Lie Still (14 page)

There was suddenly a little person crawling into my lap. Violet had returned, alone. She snuggled around my belly and began playing with the silver charm bracelet I rarely took off. Her fingers were soft and sticky and she smelled wonderful, like a human cinnamon bun.

I heard an exchange of voices in the kitchen and the sound of an ice tray being cracked. I took in a deep breath of little girl.

“Violet.” Rosie stood over us with my glass of water, served in a plastic Winnie-the-Pooh glass. “Get down. Stop playing with her jewelry.”

“Pooh,” Violet said.

“No, it’s OK,” I interposed. “Leave her. This was my mother’s. I used to play with it when I was little. It reminds me.” I gulped the water gratefully.

“My mother says Maria will not be back soon.” Rosie planted herself on the edge of the couch. She wanted this to be a short conversation. “Maria works very hard. The woman she works for is not … very nice. Maybe Maria will take your job. Please write down your name and number.” She handed me a pencil and a piece of notebook paper stuck in her SAT book. I wrote my name and number carefully, thanked her, and gently lifted Violet from my lap to her arms.

As I walked back to the station wagon, I hovered inside the shade of a giant live oak, where it was at least ten degrees cooler.
I was glad I’d come, even if I found out nothing. I wanted to carry the peace of this lovely road for a long time.

I wriggled my awkward body into the Volvo, thinking about showing Mike our new quilt. As I switched on the ignition, a rusted pickup rumbled past. That’s when I saw the cigar box on my passenger seat.

A box that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago.

My belly knocked sharply against the wheel, my breath seizing, my gut telling me to
get the hell out of the car
, but I sat paralyzed, unable to move or take my eyes off of it. Even in panic mode, my artist self appreciated the aesthetics of the cedar box and the evocative label glued to the top.

On it, a large-boned blond woman was set against pitch-black, draped in a swirling blue dress and a snaking purple scarf. She had a rakish patch over one eye, a bundle of tobacco leaves dripping from one hand and in the other a cigar raised jauntily over her head. Empowering, right down to the bare feet with red toenail polish. She was left-handed, I thought distractedly, like me.

Black Patch Cigar Co
.

I’d never heard of it—but then, I’d never puffed on a cigar.

I didn’t move. I held my breath and listened for ticking sounds, although Mike had taught me that bombs don’t always tick. His voice in my head screamed for me to
get out
even as I reached over and lifted the lid with a fingertip, touching nothing else. A single cigar was tucked inside, wrapped tightly in cellophane, dressed up with a bow made out of cheap pink curling ribbon. No note.
A congratulations for the baby? Or a threat?

I didn’t think Rafael had done this. The pink was wrong, wrong, wrong. Color would be important to an artist like Rafael. He wouldn’t break in to my car, even though I left it unlocked.

I thrust open the door and ran to the wayback. I locked the doors with my remote before peering through the rear window.
I saw nothing but the six-pack of water that Mike insisted I carry for emergencies.

I shot a 360-glance around me. Not a soul. Everyone was hiding out from the heat. The air was perfectly still, waiting.

My fingers fumbled to hit speed-dial 1. Mike’s voice said he wasn’t available at the moment, but would return my call as soon as possible.

“Your concerns are important to me,” he said politely. “If this is an emergency, please dial 911.”

I got back in the car, yanked it into gear, and spun out, kicking up gravel and a choking cloud of dust. I reminded myself to tell Mike that no one wanted to be instructed to dial 911. People weren’t idiots.

Ten miles down the road, it belatedly occurred to me to glance into the backseat.

My lucky quilt was still there, folded in a neat square.

T
he three of them waited for me at a white-clothed table in the corner, set with half-drunk glasses of Chablis and littered with crumbs from a basket of hard French rolls. It was a full house at Ruggieri’s. The lights were low. Votive candles flickered on tables, illuminating tiny bud vases of sturdy white carnations.

Christmas greenery pretending not to be Christmas greenery wound around a metal arbor behind the hostess stand. Nice try, with the fake orchids and daisies stuck here and there. In harsh daylight, this place probably didn’t look much better than a diner, but it supposedly dished out the best Eye-talian in town.

A man rose up out of the crowd to wave me over. I was confused for a second, but, yes, this stranger was waving at me. Harry Dunn, I presumed. The mayor’s eyes traced like a snake up and down my body, settling in the middle, surprised, as if he hadn’t known I was pregnant. But that was nothing compared to how radically off my own assumptions had been about him.

Whenever Mike mentioned his new boss, I had pictured Harry Dunn as a potbellied, balding, boisterous politician, with hopeless zeal for the Texas governorship. Instead, Harry Dunn was a stunner. An 11. Or a 12. An instant vote-getter. Dark wavy hair, an aristocratic nose, a sexy, slender frame, broad shoulders, a gorgeous black suit, a loosened tie around a stiff white collar, a very, very nice watch, and no ring on his left hand.

Leticia stood up, too, her chubby fingers curling possessively on her husband’s arm as I wove my way along narrow paths to the table. Next to Harry, even sitting down, Mike stood out like a bruiser, his rolled-up sleeves baring thick, dangerous forearms. I felt sorry for Letty. Despite her size and a bright yellow sundress, beside her husband she appeared shrunken and outclassed. Mike had mentioned that Harry had risen up from less than gracious beginnings. Maybe behind closed doors, where Letty wrote the checks, the score evened out.

Harry shook off Letty’s grip to lean over and kiss me, saying everything about their relationship I ever needed to know. The spot where his lips touched my cheek felt damp and clammy, like a tiny frog had landed there. I pushed down the urge to wipe off any residue. My heart started a steady pound.

I smiled coolly. This was the archetype of the guy I didn’t do well around. The grown-up Pierces. Harry Dunn would have sex with me, pregnant and married, tonight, in the back of a car, hell, in the one-holer bathroom in the back of this restaurant. He’d said it with his eyes and with the hand he casually drifted up and down my back while his lips brushed my cheek. I hated myself for the primal physical response he elicited. Attraction and abhorrence at the same time.

Right now, Letty’s plump face reminded me of a pot of water about to boil. I tried to picture Harry and Letty in bed. Letty on bottom. Letty on top. My mind couldn’t wrap around it.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I rambled nervously. “I decided to put on
makeup. Then I couldn’t fit into those capris that I wore last week … I really need to unpack … I left my cell phone and had to go back …”

Mike didn’t know yet about the cigar box, which was sitting on our kitchen table. When I called Mike’s secretary, he’d been stuck in meetings. I’d been careful. I removed the box from the car using latex gloves Mike kept under the kitchen sink. I checked the car out thoroughly before getting back in to drive over here. Under the hood, in the trunk, beneath the seats. Nothing.

Harry, lazily stretched back in his chair, smiled as if my flustered appearance utterly charmed him. Not Letty. Not Mike. His lips were stretched tight, an angry white line around them. Because he was jealous of the visual undressing I just got from his boss? That was no doubt Letty’s grievance with me tonight. As for Mike—well, I thought we doused those jealous flames in a therapist’s office a long time ago.

I sat down in the empty place across from Letty, trying not to stare at the mountain of snowy cleavage on display that reminded me of a toddler’s bottom that had never seen the sun. I offered her the warmest smile I could summon, thinking I could use that gin and tonic at Harry’s elbow.

“It’s so great to see you again, Letty. And so nice to meet you, Harry.”

My tone gave nothing away. But while Letty and Mike buried their heads in the menu, I met Harry’s gaze directly across the table with my answer:
No way
.

Harry quirked an eyebrow as if he’d just engaged a worthy foe. He’d silently declared another open invitation to me, even though I was pregnant, even though Mike could take him down in five seconds. Why, why did men like him still think I was an easy target for their invitations?

“I need more lemon slices for my water,” Letty yelled out at a waitress.

“Here, take mine.” I picked the lemon wedge out of my water with a spoon and tried not to stare while she squeezed it into her glass and doused the whole thing with the pepper shaker.

“It’s a pageant-girl trick.” She said it like she was confiding state secrets. “Although it’s supposed to be red pepper. Beyoncé used it to lose all that weight for
Dreamgirls
. Stunts the appetite right off.”

She took a swig of her nasty concoction without any obvious ill effects, although it had an ill effect on me. I held down a gag reflex behind the menu, a tall plastic-coated affair that hadn’t been wiped off lately.

“I’m kind of in between diets. I was on the Hallelujah Diet last month, the one where you just eat foods specifically mentioned in Genesis Chapter 1, Verse 29. Mostly vegetables. Janice Marstead recommended it. She’s the second-best soprano in the First Baptist choir, after me. My stomach was like a lawn mower at work 24/7. I had to drink five Sonic milkshakes a day to calm things down. I don’t think it’s really all that God-approved anyway. In Genesis, Chapter 9, Verse 3, God lifts all those diet restrictions.”

The waitress ventured over to the table with a small bowl of lemon slices.

“It’s about time,” Letty said. “Get out your pad. I’m going to have the fettuccine alfredo with chicken and extra pancetta and a bowl of Parmesan cheese on the side because you never put enough on. Also, a Caesar salad, and don’t be chintzy with the croutons.”

Harry seemed immune, as if he pretended his wife didn’t exist most of the time, and Mike wasn’t interested in sharing any silent humor with me. He wouldn’t even meet my eyes.
What the hell was up with him?

After we ordered, Mike and Harry might as well have been sitting at a separate table. They started with Caroline’s case, then
lit into a semi-civilized argument about a
New York Times
piece on Fort Worth’s resident hanging judge and moved on to the Preston Trail Golf Club, so exclusive that members had to die before a spot opened up. Mickey Mantle had been a late and beloved member. Harry was bragging about his status as No. 548 on the waiting list.

I listened with half an ear while Letty gushed about how Suzanne Somers was the last legitimate fitness expert and that it was a shame she had to give that up to cure cancer. While Letty rattled on and Mike re-engaged with the wine list, Harry tossed me a wink.

“Well, Emily, what do you think about Caroline disappearing?” Letty demanded. “It’s been almost four days. She missed an interesting prayer breakfast this morning. The choir director took up about a third of it praying for her safe return. He’s gay as a daisy. The scrambled eggs could have used more cheese.”

It was hard enough to follow Letty’s non sequiturs when I wasn’t exhausted and worried about a stalker who left presents wrapped in pink ribbon. “I don’t know Caroline very well,” I stuttered. “Mike thinks it’s … of concern.”

“Caroline took a fancy to you right away. Just like she did with your friend Misty. Some of the girls don’t much like the idea of either one of you getting in. Me, I’ll go along with Caroline.” Leticia slathered butter on a roll. She leaned in closer and lowered her voice, a breathy advertisement for the garlicky croutons stacked so high on her salad I couldn’t see any green.

“I told that booger-nosed cop, Cody Hill, what I just told your husband. Neither appears to be taking me too seriously. It’s annoying because I’m breaking the club’s oath of secrecy here.” Leticia vigorously stirred her water with her butter knife. The pepper swirled like a polluted snow globe.

“Caroline and Misty Rich had an argument the day before she disappeared,” she continued. “I saw them in Misty’s Lexus going at it in the park off of Parr Road. Caroline—”

“A white Lexus SUV? Tinted windows?” I interrupted.

“Every car window’s tinted, honey, when you live in Texas. But her Lexus is green. A sedan. I think it’s a lease. My Lexus is white.”

I leaned back to allow the waitress to remove my salad and replace it with an enormous serving of spaghetti and clam sauce.

“That looks like somebody blew their brains out,” Letty said, wrinkling her nose. My spaghetti instantly morphed into blood and bits of gray matter. Add to that the smell of odiferous clams and Letty’s pepper and lemon pageant trick with a glass of water, and my appetite had officially shut down. I didn’t think it was possible.