The Ex Who Wouldn't Die (5 page)

"
Question me?
I don't know anything," she mumbled, wishing everyone would go away and let her assimilate and deal with Charley's death
. "I didn't see anything.
"

Brian cleared his throat. "
Mrs.
Randolph
, the p
olice want to talk to you
about your husband's murder because you're the prime suspect."

Chapter
Three

For the next two days Amanda lay in the uncomfortable hospital bed eating
the dubious food served in ugly dishes on cold stainless steel trays
and
wondering if this was similar to prison except they wouldn't give her pain meds in prison
.

The police thought she killed Charley.

Okay, she had motive.
And she'd threatened him a few times. A lot of times, to be precise. B
ut how could anyone think she'd murder him? At one time she
'
d loved him.

Even now she had errant
thought
s
of how
Charley
, if he were still alive,
would have
come to visit her in the hospital, would have joked about her injuries and made her laugh. He'd have
smuggled in pizza for her
,
brought her pastries from the little German bakery across town.

But w
hen he wasn
'
t bringing her treats, Charley would have
been out
drinking, gambling, chasing sleazy women and
participating in
any other activity, legal or illegal, that caught his fancy. She felt a little irreverent thinking these things
about someone who was dead
, but
Charley
'
s death hadn
'
t turned him into a saint.

When she
was
finally
released from
the hospital,
she
didn't protest
her father's suggestion that she stay at her parents' house for a few days. She
still had a limp and a
ched
all over, not
quite
ready to tackle motorcycle repairs. Besides, t
he food would be excellent, much better than either the dismal hospital fare or the frozen dinners and peanut butter sandwiches she typically ate at home. Her mother always employed housekeepers who were good cooks.

As they drove across
Dallas
,
Amanda
leaned back in the plush leather seat of her father's Mercedes and watched the familiar scenery slide past. She'd spent her entire life in this area…born, lived and attended school in Highland Park, then college at
SMU
, knew the best restaurants and the worst, went to the Texas State Fair every year, strolled the restored brick streets of Uptown. This was home. But now things seemed to have shifted ever so slightly, become strange and unknown.

Charley was dead. Her husband…still legally her husband, thanks to his stubborn refusal to become an "ex"…was dead. She was, technically, a widow.

Her lips curved into a faint smile at the thought of such a respectable term being appli
ed to her.
The Widow Randolph
.

"Good to see you smile," her father said. "You'll be surprised at how fast you'll get through all this, put it in the past, and move on with your life."

"I want to change my name back to Caulfield," she said. Erase all traces of Charley.

"Easily done. Your mother will insist we wait a proper amount of time, of course, then we'll file a Request for Name Change, and you'll be Amanda Caulfield within the week."

"If I ever decide to get married again, I'm keeping my birth name." She considered that for a moment, then amended, "If I ever decide to get married again, I'm going to have myself committed to a mental institution."

Her father laughed, a robust, hearty sound, and she found herself joining him, her laughte
r an echo of his. Charley was gone. Death, if not divorce, had parted them. She was free. It felt good.

***

That evening at dinner h
er father
sat at the head of the family dining room
table with her mother at the other end, Jenny and
"Davey" on one side and
Amanda on the
other
.

The oak table with seating for eight was her mother
'
s idea of a cozy family table…as opposed to the rosewood version in the formal dining room that seated sixteen before the addition of leaves. Amanda had lived in this house
all her life
and had never found anything
"cozy" in any of the fourteen—or maybe it was fifteen—
rooms. Today was certainly no exception.

"
Lucinda.
"
Even though h
er mother spoke in a soft
voice, a young dark-haired girl in a uniform appeared from the kitchen.

Beverly Caulfield
'
s family had hired Hispanic help for many generations, and Amanda
'
s mother was stolidly traditional. Fortunately, she was also gullible. Lucinda, a/k/a Linda, had Italian heritage
. Her olive skin, dark hair and eyes
qualified her for a job tha
t allowed her time
to attend college. In the beginning, she
'
d affected a Hispanic accent, but since the
"
help
"
was invisible to Beverly Caulfield, Lucinda had given up that disguise a year ago. Amanda liked her and wished her well, but would be sorry to see her graduate and leave. The
looking for help
times were always stressful for her mother, and her mother shared the stress with an
yone and everyone around her.

"
My quiche is lukewarm. Could you please heat it for me?
"
Beverly
Caulfield
'
s gestures were slow and graceful, the silk fabric of her
light green
blouse flowing with her movements. She was slim and small-boned, her hair still dark brown, though
Amanda
suspected her hairdresser had a hand in that.
 

"Mine needs to be warmed, too,"
Jenny
said, leaning back so
Lucinda
could reach her plate. "Just a little bit. I don't like it so hot it burns my mouth, but just a little hotter would be perfect." She held thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart.
"
Just this much.
"
She giggled and fluttered.

Her pale blue summer dress set off her delicate features perfectly. In appearance, she was a younger version of their mother, though Amanda couldn
'
t imagine that their mother
had ever fluttered or giggled.

Lucinda took Jenny
'
s plate, then looked at Emerson Caulfield whose quiche was already half-consume
d. "I'm fine," he said, waving his fork.

"I'm good," Davey added.

"
Me, too.
"
After the cardboard hospital food, Amanda
relished
every bite of her lukewarm quiche, savoring the rich cheese and egg flavors. 

In stark contrast to the well-dressed members of her family,
Amanda
wore the f
aded
jeans and tee shirt in which she
'
d tumbled down the mountain in
Oklahoma
. Her mother had sent
a sedate, blatantly expensive, dress of raw blue silk with matching heels. Amanda
refused to wear it.

She wondered for the millionth time if the doctor had given her mother the wrong baby. The only thing that kept that from being a certainty in her mind was
the knowledge
that her mother
, had she had any doubts,
would
surely have returned her in the same way
she returned clothes, shoes and purses upon finding any minute flaw…and Amanda
'
s flaws had always been much larger than
minute
.

Lucinda returned with the quiches and set them in front of Beverly and Jenny.

"
I
'
ve spoken to the funeral home and made arrangements for Charley
'
s funeral just as soon as they release the body,
"
Beverly said.
"
I suppose we can use one of the family plots for him. He
'
s still family.
"
She gave a faint shudder, visible in the rippling silk of her sleeves, then took a bite of her quiche.
"
This is much better, Lucinda.
"
Thus she disposed of Charley
'
s body and the warmed quiche, events of equal importance, in one fell swoop.

"I don't know what you've got planned,
"
Amanda said,
"
but Charley would have hated an elaborate event with flowers and organ music and his body crammed into some suit he'd never have worn in life."

Silence. Her comments often had that effect at family gatherings.

"The civilities must be observed," her mother stated in a tone that allowed no argument.

T
hat tone had never stopped Amanda. She toyed with her salad, flipping a slice of cucumber to the side of the plate. "Charley wanted to be cremated." Okay, he'd never actually said that, but he might have if he'd ever considered the possibility of dying. "He wanted to be cremated, then have his ashes tossed…" A bar? A sleazy motel room? "…into the air," she finished lamely. "From a plane. So he can fly."