The Secret Lives of Doctors' Wives. Ann Major
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don’t know that for sure. I went with him on lots of those trips.”
“And you never doubted his motives?”
“He was a doctor with valuable skills. I just assumed—”
“When are you ever going to wake up? Pierce was so aware of appearances,” Yolie continued. “When I started gaining the weight, he was on me all the time about it, taunting me about other women, wanting me to do liposuction. All he ever cared about was making money and getting his name on the front page while squiring some stick-thin stacked bimbo around.”
Very conscious of her C-cup boobs that Pierce had enhanced, Rosie glared at her.
“Sorry.”
“He taunted me because of my low-class background,” Rosie said.
“Looks like he finally played his little games on the wrong woman.”
“So, who do you think killed him?” Rosie asked.
“Lots of people probably weren’t exactly thrilled with him. But to kill a person with a knife, you’ve got to get up close…and get ugly.”
“There was that guy who sued him because he wasn’t thrilled with his penile implant.”
“Not to mention Pierce had four wives, and God knows how many other women. And that’s just his sex life, which wasn’t really all that hot, now was it? But who stabs a lousy lay? I mean, why bother?”
Yolie’s analysis was making Rosie increasingly uncomfortable.
“And then do you ever wonder why Pierce was so hard to get to know?” Yolie continued. “Remember how he used to have to control every damn conversation? When we went out to dinner, we always had to discuss some bullshit story he’d read in the New Yorker instead of real life. Intelligent conversation, he called it. Whatever it was, it was impersonal as hell, and he had to be in control. I was married to him for a lot of years, and I don’t think I ever really knew him. Do you ever wonder if there was anything there…beneath his external glamour? It was scary, in a way.”
“What are you saying?”
“You don’t just get murdered for no reason. What if there was some dark secret in his past? Or a secret vice or addiction? I mean, why was he always as closedup as a damn clam—if he wasn’t hiding something?”
“That’s so melodramatic.”
“Hey, getting your head nearly chopped off is pretty melodramatic.” Yolie stabbed a fingernail at a front-page article. “It says right here he grew up in Beaumont. He never said a damn thing about Beaumont to me. Did he ever talk about his childhood to you?”
Rosie shook her head. But then, she’d never talked about her childhood, either.
“So, he’s either a blank disc or there are plenty of secrets on the old hard drive,” Yolie said. “He had a quick temper and a sharp tongue and the endearing quality of abusing his women when he was in a certain mood…at least verbally. That we know. Then there’s the drinking. Not to mention his mysterious disappearances.”
“Are you going to the memorial service?”
“I’ve got a son by the arrogant bastard and no alibi. Of course I’m going! In situations such as these, appearances are everything.”
“Alibi?” Rosie’s heart jumped to her throat and began to thump.
“The cops are going to want to know where everybody was if his killer doesn’t walk into the police station and hand them the bloody knife. Except for talking to you on my mobile, you and I’ve got zip for an alibi.”
Rosie shivered so hard her teeth chattered. “At least you weren’t actually there! You’ve been happily divorced from him for years. That’s hardly a motive.”
“I hated the son of a bitch. Does that count?”
“I, on the other hand, ran out of his brilliantly lit mansion braless and pantyless on the night he died. Anyone, a neighbor, a jogger, might have seen me. What if he or she misinterpreted what he saw? What if the cops find my bra and panties?”
“Then your underwear is hanging out in plastic Baggies. Call Joe. First thing Monday.”
Feeling too hot, Rosie got up and dived into the pool. She didn’t come up until her lungs were burning for air.
If Michael had her underwear in plastic Baggies and he found out about Carmen, which he would if he hung around at all, he’d nail Rosie just to get revenge.
Unless she solved the murder for him.
Six
A former linebacker for the University of Texas A&M, Joe Benson loomed behind his polished mahogany desk like a sleek, dark bear who looked slightly embarrassed to find himself all dressed up in a three-piece power suit. He had hooded black eyes, heavy brows and a strong jaw. His glossyblack hair might have curled if hadn’t been clipped so close to his scalp. Not that his hushed office, his attire or his military haircut were enough to dispel Rosie’s feeling that he wasn’t quite tame. Still, at least he was sober.
“So, how long have you been living with Yolie?” he asked, his curious voice oddly soft for so large a man.
Control. This man was into control. Just like Pierce had been.
“I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“Right. It’s just that she’s such a great woman.” His eyes lit for a second or two at some forbidden memory before he caught himself.
“Yolie told me you two used to date before you married Bridget and adopted Jennifer.”
“Did she now?” His smile was quick and a little uneasy. Then his cheeks reddened and the smile vanished.
No way would Rosie repeat what Yolie had said on the matter.
I never could figure out whether he was attracted to me or to my big house and money. He’s extremely ambitious, you see, but then that’s what makes him good at what he does.
“Well, no hard feelings. Bridget’s great, and Yolie’s like a sister to me now,” Joe said, a little edgily.
Bridget was an ice cream heiress with a large fortune. Joe was her fourth husband. Yolie said Bridget, who seemed all fluff, had had him sign an airtight prenup.
“Yolie mentioned you were in some sort of a jam.”
“Well…not yet. Hopefully, not ever.”
“If I were you, I’d trust her judgment. What’s wrong?”
Without further preamble, Rosie told him about her involvement with Austin’s front-page murder victim. She repeated a few of the most damning things she’d said to everybody about her revenge fantasies. Joe’s frown deepened when she told him about her bra and panties.
When she finished, he propped his big brown hands together and leaned forward. “Rule number one. Don’t say anything to the police unless I’m there.”
“But don’t they have the right to question me?”
He held a finger against his lips and shook his head. “You let me worry about doing right by the police, little girl. All you need is rule number one.”
Little girl? She was forty. Not that she was about to admit her age.
“But…”
At his dark frown, she fell silent. She hated it when terrified patients and their families kept asking her the same questions over and over again.
“I don’t like it that you know Nash, who’s in charge. Or that he took the call about your missing granddaughter. You dumped him, you said. Judging from the time frame, he’d already been at the scene. Obviously, he was suspicious.