Married to a Stranger (13 page)

David sat down carefully on the edge of the bed and began to peel away the old dressings. Emily felt herself relaxing at the feeling of his familiar, warm touch.

“Lizette really spruced up the place,” he said.

“I know,” said Emma. “She was very…thorough.”

“So, tell me what happened,” he said. “She just left? Did she say why?”

“Well, I wanted to go out for a little while…,” Emma began.

“Go out? You weren’t supposed to leave the house.”

“I called a cab and I went downtown to Kellerman’s to see if they might know who sent the…dish with the mouse in it.”

“Emma. Are you crazy…? You’re in no condition.”

“Look, I don’t want to discuss it. I went. All right?”

David shook his head. After a moment he asked, “Did they tell you anything?”

“No. And when I got back, the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign had been ripped off my door and she was gone. Bag and baggage.” Somehow Emma had imagined that he would chuckle when she told him the story, but his expression was grim as he carefully applied gauze and tape to her thigh. “And then when I realized I was by myself, I panicked,” she said.

“And called the cops,” he said.

“Not immediately. I kept waiting for you to arrive.”

“I was late. I’m sorry. So, what happened?”

“Well, the storm was howling,” Emma said. “Then there was the breather on the phone.”

David frowned at her “What breather?” he asked.

Emily pulled her bathrobe around her newly bandaged leg. “Somebody called, but they wouldn’t speak to me.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said. “Probably a wrong number.”

She hesitated and then plunged ahead, goaded, against her better judgment, by his imperturbability. “I wanted to find you. I thought I would call Nevin. So I was looking for your phone book. Your desk drawer is locked. How come it’s locked?”

David frowned. “I don’t know. Why?”

“It seems…odd that you would lock it,” she said in a challenging tone.

His eyes narrowed, and suddenly she knew she had crossed the line, and she wished she could go back. It was his desk and she was snooping in it. What business was it of hers if he locked the drawer? He was entitled to his privacy. That didn’t end with marriage.

“Maybe I locked it when we moved,” he said. “So the stuff wouldn’t fall out.”

She felt relieved at the simple, obvious explanation. “Of course. You probably forgot all about it.”

David peered at her with a trace of impatience. “If it bothers you so much, I’ll hunt up the key.”

“No, no,” she said. “It’s your desk. I shouldn’t have even asked.”

David did not smile. “Are you accusing me of something?”

She felt stupid. Intrusive. “No, of course not. I’m sorry, David. Really.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “We’re not going to make it if you don’t trust me.”

“Of course I trust you,” she said.

David picked up the messy wads of gauze on the bedspread and stood up, gazing down at her with a chilly look in his hazel eyes. “I hope so,” he said.

T
HE
C
HAPEL
in the Pines was packed for the funeral of Claude Mathis. People from the press were not allowed inside, and Emma and David arrrived early enough to slip into a pew near the back unnoticed. But a whisper rippled through the mourners as Emma took her seat, and many in the church turned to look at her. She had dressed carefully in a rust-colored knit pantsuit and a warm paisley shawl, realizing that people would, inevitably, be watching her curiously. The suit was much less comfortable than her black knit dress, but it seemed only right to take pains for the occasion. She had carefully applied her makeup, and David had washed her hair for her this morning, so that it fell in shiny waves around her pale face.

Emma paid attention to the service and tried to concentrate on the stories that were told about Claude by his friends, who seemed stunned by his sudden death. She was moved to tears several times during the service for this man whom she had never actually met. Emma tried to imagine him alive, this man who had died coming to her aid. Claude’s dog, Major, was allowed into the church, and lay glumly by the feet of Claude’s teenaged son, Bobby, looking more bereft than some of the human mourners.

Emma tried to find some comfort in the beauty and simplicity of the little church, its stained glass windows glowing in the autumn morning light. But despite the fact that she was safe in the crowded church, encircled by her husband’s protective arm, she could not keep the images of that awful day from rising to her mind. She kept picturing that man with the ax, turning on Claude Mathis as he walked into the cabin. She could still hear the thwack as the ax struck Claude’s head, stuck there. She reached for David’s hand and held it tightly to ease her anxiety.

After the service, Emma stopped in the vestibule of the church and tentatively approached Claude’s teenaged son and his ex-wife, who were greeting people. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m Emma Webster. I just wanted to tell you how terribly, terribly sorry I am.”

Claude’s ex-wife, Holly, was a brittle-looking woman wearing high heels, blue jeans, and a red vinyl jacket with a fake fur collar. She had lighted a cigarette and was turning away to blow the smoke just outside the door of the church. “I know who you are,” she said dully. “I called your stepfather, like your note said. He explained to me about the money you’re giving us. That was nice. God knows, we’re gonna need it. Bobby, this is the woman.”

The teenaged boy, dressed in a baggy black sweatshirt, his doughy face sullen, looked warily at Emma. He was holding Major on a leash. The dog was silent and patient, a forlorn look in his eyes.

“I’m very sorry about your dad,” said Emma. “You should know that your father was very brave, Bobby. He died saving me, and my baby, from certain death.”

The kid shrugged, but his eyes flickered, as if beneath his belligerent exterior, he appreciated what she was saying.

David shook the boy’s hand as well and murmured his condolences. Then he reached down and patted Major on his head. The dog let out a low, menacing growl and then a loud, sharp bark. Everyone in the vestibule turned around to look.

“Major, shut it.” Bobby yanked at the dog’s collar, annoyed. “He don’t like strangers,” the boy explained.

David straightened up. “Sorry. Em, we better get going.”

Emma stared at the dog, remembering the sight of Major lunging past her, eyes flashing, teeth bared, a blur of fur. “Major,” she said, holding up a tentative hand.

The dog began to bark again, frantically, its loud, anxious barks bouncing off the walls of the chapel. The sound was terrifying, causing her to flash back to the night of the attack. She froze in place as the dog jerked madly on his leash.

“Emma, come on,” David cried, pulling her by the arm. Emma felt an agonizing pain in her side as he tugged her out of the dog’s range.

“Major, quit!” Bobby yelled.

“Get that damn mutt out of here,” Holly shouted at her son, her voice high and shrill. “Take him outside.”

Emma clung to David as the boy began to pull Major out of the church vestibule.

Crowded at the foot of the church steps were as many reporters and police officers as there were mourners. Reporters knew that the funeral of a man who had died heroically saving a pregnant young woman would make for a riveting minute on the evening news. But they scattered from the path of the snarling dog, backing away as he leapt first in one direction and then another, barely being held under control by Bobby Mathis.

“Come on,” said David. “They’re distracted. Maybe we can get by.”

As David and Emma descended the steps, Bobby was shoving Major into the backseat of an old Electra, and the crowd of reporters, recognizing Emma from her hobbled walk and her cane, as much as her face, surged up the sidewalk toward her.

“All right, that’s enough,” David insisted as one photographer after another shoved a video camera in Emma’s face. “Leave my wife alone.” When the nearest man refused to back off, David pushed him firmly out of the way. The man immediately began to protest in a loud voice, and three police officers converged on them, including Chief Audie Osmund.

Ignoring the protests of the newspeople, Chief Osmund shielded Emma and steered her out of the crowd, with David trailing them. When they reached the edge of the crowd, they saw that Lieutenant Joan Atkins was waiting next to Audie Osmund’s patrol car. She was dressed in a navy pantsuit and low pumps and wore a discreet gold choker around her neck.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” Emma said.

David walked up beside Emma and took her arm. “Come on, darling,” he said.

Sheriff Osmund put a beefy hand on David’s shoulder. “Mr. Webster, I wonder if you would come with me for a few minutes.”

“What for?” said David.

“I want to take a ride out to the cabin so you can walk me through the events of last Saturday afternoon and evening. I just want you to retrace your path for me from the cabin to the duck blind.”

“My attorney has instructed me not to speak to you without him present,” said David.

“Mr. Webster. You’ve just attended Claude Mathis’s funeral. I’ve got his unsolved murder on my hands here,” said the chief. “Don’t you feel the least bit beholden to this man? He gave his own life to save your wife’s.”

“I’m…aware of that. And I’m very sorry about it. But I’m within my rights,” said David stiffly.

Chief Osmund turned to Lieutenant Atkins, who was watching them with her keen gaze. “I can’t force him to talk,” he said.

“Let’s go to the car,” David said to Emma. They walked toward the Jeep Cherokee, trailed by Chief Osmund and Lieutenant Atkins. David opened the front door on the passenger side for Emma and then went around to the trunk and pulled out the milk crate. Emma climbed up on it and slid into the passenger seat. David put the crate back into the car, slammed the trunk, and walked around to open the driver’s-side door.

Joan Atkins blocked his path. She smiled, though her eyes remained chilly. “You may as well go and talk to the chief, Mr. Webster. Because I need to talk to your wife.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you, either,” said David.

“Actually,” said Joan, “I think she must, because she called me yesterday. She left me a message at the police station saying that she did.”

David paled. He bent over and looked into the car at Emma. She reddened at his accusing gaze. “Is that true? That you called Lieutenant Atkins?” he said.

“I wanted to tell her about the wedding…gift. I told you I was going to.”

“Fine. You talk to her. I’ll wait for you.”

Emma looked away from him for a second, trying to sort out her thoughts. He was within his rights, of course. But what about doing the right thing? She looked back at him. “David. Please,” said Emma. “They’re right about Claude Mathis. It’s the least we can do. We don’t need to hide behind an attorney.”

David shook his head. “They’re double teaming us, Emma,” he said. “They knew you would react this way.”

“Why can’t we cooperate with them? It won’t take long,” said Emma. “Let’s do it and get it over with. Please, David.”

“You coming, Mr. Webster?” the chief asked. “Lieutenant Atkins can follow us in your car.”

“We’ll be right behind you,” said Joan.

David’s eyes were leaden. He tossed his car keys to Joan Atkins. Without looking back at Emma, he began to walk toward the black-and-white with the portly Chief Osmund trailing him.

Detective Atkins got into the driver’s seat of the Jeep Cherokee and inserted the key in the ignition. “Your husband seems a little bit aggravated,” said Joan.

“My husband is fine,” Emma said.

“What’s this about a wedding gift?” Joan asked. “I called you back, but no one picked up.”

Emma sighed and told her about the box with the shell dish and the dead mouse.

“I’ll need to collect that box from your house. Although I imagine it’s pretty well contaminated by now,” said Joan.

Emma did not reply. They rode along in silence, following the chief’s squad car down the highway lined with tall pine trees. His right blinker began to flash, and they turned down a dirt road. With a sickening feeling in her heart, Emma began to recognize the area. Any minute now, they would be at the cabin. Emma felt her heart beating faster as they reached the clearing, and the cabin came into view. “I’m not going in that house again,” she said.

“You don’t have to,” said Joan.

Chief Osmund stopped the car and got out. David got out on the passenger side. They began to talk, walking toward the woodpile. David pointed to the stacked logs and the stump where he had split them. Sheriff Osmund nodded. Then David gestured for the policeman to follow him. Together, they disappeared into the woods.

Emma leaned back against the seat and sighed, closing her eyes. Lieutenant Atkins drummed the tips of her fingernails on the wheel. Then she turned her head and gazed at Emma.

Emma could feel her gaze, and she opened her eyes. “What?” she said.

Joan Atkins frowned. “Emma, can I tell you something? Everyone thinks they know their mate. Believe me. Ask any woman on the street and she’ll say she knows all about her spouse. What he likes. What he doesn’t. Where he goes. Who he sees. All women think that. Until they find out differently.”

Emma turned her head and gazed at the river.

“Emma, I used to be married. I’m saying this from personal experience. I thought I knew my husband too. If you had asked me if he would ever try to harm me, I would have said, no, absolutely not. Until one day, in a rage, he raised his hand to me.”

Emma spoke softly. “That must have been…terrible.”

Joan colored slightly. “It was. It was the beginning of the end. I’m only telling you this because I understand that you don’t want to think the worst. But you need to understand the gravity of your situation. I don’t know what David Webster told you about his interrogation, but he refused to take a lie detector test. Even before he called the attorney.”

Emma stared out at the cabin and the clearing. The river glinted silver through the trees. The green pines rustled in the breeze. It looked so peaceful and idyllic here in the autumn sunlight. But Emma knew better. She would not willingly enter that house again. She would be afraid to get out of this car if she and David were not accompanied by armed policemen. She shook her head. But something about being here again was weirdly reassuring. She could picture the assailant, the fury with which he attacked her. It was not David. It was someone who lived here in these woods. Someone who hid out here. They were looking in the wrong place.

“Why would an innocent man refuse a lie detector test, Emma?”

Emma turned her head and met her gaze. “There could be any number of explanations, and you know it. It’s a flawed tool. It’s not even admissible in court. Why are you so determined to blame this on my husband? While you and Chief Osmund try to parse every word we say, there is a maniac out there who has killed and will kill again. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Joan Atkins looked at her squarely. “Emma, did your husband ever bring you out here before this incident occurred?”

“No,” she said. “He hadn’t been out here in years.”

“That’s what he told us too,” said Joan. “But it wasn’t true. He was out here just a short while ago.”

Emma turned her head and glared at Joan. “No, he wasn’t.” She opened the passenger door of the car and climbed out. She slammed it shut behind her and leaned against the car, pulling the paisley shawl around her, crossing her arms over her chest. The trickle of breeze felt good against her skin. Joan Atkins got out of the car and came around to where she stood.

“One of these Pineys who lives back here saw him. Talked to him even.”

Emma’s heart was thumping in her chest. She could remember asking him, as they drove here after the wedding, when was the last time he’d visited here. And he had said years ago. Not for many years now. And then, in spite of herself, she suddenly remembered that frozen package of lasagna she had found in the cabin freezer with its August sell-by date. From the woods, Emma heard the sound of leaves crunching, branches crackling. David came strolling into view, talking to Chief Osmund, who was frowning.

“So what if he was out here,” said Emma. “So what? Maybe…he just needed to get away for a day. And forgot to mention it.”

“Or maybe he was formulating his plan.”

“You don’t know any such thing,” she protested.

“Don’t take my word for it,” said Joan. “Ask him.”