Our Husband (a humorous romantic mystery) (3 page)

snatched up her left hand. She resisted, but his fingers were stronger than her entire arm. "Or your wedding ring." His voice

was soft and teasing, offering a choice that was no choice at all.

Quaking, she glanced down at the thick gold band, etched with gold leaves and studded with emeralds, designed by

Raymond and custom-made for her. She would never part with it. "Let go of me," she hissed, "and I'll give you the necklace."

He released her fingers so abruptly, her arm shot back. Trembling, she lifted the necklace over her head, then pitched it

across the floor, sending it skidding to the door. Chest heaving, she met his gaze and injected as much bravado into her voice as

she could muster. "Now get
out
."

He stared at her for a few seconds, and when an emotion resembling pity shot through his eyes, she understood how one

person could injure another in the red haze of rage. If she'd had a gun, she would've deposited a bullet in one of several areas

that when compromised, according to
Gray's Anatomy
, posed a minimum threat to life while ensuring a maximum amount of

pain.

Emitting a soft laugh, the man turned and ripped off a pink carbon copy of the form he'd been filling out. "Your receipt," he

said, then folded it neatly and pushed it to the edge of the table. He shoved the rest of the papers back into his jacket, which he

draped over his corded arm.

After gathering up the hanky, he crossed to scoop up the necklace and added it to the glittery pile. He shoved the small

bundle into his pocket, then unlocked the door with a snap of his wrist. When a pained expression crossed his face, he touched

a hand to his flat stomach. "Oh, by the way, Doc, I
do
have a touch of indigestion."

Seething, Natalie glared. "Lay off the Happy Meals."

Suddenly he smiled, revealing even, white teeth. Probably caps, considering his line of work. Then he gave her a mock

salute, and walked out.

Chapter 2

A full minute passed before Natalie sank to the stool, her entire body shaking as a sense of violation and betrayal broke

over her. Could it be true? Was Raymond in debt to some sleazebag loan shark? Was the change she'd sensed in him over the

last several months related to this financial mess instead of another woman, as she'd suspected?

Natalie yanked up the phone and dialed Raymond's cell number with trembling hands, but he didn't answer. She left him a

message to call her, then jogged to the front door and locked herself in, in case the odious Mr. Butler decided to return. He'd

had the gonads to snatch a handful of oatmeal Scotties on his way out, she noticed, frowning at the crumbs on the near-empty

plate, the plastic wrap flapping. She itched to call the police on the thug, but she wanted to talk to Raymond first. Twenty, then

thirty minutes passed with no return call, during which she paced and methodically rearranged the bric-a-brac on her desk.

Her mind raced with scenes from their six-year relationship—meeting Raymond at a medical conference and being swept

off her feet by his charm and good looks, dating around his hectic traveling schedule, then marrying soon after on a whim

during a whirlwind trip to Jamaica. They had adopted a comfortable pattern of separating during the week and reuniting on

most weekends to eat homemade pasta and to share great sex.

Anger, slow and warm, swelled in her chest. Their marriage hadn't been perfect—he hadn't been too keen on leaving St.

Louis for this smaller town, for instance—but she'd given Raymond no cause to withhold information so potentially devastating

to their relationship. Fighting hurt and furious tears, she gave up on hearing from him and left for home.

A storm had blown in, heaping salt onto her gaping wound of misery as she made a mad dash to her car. A howling wind

flipped her umbrella inside out, and rain lashed at her lab coat as she fought her way into her Jeep Cherokee. Once inside,

Natalie summoned the strength to curse, but none seemed forthcoming.

"What a lousy bleeping day," she muttered.

Spring had arrived in Smiley, Missouri, on a low pressure front intent on dumping a few inches of rain by morning,

according to the nasal meteorologist on the radio. She glanced at the women slumped in the cars around her, and wondered

which of them had been delivered a life-changing blow since embarking on their morning commute. Everyone had a cross to

bear—job being phased out, in-laws moving in, teenagers having sex in the basement—but she'd wager none of them had been

shaken down by a hoodlum for their husbands' gambling debts.

Natalie picked up her cell phone and called Raymond's number again, to no avail. She crept toward home in the gray,

slanting rain, alternately worried and angry, concerned and murderous. When she pulled into the driveway, she sat and stared

at their home.

Her
home, actually. Her aunt had willed her the residence in Smiley, and Natalie, ready for a change from bustling St.

Louis, had relocated her family practice south to the smallish town. Raymond had grudgingly agreed because the move placed

him more centrally within his sales territory. She'd been looking forward to their spending more time together, but in the six

months since she'd taken possession of the house, Raymond's traveling hadn't slowed.

She loved the house—had loved it since childhood. Every summer she'd spent fourteen precious days with her father's

sister, Rose Marie Blankenship. Rose Marie owned shelves of naughty novels, maintained a bowl of cookie dough in the

refrigerator for emergencies, and grew the most beautiful tea roses in the region. She'd gently guided Natalie through

childhood, puberty, and young adulthood, compensating for her parents' indifference with magical letters and unusual gifts.

When Natalie graduated from medical school, Rose Marie had presented her with the diamond stud earrings that had

belonged to Rose's own mother. "Don't save them for special occasions," she had pleaded. Right about now Rose Marie was

probably twirling in her grave in the black wrinkle-free pantsuit she'd kept hanging in the closet under plastic with a sticky note

on it that read, "Bury me in this."

The sprawling white-brick colonial had been built before garages were in vogue, but Rose Marie had conceded and built

a carport several years ago. Natalie pulled forward and edged the Cherokee beneath the ivy-covered, corrugated tin roof, loath

to go in after the thug Butler's eerily accurate description of their home.

But the need to speak to Raymond overrode her fear, so she hurried through the side door and into the kitchen. She kicked

off her soaked Hush Puppies and traipsed through the downstairs rooms, turning on every light in her wake, half expecting to

confront a smirking Brian Butler behind every lamp. She backtracked to the kitchen and plugged in the coffeemaker and the

little black-and-white television on which Rose Marie had kept up with her favorite soap operas while she puttered around the

gas stove. The noise of canned sitcom laughter comforted Natalie, as did the cheery yellow walls.

Knowing she needed to eat, she withdrew enough vegetables from the side-by-side refrigerator to build a passable salad.

She halfheartedly tore at the lettuce, then tired and sank onto a sunflower-upholstered stool in front of the bar between the

kitchen and the eating area. Fighting a headache, she pulled the phone close, called Raymond's number again and decided the

weather must be affecting his cell phone's reception. Next she called the after-hours banking line and listened as an electronic

voice divulged the balance of their savings and checking accounts.

"Your... balance... is... twenty... two... dollars... and... seventy... two... cents."

"Your... balance... is... fifty... eight... dollars... and... ninety... nine... cents."

"Your... balance... is... one... hundred... sixteen... dollars... and... zero... cents."

"Impossible," she breathed. She didn't know how seriously Raymond might have compromised their finances, but if she

lost Rose Marie's house... Natalie reached over and extracted a meat cleaver from the butcher block, then whacked a cucumber

in half.

With a burst of energy, she charged into the library, swept aside a stack of new country music CDs—another recent

deviation for Raymond—and flipped on the computer. After a few key taps, she launched the personal finance program, only to

be encountered by a flashing box requesting a password. She tried every magic word she could think of—his name, her name,

their last name, their address, their anniversary, and even a few offensive words for Raymond that she typed in just for spite.

She was holding the keyboard overhead, contemplating where to aim it, when the land line phone rang.

She didn't recognize the number, but Raymond sometimes called from customers' offices. She yanked up the receiver,

prepared to let him know he was not welcome to come home. "Hello!"

"Natalie Carmichael?"

Deflated, she slumped. "I don't accept calls from telemarketers—"

"This is Kentucky State Trooper Nolen. Raymond Carmichael has been involved in an automobile accident."

She inhaled sharply. "I-Is he...?"

"He's fine ma'am, but his car was totaled and he has a broken arm, so he'll be needing a ride home. He's at Dade General

in Paducah."

Weak with relief, then bolstered by renewed anger, Natalie gritted her teeth. "Thank you for calling, officer, but you might

want to swing by the hospital later, because I'm going to kill him when I get there!"

* * *

the wonderful little items Raymond had treated himself to lately—a gold watch, Italian shoes, expensive ties. He'd always been

a bit materialistic, but conversely, he'd always worked hard. Now it seemed he was working hard to keep his gambling secret

from her.

She had trusted him. He knew how important financial stability was to her. Gripping the steering wheel until her fingers

were numb, she blinked back a wall of angry tears, more overwhelmed by the words Butler had told her each time she

replayed them in her mind. She almost hoped to find Raymond in a full-body cast—flat on his back he wouldn't be able to make

wagers, and they'd have a few weeks to get back on their feet. And if somehow the bones in his fingers had survived the

impact, she had a hammer in the glove compartment for his dialing hand.

A stern-faced woman in emergency room admissions directed her down two dim hallways to the waiting room, which was

jam-packed with distraught patients and relatives. A vacant surface wasn't available even if she'd wanted to sit. When several

faces turned and looked as if they were about to pounce, she realized she still wore her lab coat, now wrinkled beyond

credibility. Avoiding eye contact, she shrugged out of her jacket and folded it over her arm, then approached a nurse.

"Excuse me, I'm Dr. Natalie Carmichael. My husband is Raymond Carmichael. He was brought here after an accident

earlier this evening."

The nurse squinted. "Mr. Carmichael is in room six ten."

Her heart accelerated. "He's been admitted? I was told his injuries were minor."

"Yes, but he complained of mild chest pains and since he was so far from home, he was admitted for observation."

Natalie's anger toward Raymond diffused. "Did he sustain any injuries other than a broken arm?"

The nurse gave her a shaky smile. "I don't know. I didn't treat Mr. Carmichael."

"But you're familiar with his case?"

Another gelatinous smile. "Um, yes, ma'am."

"Can I see him?"

"Um, sure. Down this hall—the elevators are on the left."

Brushing off the odd behavior, Natalie thanked her. She passed a ladies' room, then backtracked to freshen up and give

herself more time to mull over what she was going to say to Raymond. Should she ask him why he'd been acting so strange

lately and see if he came clean, or simply confront him with the information that that hoodlum Butler had divulged?

Her head began to throb as she pushed on the heavy door and walked into the dingy bathroom. Gray tile and yellowed