Not Your Everyday Housewife (13 page)

Derry snatched up her purse and the envelope as she hurried to the back of the house. She opened doors and flipped on lights until she found the dark room. There were tables and trays lined up in the middle of the room with a few random proofs hung from a line overhead. She scanned these, but they were all shots of the various stages of a butterfly landing on a flower, drinking nectar and flying away.

Two steel-cased file cabinets sat side by side in the corner of the room.
Aha!
She tried to yank them open but they were both locked.
Damn!
Derry ran to the foyer where she’d seen him drop his keys. If this was where he kept the jackpot, maybe the keys stayed with him. Derry scooped them up and rifled through—a key to the Spider, a few house keys, another car key, and two identical small, flat keys. Like the kind that fit filing cabinets.

She rushed back to the darkroom slicing a glance at the body slumped on the couch. Maybe she should’ve crushed one more in his drink…

Derry jammed the first key into the drawer and waited for the click. She yanked it open and found a drawer full of Pendaflex folders labeled alphabetically, beginning with Janice Applewroth. One peek inside the Pendaflex revealed several glossies of a nude and near-nude woman she guessed was Janice Applewroth. She scanned the folder behind this one. Carla Altons. More of the same. The man certainly loved the wide-angle crotch shots.

Drawer two housed the C’s. Cynthia Cintar sported a fresh label. Derry pulled out the folder and threw it on the floor beside the manila envelope. She continued rifling through the files until she’d gone through both cabinets. These were no butterfly shots. They were all blackmail. Derry closed the second cabinet, locked it and pocketed the keys.

Now to find the rest of the evidence. If Steve Miller were an innovative man, he’d have his payments logged in a quick, efficient, easily updated manner, aka a computer.

Derry raced into the next room and logged onto the computer that sat on the edge of a massive cherry desk. Within fifteen minutes, she’d gathered detailed accounts of clients, including payment amounts, increases, phone numbers, husband’s name, and correspondence. She’d also discovered that the man passed out in the other room wasn’t Steve Miller. His real name was Bart Matteson.

Derry scrolled to the C’s and found Cyn’s name, address, phone number and Sam’s name listed under the husband heading. She deleted the entry, popped in a floppy disk, and saved the information.

She’d do everything possible to keep this from Sam but the asshole in the other room had to be stopped. Cyn would have to understand.

Derry sucked in a long breath and reached for the phone.

Sam rolled over and buried his head under the pillow. What was that noise?
Go away!
God, but it wouldn’t stop. Was that a phone ringing?

Christ!
He jerked awake and grabbed for the phone.

“Hello?” Something had happened to Cyn; he felt it deep in his gut.

“Dad?”

“Kiki?” He squinted at the digital clock on the nightstand. 1:47 a.m. Why was she calling him from her bedroom?

“Dad, Janie’s been in an accident.”

“What?” He snatched his glasses and jammed them on his face. “What are you talking about? Janie’s asleep.”

“No Dad,” she stammered. “She’s at the hospital.”

“What? Where are you?”

“At Mercy Hospital with her. Dad, can you please just come down? I’m scared.”

“What happened?”

There was a half-second pause and then, “I snuck out to meet Brad and Janie said she’d tell if I didn’t take her with me. So I did.”

“You snuck out? How? When?” He was wide awake now. Sam slid off the bed and walked down the hall to Janie’s room. The door was locked. He reached for the key above the door frame, jiggled it in the lock until it clicked. Sam opened the door and stared at the cluster of heart and circle pillows resting on top of the lavender comforter where Janie’s head should be.

“I’m sorry, Dad.” Kiki’s tears filled the line. “I lost control and took out a street light on Bexler Road.”

“Is Janie okay? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Janie’s with the doctors.” She sobbed, “Please, Dad, come now.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Okay?”

“Hmmhmm.” Pause. “Dad? Please don’t tell Mom.”

***

The young girl lying on the examining table didn’t look like Janie. His Janie didn’t wear black eyeliner and blue mascara. She didn’t tease her hair into a big ponytail or wear orange-size silver earrings. And his Janie would never shrink wrap herself in a tiny pink T-shirt and too small jeans that invited viewers to three inches of belly.

Not his Janie.

But when she spoke, it was her.

“Dad,” she said, reaching for his hand.

Her fingernails were two inches long, coated bright pink. His Janie bit her nails. Where’d these claws come from?

“Honey,” he said, reaching for her hand, careful to avoid the nails, “the doctor says you’re going to be fine. Just a sprained wrist.” He squeezed her hand. “Good thing you’re left-handed. You were awfully lucky.”

She nodded, skirted a glance at Kiki who stood at the foot of the examining table. “I’m sorry.”

Beneath the makeup and nails he caught a glimpse of his Janie. “What’s all this?” he gestured to her face and clothes.

“It was stupid. I just wanted to make Kiki miserable. She’s always on me about being such a goody-goody.” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t even want to go, but I made myself so I could show her.” She turned her head toward Sam, avoiding her sister’s eyes.

“It could’ve been much worse,” Sam’s said, his voice gentle. “You could’ve been banged up bad, thrown against the windshield, or through it.”

“The airbag helped.”

“Airbag? The Camry doesn’t have an airbag on the passenger side.”

Janie’s eyes darted to Kiki. “I know, Dad,” she said, dragging her gaze to meet his. “But I was driving.”

“Driving?”

“Kiki said not to tell the police or I won’t get my license until I’m eighteen. But I had to tell you, Dad. You won’t tell them, will you?”

What would Cyn do?

That’s the question Sam asked himself hours later as he replayed the conversation. What would Cyn do? Would she stand by silently as her oldest daughter told the reporting officer that she’d been driving down Bexler Road when a deer ran out in front of her, causing her to swerve into a street light? Or, would she tell the truth and admit her fifteen-year-old daughter was the one behind the wheel?

Twenty-six days ago he would’ve sworn there were no secrets between them, but now he knew better. And that made it easier to go along with the girls’ story, and much easier to honor their plea to not tell their mother the truth.

As a matter of fact, he didn’t tell Cyn about it until the next night. He practiced the speech so many times that when the words fell out of his mouth, they almost seemed true.

“There’s something I want to tell you. Now, don’t get all upset, but Kiki had a little accident.”

“A car accident? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. She swerved to miss a deer and hit a street light.”

“Where?”

“On Bexler Road.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“And you’re just calling me now? Sam, why didn’t you let me know?”

“It was late.”

“How late?”

He shaved off a few hours. “Around ten, I think.”

“Her week night curfew’s ten. She knows I don’t like her roaming around on school nights unless it’s school related. And what was she doing on Bexler anyway?”

“Dammit, Cyn, give it up. The kid was half hysterical when she called me. I don’t know if it was five minutes before ten, or five after. What does it matter?”

“Because maybe if she was at home, like she should’ve been at that hour, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“I don’t need this right now, I really don’t.”

“I’m her mother, Sam. You should’ve called me.”

He couldn’t resist. “I didn’t want to bother you when you were on
vacation
.”

“You said you were fine with this trip. Have you changed your mind?”

“No.” He paused. “I’ve just got a lot of questions for you when you come back.”

“Fine.”

Okay, now she was pissed.

“And just so you know, Sam, whether I’m one mile away or one thousand miles away, I will always be Kiki and Janie’s mother.”

“Obviously.”

“And I will always want to know if something happens to them.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

***

Tula Rae was part witch, part psychologist, part voodoo woman. A single candle flickered in the dark living room where she and Cyn sat cross-legged on the floor.

Tula Rae immersed Cyn’s hands in lavender oil, rubbed them together, skin to wet skin, as she chanted in an indistinguishable language. They didn’t speak until Tula Rae completed the ritual and asked, “What have you done to bring your art to your center?”

“What?” Cyn couldn’t stop thinking about her conversation with Sam. She’d only wanted to tell him she couldn’t wait to come home, that she missed him, that she was dying to make him mashed potatoes with her new Maid-for-You mixer. But then he’d told her about Kiki.

Had he really not thought about calling her?

“Your
art
,” Tula Rae went on, patiently, “the gift of creating money.” She wore a bright orange turban and giant hoop earrings that jangled as she spread her arms in the air, sprinkling glittery dust on Cyn’s hands. “Your center is that part of you that
is.
Understand, child? It is the reason the rest of you breathes, and eats. Put your skills with making money in there and the great works of the artist emerge.”

Who would’ve guessed Tula Rae to be a Southern Deepak Chopra?

“I think I was just lucky.”
Lucky Derry got those pictures from Steve Miller.

Tula Rae ignored her. “You must see it there, existing where your breath exists, where your heart pumps. You must see it every day, and one day, it
will
be there.”

Just out of curiosity, and because maybe she believed a tiny spec about the gift part, Cyn asked, “But how long will it take?”

“As long as it takes.”

“If I do have this gift of making money, as you call it, how will I know?”

“You’ll just know.” Tula Rae’s voice stayed smooth and even. And certain.

***

“We’re leaving in two days, okay? Just try to relax.” Derry eased back in the lawn chair and waved a hand at Cyn. The sun felt good on her skin after yesterday’s drizzle.

“I’m trying.” Cyn sat perched on the edge of a yellow-striped lawn chair, hands clasped, head bent.

“Cyn, you’re acting like Hester Prynne. Do you want me to get a marker and put a big A on your forehead?”

“It’s not funny, Derry.”

“Who’s trying to be funny? You didn’t do anything. And look at what you did do? You gave the police a complete account of what happened to you
and
you turned over twenty-three names of women that creep’s been blackmailing, some for as long as two years. How can you possibly feel guilty about that?”

“I shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”

“Okay, so you’re human.”

“Those pictures were disgusting.” Cyn squeezed her eyes shut. “What if…what if he did something to me?”

“The doctor said there was no physical trauma.”

“But how do they know for sure?”

“Honey, they know. It’s what they do. Honest.”

“How am I ever going to tell Sam?”

“Don’t.”

“I have to.”

“Even if it tears him up?”

“I already kept the money thing from him, which is why I came on this trip. If I’d just told him up front, I never would’ve come here, and none of this would’ve happened.”

“Wait a minute.” Derry scooted up in her chair so she could look at Cyn’s face. “Maybe you should’ve told him about the trader thing before, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have come here.”

“All I’ve done is distance myself from my family.”

“And you’ve figured out what you should be doing with your life. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“I didn’t say I thought I should be a stock broker.”

“You didn’t have to; I saw your face when you were talking about trading. It’s in your blood, kiddo, like cancer genes and hereditary cholesterol.”

Cyn shrugged.

“So, go back and tell Sam everything about your day trading obsession, make a grand confession.” Derry reached out and squeezed Cyn’s hand. “And then do what you were born to do.” She smiled and said, “Make money.”

“You really think he’ll understand?”

“The man adores you. He’ll understand.”

She wished she could say the same about her own husband. How would he react when she told him she was about to embark on a totally new career as a private investigator? Hadn’t she busted up Steve Miller’s blackmail gig? Sure the little blue jersey dress and patent stilettos had distracted the jerk long enough to get his defenses down, but Derry had devised and implemented the strategy to expose him. All by herself! She’d kept Cyn and who knew how many other women from becoming blackmail victims. Just thinking about it made her want to dive into another case.

Alec might resist the notion at first. He’d say it was too dangerous, too demanding, too bizarre, but he’d come around.

And of course, there was the issue of their marriage. She wanted it. Badly. Derry sank back in the plastic recliner and closed her eyes. God, she missed her husband.

It was time to go home.

Sometimes it didn’t matter how much you loved someone, how willing or desperate you were to change in order to keep them. They were going to leave anyway, and all you could do was hang onto the fuzzy shreds of respect you had left, hold your head high, and breathe deep as they gouged out your heart.

Alec slipped the photos back into the manila folder. Clarence Penderhorn was a very thorough investigator, he’d give him that. His gaze slid to the silver picture frame on the corner of his desk. The picture had been taken last August at a surprise party Derry threw him for his fortieth birthday. She stood next to him, tanned and beautiful, her black hair shining in the drizzling sun, blue eyes bright, arms wrapped around Charlie who squirmed and tried to hide the huge grin on his face.

They’d been a family then.

There was a quiet knock on the door, and Rita, Alec’s intern, opened the door and slipped inside. “There’s a Sam Cintar here to see you.”

“Fine. Show him in.”

Rita’s smile washed over him, desperate to ignite some small flame in his groin. She’d been working with overeager zealotry to get him in bed since he told her Derry was on vacation. Maybe permanently.

He’d been stupid to accept her offer for an after work drink and then dinner, and then, thank God he declined,
anything
else he desired. She’d rubbed her tight-sweatered breasts against his chest, stuck her tongue in his mouth, and palmed his crotch.

And dammit, all he could think about was his wife.

“He’s your last appointment for the day.” Rita tilted her pale blond head to expose a long arch of bare neck. “Are you free for a drink after?”

He shook his head. “No, I’ve got to get home.”

“Maybe once you get your son settled, you could meet me somewhere.” Her slow smile spread over him. “I cook a mean tuna steak.”

Alec forced a smile. “I’m sure you do, but I can’t.”

Her smile faded. “You’re too good for her.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“She cheated on you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I saw the pictures.”

“You opened my mail?”

Rita shrugged.

“Get out. Now. You’re fired.”

“Just like that?” She took a step closer, her green eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell your wife about us.”

“There
is
no us.”

“You kissed me.”

“
You
kissed me.”

“Semantics, Alec. A kiss is a kiss.”

“And blackmail’s blackmail.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “And I’m not interested.”

“Yes, you are, but you don’t have enough balls to do anything about it.”

“Good-bye, Rita.”

“Your loss,” she said, swirling around so her blond hair settled like a cape on her shoulders. When she reached the door, she threw him a glance and said, “It would’ve been great.”

He waited another five minutes before he walked into the outer office where Sam Cintar sat, reading
Popular Mechanics
.

“I could use a drink,” Alec said, “how about you?”

Sam closed his magazine. “Whatever it is, I’ll take a double.”

Alcohol was supposed to dull the senses, wasn’t it? So why did Alec feel like puking every time he looked at the manila envelope near his right hand? He’d placed it there when they sat down in the musky, dim corner of Yesterday’s Lounge, two blocks from his office.

The conversation jerked between philosophical rantings about life and love, to expectations of one human to another, to relationship failings between men and women. Alec did most of the talking. Sam nodded or shook his head. And they drank bourbon, until finally, the conversation stalled and they were left staring into their glasses, as though to ascertain meanings too deep for words.

It was no use, and they both knew it.

Sam spoke first. “Just tell me and be done with it.”

Alec winced. Cintar was a decent guy. Shit, why was it always the decent ones who got screwed?

“I know you told me you didn’t want my guy to follow your wife, but I had him do it anyway.” He shrugged. “I guess it’s just the lawyer in me, always looking for the proof to support the theory.” Alec reached for the manila envelope and undid the clasp. “I found the proof.”

“I know.” Sam drained the rest of his drink.

Alec slid the envelope toward him. What if Cintar didn’t look, what if he threw them back at Alec and said,
Dammit, that’s my wife you’re talking about?

Maybe he could live a lie, for awhile at least, but Alec doubted it. Lies tended to eat at a person’s soul leaving behind rot and nothingness.

“It seems your wife was somehow involved with this man. My guy took pictures of them together at a restaurant, and after.” He hesitated a second before adding, “When she went to his house.” The pain on Sam’s face made Alec try to offer some measure of solace. “There’s no proof anything actually happened.”

“Right.” Sam’s fingers trembled as he slid the pictures out of the envelope.

“See? Dinner.” Alec glanced at the photo of Cynthia Cintar and an anonymous man laughing over a plate of pasta and salad. “Walking.” In the next photo, they sipped coffee and strolled along flower-lined streets. “Innocent enough.”

Sam pulled out the one of his wife entering a house with the tall, good looking man, her face a glossy welcome as she smiled up at him. “Innocent?”

“Until proven guilty, remember?”

“Right.”

“Maybe there’s an explanation-”

“What do you think?” And then, “How long did she stay?”

Alec had already decided that if Sam didn’t ask, he wouldn’t offer, but, if Sam did ask... “Around 3:10.”

“That is a.m., right?”

“Right. Miller carried her to his car, drove her to the place she’s staying and dumped her on the front lawn.” He paused. “I guess your wife overdid it a bit.”

“You mean drunk? Cyn doesn’t get drunk.”

“Well, it looks like she did here, unless it’s drugs.”

“She doesn’t even take aspirin.”

“Look, I’m sorry to tell you all this, but you’ve got black and white staring back at you.”

Sam released the picture, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I feel like somebody just sucker punched me.”

“If it makes you feel any better, that asshole was with Derry the next night, and she looked guiltier than your wife.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve got pictures of her going to visit lover boy.” He hesitated, but figured, what the hell, it would all come out soon enough. “And he got some inside shots, too. Not the kind a husband wants to see.”

Sam stared at the picture of his wife smiling up at the man. “Who is he?”

“The house is owned by a real estate company, Miller just rents. My guy didn’t hang around to see how long Derry stayed.” He drained his drink. “What’s the sense of prolonging the torture?”

“Now what?”

Alec shoved the pictures back into the envelope. “I think you know.”

***

Sam leaned back in the booth and lit another cigarette. He’d quit right after Kiki was born because Cyn was such a freak about second-hand smoke. But tonight, he needed every vice he could conjure up, and the Marlboro’s helped. The bourbon helped, too.

Alec had left an hour ago, said he had to get home to his kid. He’d tried to talk Sam into leaving, but Sam refused. He didn’t want to go home. It wasn’t home anymore, not really. In the stretch of fifteen seconds, the length of time it took to scan a few pictures, Sam’s home was destroyed. Now he knew what earthquake and hurricane victims felt like. Two blinks and everything’s gone.
But natural disasters aren’t matters of choice.

“Sam?”

He lifted his head and stared at the beautiful young woman standing next to his table. She looked vaguely familiar. Pale blond hair, great tits.

She held out her hand. “I met you this afternoon. Rita Sorleen, Alec Rohan’s assistant.”

“Oh, that’s right.” He shook her hand and said, “Georgetown grad.”

Her smile spread, slicing through the smoky room. “Mind if I join you?”

“No, have a seat.” He flicked the ashes from his cigarette and set it in the ashtray. “Bad habit. I’m trying to quit.”

“A person has to have some vices,” she said, sliding into the booth. “That’s what makes life interesting.”

“Damn right.” Cyn wouldn’t agree. She’d be bitching at him about cancer and emphysema before he fished the first cigarette out of the pack.

Rita reached for his cigarette and lifted it between her slim fingers. “May I?”

“Sure.”

She inhaled, long and deep, her perfectly manicured fingers grasping the cigarette. When she set it back down in the ashtray, the tip rimmed with red lipstick, she laughed and murmured, “Sorry.” And then, “I think sharing a cigarette with a man is very sexy.”

Cyn would say sharing a cigarette with anybody was a death wish.

“What are you drinking?” She inched closer, her perfume wafting through smoke and bourbon to settle around him.

“Bourbon.”

“May I?” She lifted his glass, inclined her pale blond head in his direction.

“Sure.”

She lifted the glass to her lips, tilted her head back, and drank. When she set the glass on the table, she left a red imprint where her lips had been. “Mmmm,” she murmured, running her fingers along the back of his hand. “I think drinking bourbon from a man’s glass is incredibly sexy.”

Sam laughed, a giddy laugh, half nervous, half curious. Even beneath the haze of bourbon saturating his brain he was pretty sure she was coming on to him. He was certain of it a moment later when she fingered his wedding ring and whispered, “But you know what I find most sexy, what gets me most excited?”

Did he want to know? He tried to conjure up an image of Cyn but all he saw was her smiling up at Steve Miller.

“Sam?” Her voice dripped sex.

He cleared his throat, pushed up his glasses. “Yes?”

“Can you guess what turns me on the most?”

“Rita—” He tried to push her hand away, but the bourbon weighed him down and all he could do was watch her slide her fingers along his wedding band.

“Screwing another woman’s husband,” she said, planting a soft kiss on his lips.

Her breath fanned his mouth, coaxed his lips open for a taste of her tongue. Rita Sorleen straddled him, right there in the back corner of Yesterday’s Lounge, her breath filling him with the scent of bourbon, cigarettes, and lust.

He knew it was wrong, even as he inched her tight dress above her thighs and cupped her buttocks. She wore a thong which made touching bare flesh so much easier.

“I’m going to crawl under this table and do you right now,” she whispered. “And you’re going to sit there and drink your bourbon and smoke your cigarette and when you can’t stand it any longer, you’ll explode in my mouth.”

“Ahhh.” Sam squeezed his eyes shut, fought to regain control.

“Don’t fight it, Sam,” Rita said. “You deserve this after what your wife did to you.”

A layer of reasoning floated back to him. “How do you know about that?”

“I saw the pictures.” She rubbed her crotch against his. “She screwed him, Sam, you know she did, whether or not it’s on film.”

He looked away
. How could you do this to me, Cyn? How?

Rita caressed his face with her fingers and gently removed his glasses. “And now you’re going to give her what she deserves.” She ground her full breasts into his chest and buried her mouth against his. “Enjoy.”

Desire surged through him. He needed to stop this, now, but too much bourbon and images of Cyn and Steve Miller wouldn’t let him.

Screw it.

He eased back against the booth and smiled. Rita smiled, too. Without his glasses, images blurred, just the way he wanted it.

Rita leaned in, flicked her tongue in his mouth and whispered, “Ready for me to suck your dick?”

When he laughed this time, the sound was rimmed with lust. “Go for it,” he murmured, pushing her silky head to his chin, his chest, his belly…

“Dad! What are you doing?”

Sam jerked his head up. “Kiki?” He shoved Rita aside and jammed his glasses on his face.

“What the hell are you doing?” She stood in front of him, looking like an avenging angel in her McArthur High hoodie and long dark hair. “And who’s this?”

“Rita,” he said stupidly.

“Rita?”

“I’m working with your father on a legal matter,” Rita said, slowly easing her skirt to mid-thigh. It was still seven inches too short. “Retirement and stock portfolio.” She let out a husky laugh. “Every person’s nightmare.”

Pull down the damn skirt!
Sam cleared his throat and said, “I had some technical questions and she was helping me.”

Through the fog of smoke and bourbon he saw his daughter’s face, eyes bright, mouth pulled flat in disbelief. Of course, she didn’t buy it, the girl wasn’t an idiot.

Sam grabbed his jacket and scooted to the edge of the booth. “Actually, we were just finishing up here, weren’t we, Miss—I mean, Rita?” He couldn’t even remember her last name.

“Sure.” She gave him a long, slow smile. “But we should get together again and finish up, don’t you think?”

“Uh—”
God no, what had he been thinking? What had he almost done?
“I think I can handle it myself from here.”

“No, you definitely shouldn’t go it alone.” She flicked her sheen of blond hair over her shoulder and stood. “Besides, I always finish what I start.” Rita slid a business card out of her purse and set it in front of him. “Call me. Tomorrow.” Her blue eyes dug into him.

He nodded. “Sure.” Hell would freeze over twice before he got near her again.

“Nice meeting you, Kiki, isn’t it?” Rita brushed past without waiting for a reply.

“Well,” Sam blew out a long breath and said, “Glad I got that settled. Your mother worried about those accounts, and I thought this would be a good time to get it straightened out. You never know when you might need your retirement. And—” he stopped. He could tell by the look on his daughter’s face that she knew he was lying. “Kiki, honey, nothing happened. I swear on my life, I’m telling you the truth.”