened a hole in the pit of my stomach, which nearly doubled me over in pain. I did not want to throw up my iced tea.

The openness of the first floor also let me see the car driving up the road. It wasn’t unusual to see a County Sheriff’s Department vehicle in the neighborhood, but this one mildly surprised me.

Though there were a dozen plus deputies, I knew it had to be Dan Weston. I didn’t expect the Sheriff to arrive for another two hours and only Dan ever patrolled our exclusive little neighborhood. He couldn’t have possibly found any identifying marks on the box so soon, such as fingerprints, which were unlikely as our suspect had probably worn gloves to avoid contact with the highly irritating oil of the poison oak.

Assuming he’d mosey on by like a hundred other times, I watched with only a smidgen of idle curiosity. Okay, maybe more than a smidgen. My heart leapt. Just a little. Funny how when I thought of Burt my heart sank, but when I thought of Dan it leapt. Possibly a message there? Maybe he had super detecting skills I knew nothing about… No, I knew enough to recognize wishful thinking on my part. In real life, forensic mysteries weren’t solved overnight. I knew that.

However, I convinced myself that most of my mind was centered on trying to guess exactly when Burt would make it home and how I would confront him. Or not. Today or tomorrow? I hated fighting before a party because it meant we sniped at each other in front of guests. And of course, I always paid. One way or another.

Tomorrow, I decided. Tomorrow I’d confront him and start tossing his clothes out the window. Worked for me.

I also managed to convince myself I had time for a nap, having had no more than two hours of sleep the night before, and I dismissed the presence of the official vehicle. I assumed the sound of tires crunching over gravel came from Dan turning into his brother’s drive. However, the sound of footsteps on my porch did catch my attention.

Still enjoying the wind from the fan, I looked over my shoulder to see the deputy of my thoughts peering through a window. He did something of a double take at air blowing up my dress. At least the dress hung below my knees. No chance of him getting a peek up my skirt. I waved him in and reluctantly turned away from the fan, my heart sinking before kicking into double time. Could my heart take all the extra activity? Starting, stopping, speeding up…it made me dizzy.

The door swung open and Deputy Weston, spit shined and polished in his perfectly pressed uniform, stepped inside. He held his flat-brimmed hat tucked under his arm. Even after working the parade, he didn’t look hot and wilted. Had he gone home to change?

Before then, I’d never seen him looking so crisply official. It certainly emphasized the devil-may-care good looks that continually had him beating off women with his nightstick. Yes, he had the baton hanging from his fully loaded utility belt, along with his gun and a dozen other tools of his trade. Proper and by the book, he had at least one pair of handcuffs on that belt. Did he ever use those handcuffs for non-official purposes? For a heartbeat, I envisioned him handcuffing me to the banister and having his wicked way with me. Just how big was his nightstick? The one behind those pressed uniform twills.

Mentally rolling my eyes, I let the thought vaporize. Like he would ever really unbend enough to have a personal conversation with me, contrary to the bantering of the night before. That had been business, and the chit-chat had served to make me talk. But then he went and did things like taking a good long look at me. Which he didn’t do then.

Because of his younger age, I’d never considered Dan might find me appealing, and any mild attraction I might have felt for him stood no chance against our mutual avoidance, which had been in place as long as we’d known each other. I’d managed to convince myself his amazing woman comment was a part of my dreams while in a dead faint.

In fact, other than Burt, I couldn’t remember any man ever looking at me that way because of my looks. Maybe Jim counted, but usually those looks had come because of the property I would one day inherit, never for me.

I looked okay. No warts, clear enough skin of a berries and cream shade, which I generally protected with hats and sunscreen, but managed always to get a sprinkling of freckles across my nose every summer. Straight hair of a mousy tone hung to my shoulders. No perm, curling iron or rollers had ever made a difference. It had no gloss, it didn’t throw off sparks of red in the sunlight, it hung blah-ly from my head, neither thick nor thin. A few inches shy of medium height, I had a medium build including average breasts and slightly more than average hips. Pear shaped. Burt liked to say I had hips just right for fucking. Good handholds. Mr. Romance? Not.

“Dan.” I greeted him cautiously. The way he stood, stiff and blank faced, started to set off little alarms in the back of my head. More like a little bell a lady once used to summon servants to the dining table.

“Mrs. Bruckmeister.” His eyes shifted to a spot just past my head, indicating a level of discomfort higher than usual. Probably because I’d swooned into his arms the night before. Once more, I wondered how much of me he’d seen and my cheeks burned.

A flash of pink to the left caught my eye and I turned to see Cyndi hurry down her drive far enough to take the path through the hedges. Probably wanted to see why Dan hadn’t stopped at her house.

“Would you like some ice tea? Ice water?” Always a good hostess, no matter the circumstances.

“No. Thank you. Ma’am.” He swallowed heavily, then reached back to open the door for Cyndi, who’d just run up the four wide steps to the porch.

“Thanks,” Dan muttered to Cyndi.

Was I supposed to hear that? He’d called her to come over?

“Dan,” she gasped. Not stopping at the door, she came right over to me, wearing a look of tragedy on her doll-like face. My heart clenched hard enough for my blood to feel icy. What was going on? Had Dan told her about the weeds and the note? Those bells chiming in my head became a bit more strident. More like the bell at the drycleaners, the one on the counter to let them know break time was over and they needed to come up to the register and take care of business.

“Ma’am…” Dan started, his voice strangely flat.

“For God’s sake, Dan,” I said. Exasperation made my voice sharper than I’d intended and he flinched. “You’ve known me more than half your life, can’t you use my name?”

His eyes widened. Clear hazel eyes, a little more green than brown, rimmed by dark brown lashes, their tips bleached by the summer sun, just like the ends of his slightly long golden brown hair. Disgusted with myself for noticing his looks instead of questioning the visit, I waved toward the grouping of seats near the front windows.

Cyndi took my hand, pulled me over to the sofa, practically pushed me down, and sat beside me. She didn’t even take the time to smooth her dress to keep it from wrinkling where she sat on it. The perfect southern blonde, Cyndi never just plopped down on a seat. The bells in my head grew louder, more like the bell choir at church, only not quite so pretty.

Reverting back to her best Pensacola drawl, Cyndi cooed, “Oh, honey…”

“What?” I demanded. Already on edge waiting for the cheating scum of my life, this sympathy didn’t help.

Dan remained on his feet, but he came to the end of the sofa, forcing me to look up. I hated that. Burt did it to emphasize his power over me and I fought the temptation to jump up onto the sofa so I could tower over a man for a change.

Because Cyndi held me in place, I snapped at him. “Don’t just hover there, driving me crazy. If you have something to say, just spit it out.”

Dan inhaled and cleared his throat. “Rachel… Your husband…Burt is…dead.”

“Oh.” Staring at Dan, I blinked. I sensed more than heard Cyndi speaking, as her hands clutched mine. I couldn’t hear over the bells of Notre Dame roaring in my ears, as if I stood in the belfry with a dozen different bells of all sizes swinging chaotically. No tune, just great ponderous, vibrating booms and spastic little tinkles filling in the spaces. I almost put my hands over my ears to block out the sound, only nothing could ever be loud enough to drown out just one thought.

Burt’s dead.

Burt. Dead.

Damn. I didn’t get to kick his ass out. I’d’ve killed him for that if I could.

Wait. He was already dead.

Dead.

Okay.

I inhaled deeply as I searched for something to say. “Well then, there are plans to adjust…”

Cyndi’s hands tightened around mine and, somehow, the cold glass dripping condensation left my other hand. Clammy, cold sweat ran down my back and the stars gathering before my eyes claimed my attention. Lovely glittering black and gold confetti type sparklies. A strong hand grabbed the back of my neck, and forced me forward until my head stopped between my knees.

“Breathe.” Soft and strong at the same time, the voice in my ear overrode the bells. Masculine. Not Burt. Kinder. Warmer. Certainly a strange thing to notice, but I breathed because the voice wanted me to. I breathed and listened to the voice even though my skirt partially blocked my air. It said everything would be okay. I had friends to help me.

Shaking off the hands holding me down, my vision cleared and I sat up. “Of course they’ll help. Everyone does each year. But we’ll need to draft someone else to supervise the beer.” The only thoughts I could seize had to do with what other jobs Burt had. Generally he did as little as possible by drifting from group to group, giving the impression of being in charge and doing everything, while actually doing nothing. “Dan, you could take over the beer station. You’d keep people from indulging too much.” I slapped my hands on my thighs and prepared to stand. With Burt not coming, I had more work to do.

Dan wrapped a hand around my wrist, keeping me on the sofa. “Rachel.”

I looked at him. “Well, if he isn’t going to be here…”

“Rachel, did you hear me? Don’t you want to know…?”

His hat rested on my coffee table, his thigh, his body, tight against my left side, fingers entwined with mine. He smelled good. A bit like leather and country air. The warm hand against my back must be his. A smaller, gentler, more feminine presence hugged me on the right. Cyndi grabbed my hand again and the two of them gently restrained me, like bookends, holding me in place. How different they were. One small and cotton candy soft, the other solid, strong and smelling so darn good.

“How?” The question automatically left my lips. Not that I really much cared other than to be pissed he’d taken away my opportunity to practice some truly evil revenge, but as Dan had pointed out, a touch of curiosity would be expected. Maybe he’d been expecting something more, but I couldn’t manage more. Maybe later.

“The coroner says heart attack, but he wants to do an autopsy to be sure.”

“If he wants to…I suppose…sure.” If it was a heart attack, then why the fuss?

“Do you know where he was last night?”

“A conference of some sort.” I frowned at Dan. Hadn’t we discussed this? Oh right, maybe this was for Cyndi’s benefit. She didn’t know about the weeds. Did she? “Some mandatory ethics thing to do with his new job. I can’t remember where the conference was. L.A.? Somewhere down there, I think. Only crazy L.A. people would schedule such a thing the week before a holiday. He called last night to say he’d be home this afternoon in time for the party. I expected him about now…”

“Oh, honey.” Cyndi sobbed from my side. Why? I wasn’t crying, so it didn’t seem as if she should.

I stared into Dan’s hazel eyes, crinkled with concern. Given enough time, I could have counted his eyelashes. Maybe. He had thick ones, whereas I needed three coats of mascara to make mine visible, much less thick.

The sound of tires on gravel made me look beyond him to the drive. Two men climbed out of another sheriff’s department cruiser.

Dan glanced in the same direction and waved to the two men passing in front of the windows. They mounted the steps and entered the house without knocking. Sheriff Mark Johnson and Mayor Carl Arguello. Who next? The fire marshal? The entire town council?

Dan tensed, as if to stand, but my hand gripping his stopped him. His gaze returned to mine, questioning. I tightened my hold, silently begging him to not leave me. The way he held me shifted, grew more intimate, more supportive. Less the news bearer, more the protector. I didn’t think to question it. A warm and solid presence, I didn’t want to let go of him. Cyndi was the one falling apart, but I couldn’t comfort her. Not at the moment. Maybe later.

“Rachel,” the mayor said.

“Carl.” I interrupted whatever he was gearing up to say and extended my greeting with a nod to include Mark. “Thank you for coming. Dan just–just told me. We were getting into the details.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed on Dan for a moment and I felt him shrug as I pulled his hand into my lap. The two newcomers sat on the sofa across from us, perched on the edge. Mark wore his uniform, in contrast to Carl already dressed for the party, complete with baggy swim trunks, clashing Hawaiian shirt and sandals. Side by side, they made an almost laughable picture.

“Rachel, Pastor McHugh is coming,” Carl said. Another of the crowd from preschool onward, we’d known each other forever. From one of the immigrant families on the far side of town, Carl’d done well, rising to the top of the city political heap. Smart and as honest as a politician could be, I trusted his sincerity. “What can we do? Anything. Just say the word and we’ll do it.”

Weariness washed over me and I closed my eyes. Honestly? I just wanted them to go away. Somehow I didn’t think they would.