The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom (15 page)

“Class, please welcome Javier,” Allan was saying. My heart
beat loudly in my chest as a dark haired man in his late-twenties wearing a
baby blue bathrobe moved to the center of the room. Javier positioned himself
on the raised platform, turning to face the class. He had hooded, sexy eyes, a
chiseled jaw and a slightly off-center nose that appeared to have been broken.
It wasn’t a classically handsome face, but it was compelling. Karen had been
right, it had character… lots and lots of character. In fact, I found I
couldn’t look away.

The instructor spoke again. “Javier would like to start
tonight’s class with a two-minute standing pose.”

I tore my eyes from his face and stared at the paper before
me, pencil poised to begin. Two minutes wasn’t very long to draw the complete
human figure. Javier dropped his robe. I dropped my pencil.

“Whoops! Uh… Sorry.” The pencil rolled across the floor,
finally coming to rest at the foot of the platform where Javier stood… stark
naked Jesus Christ. I hadn’t been prepared for stark naked! In a crouched
position, I scurried to retrieve my pencil. “Sorry about that,” I muttered
again, preparing to rush back to my station, but suddenly, I froze. It was
probably only for a second or two, but to me, time had slowed perceptibly.
Squatting at the base of the platform, I had just realized that I was mere
inches away from the most attractive naked body I had seen, in person, since…
well, since Paul had an attractive naked body back in the early nineties. At
that moment, I had completely forgotten that Javier was quite possibly Karen’s
murderer. I felt nervous and fluttery. I could almost feel the heat emanating
from his golden skin, hear the blood pumping through his veins, his heart
beating… Okay, don’t look up, I instructed myself. Keep your head down, and
slink back to your drawing horse. But it was like some kind of compulsion. I
raised my head.

I had a perfect view of two solid, muscular legs,
reminiscent of a carved marble statue. And of course, dangling right above me
was… his impressive, uh… well, to borrow a term from Spencer, his
wiener
.
That snapped me back to reality. I turned quickly, and duck-walked, in my
squatted position, back to my spot.

Get it together woman! I chided myself as I raised my pencil
to the paper. You are here on a reconnaissance mission, not to ogle the prime
suspect. What are you, fifteen? You’ve seen a hundred penises! What’s so
different about this one? Okay… maybe not a hundred, but probably ten or twelve—if
you counted children. The rest of the class was focusing intently on drawing
the human figure. They seemed oblivious to the fact that this was quite
possibly the most perfect, muscular, sexy human figure on the planet.

I drew a light, sloping line, which could easily represent a
shoulder… or possibly a tricep. I hadn’t actually had the courage to look at
Javier again, lest I collapse into childish, nervous giggles. God! What was
wrong with me? When did I become such a perv?

“Two minutes are up,” Allan announced. “Javier, please select
another pose.”

I followed the rest of the class in turning to a fresh sheet
of paper, despite the fact that there was virtually nothing on my first. This
time it would be different. I was quite capable of looking at the human body as
a pure and honest form. I was a wife and mother after all, not some sick,
sex-maniac. Besides, Javier was a wife stealer, and a potential friend killer.
It was sick to be feeling an attraction toward him. Sick! I looked toward the
platform. Javier had moved into a modified kneeling position, his chin resting
on his hand. At least now I couldn’t really see his… you know…
private parts
,
which made it a little easier to think of him in a nonsexual way.

But just as I was about to make my first mark on the page,
all the hair on my body stood on end. A palpable tingling sensation, like an
electric current, traveled through me, and my heart began to race. What was
wrong with me? Was I having a stroke? An anxiety attack? My eyes shifted back
to the platform and that’s when I realized the source of my irrepressible
reaction: Javier was staring at me. I mean, he was really
looking
at me,
and not in an “I just need somewhere to look while I crouch here naked” kind of
way. Our eyes locked, like two magnets and—Oh my God! His were smoldering—really
smoldering! I couldn’t breathe. What was happening to me? Oh my God! Was I
having a
moment
with Javier?

With an impressive force of will I ripped my eyes from his
and focused on the blank, white page before me. Did that really just happen?
Was I experiencing an intimate connection with that incredibly gorgeous, naked,
possible head bonker? It had been so long since I’d had a real
moment
of
my own that I wasn’t sure my instincts could be trusted. My mind traveled back
to Carly’s encounter with the Diet Coke man, and I mentally conjured her
checklist:

·
Our eyes met.
(check)

·
Time stood still.
(check)

·
It felt like we’d
known each other forever. (check)

But this was all wrong. I was married! A mother of two! I
was thirty-eight years old with two popped balloons hanging off my chest! I
didn’t have
moments
with gorgeous creatures like Javier. Besides, I was
working a case. I had to regain my focus.

Sensing the instructor’s presence behind me, I began to draw
frantically
—
long, sweeping lines that in no way
resembled a human body. For the rest of the hour, I sketched without really
looking at my subject again. I imitated the movements of my neighbors: long,
smooth pencil strokes, followed by short, quick bursts for shading. The results
of this method were several Picasso/stick figure hybrids, but Allan didn’t
comment, other than a murmured, “Interesting.” Either he was not paying
attention, or he thought I was more of an impressionist.

Finally, the end of class was announced. As I gathered my
pencils, I could see the baby blue robe being draped around Javier’s nakedness.
Now was my chance. I would stroll up casually and say: “Nice work.” When he
responded with a “Thank you”, I would say: “Do I detect an accent? You’re from
Spain! I love Spain. How about I buy you a coffee so we can talk about Spain?”
Or, I could take a more direct approach. “Hello Javier. I’m a close friend of
Karen Sutherland’s. I was wondering if we could talk privately—about Karen?”
Yes, the direct approach would work best. No more of this insane eye contact
and sexual chemistry. I would come right out with my reason for seeing him.
Although… I didn’t want to scare him off. Maybe we could have a friendly chat
about Spain or art or something, just to break the ice? Then, when I’d put him
at ease, I’d bring up the real reason for our meeting.

Allan’s voice interrupted my internal dialogue. “Thanks
everyone! See you next week.”

My head snapped up and I looked around. Other than Allan, I
was the only one left in the classroom. Everyone, including Javier, had gone.

I blew it! I completely blew it! For the next few days, I
couldn’t stop berating myself. My first serious attempt at getting to the
bottom of Karen’s death had been a huge failure. Well, I guess my initial
conversation with Doug had been my
first
attempt—and that had bombed,
too. I was no closer to finding out what happened to my friend. And I was more
than a little concerned that I had acted like some crazed nymphomaniac with
Javier.

I blamed Paul for that—Paul and my hormones. If my husband
had been more responsive to my resexualizing attempts, it would have been easy
to keep my desires in check. If I were a sexually satisfied woman, I would have
been able to look at Javier as nothing more than a model, an extremely muscular
and sensual
object
. But no! Instead, I had sat there like some horny
teenager, leering and salivating at the sight of his smooth, golden skin and
rippling muscles; quivering from the intensity of his smoldering gaze. It was
disgusting:
I
was disgusting. I should have been looking at Javier as
Karen’s ex-lover, potentially the father of her unborn child, and quite
possibly, her murderer.

But next Wednesday, I would be ready for him. I would not
squander another chance to meet with Javier. My nerves would be steeled, my
sexual instincts in check. Just to make sure, I planned to spend Tuesday night
having earth-moving sex with Paul. I would be completely satiated, entirely
uninterested in Javier’s chiseled pectorals and washboard abs. Those hooded,
sexy eyes would have no effect on me, whatsoever. Oh, I’d have eye contact with
him all right. I’d play along with his sick little game, but only to gain what
I really needed: his trust. And then, when he felt completely at ease, close
and connected to me, I’d bring out the big guns. “I know about your passionate
affair with Karen Sutherland,” I would say. “Would you like to tell me about
it?” … Maybe I should also have sex with Paul Wednesday evening, right before I
left for class?

My doorbell rang, startling me from my plotting. It was 2:30
in the afternoon, only twenty minutes before I had to leave to pick up the
children, an odd time for visitors. Opening the door, I was slightly startled
to find two unfamiliar men on my doorstep. The first appeared to be in his
early forties, a little overweight but with an attractive face and full head of
thick brown hair. He wore a dark blue suit, with a crisp, white shirt and blue
patterned tie. The other one was in his midfifties, with soft, non-descript
features and sparse blonde hair, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a gray suit.

“Mrs. Atwell?” The younger one said.

“Yes?”

“I’m Detective Portman. This is my partner, Detective
Conroy. We’d like to speak to you for a few moments about your neighbor, Karen
Sutherland.”

“Uh… of-f course,” I stammered. “Please come in.” They wiped
their feet meticulously before stepping into the grand entryway. I had known
the police would come eventually, but I was ill prepared. What happened next?
On
Law & Order
, the people who had nothing to hide were always
friendly and cooperative, offering cool drinks or coffee. “Would you like some
coffee?” I asked, because, really, I didn’t have anything to hide
—
nothing tangible anyway. And when I did have something more
concrete to tell them, I certainly planned to. They should be thankful,
actually. I was doing some of the legwork for them.

“No thanks,” Conroy remarked. “Would it be all right if we
came in and sat down?”

“Sure… yes, of course.” I lead them into the formal living
room, where they each perched on opposite ends of Grandmother Maple’s chintz
sofa. Seating myself across from them on a slightly worn brocade chair, I said,
“I have to go pick up my kids in about fifteen minutes.” And then, in case that
remark had been construed as uncooperative, I quickly added, “Could I get
either of you a cool drink—or a snack? I have Rice Krispies squares?”

“We’re fine,” the older one muttered.

Portman, with the cute face, spoke. “So Mrs. Atwell—”

“Ms.” I interrupted.

“Sorry…” he smiled, kindly. “
Ms
. Atwell.”

“It’s no big deal, really,” I said, with a laugh and a wave
of my hand. “I just prefer Ms. I always have. I don’t know why. Not so
old
fashioned
, I guess. But please… call me Paige.”

Detective Conroy, at the other end of the couch, did not
find me charming. “We understand you were close friends with Karen Sutherland?”

“Yes. We were… very close friends.”

“Her death must have come as a shock to you.”

“A huge shock!” I said, eyes wide to reinforce my point. “It
was so sudden… so unexpected.” I leaned forward. “Have you found some clues as
to what happened to her?”

“We can’t discuss the particulars of the case with you
ma’am,” Conroy continued. “This is just a routine interview. At this stage,
we’re still eliminating possible suspects.”

Portman clarified his partner’s cryptic explanation. “We
found several sets of prints at the scene. We’re trying to identify people who
would have had a legitimate reason to be in your friend’s garage, before she
died.”

“Oh, okay. Well… my friend Carly Hillman spent a lot of time
with Karen. I suppose she might have been there.”

The cops’ expressions remained blank. Portman jotted Carly’s
name in a small notebook. “Anyone else?”

“I borrowed a bicycle pump from her before… the accident, so
my prints could be there. Maybe Jane McKinnon… or Trudy Young.”

“We’ll need to take your fingerprints,” Conroy said.

“…If you don’t mind.” Portman added. “It would eliminate you
as a suspect.”

“Sure, of course, but I have to pick up
—
”

Conroy interjected. “We’ve got a Live Scan in the car. It
just takes a few seconds.”

“Okay, then.”

“Would the Sutherlands have had any male visitors?” Portman
asked.

And there it was: The perfect opportunity to tell them about
Karen’s affair with Javier. Obviously, they knew she was pregnant by now. Once
they were aware of
the other man
, they could interrogate him properly. I
would no longer have to embarrass myself with my ridiculous lack of artistic
ability at that sketching class. I wouldn’t have to face Javier again after
that silly “moment” we shared. It would be such a relief. The police could
investigate Doug, too. I wouldn’t have to poke and pry into my neighbor’s
business. I could go back to being a sweet and supportive friend, instead of
Aberdeen Mist’s own Jessica Fletcher
—
a much younger
version, of course.

“Umm…” I began, under the guise of contemplating which men
might have been in their attached garage. But really, I was stalling. Did I
want to blow Karen’s affair wide open at this stage? If her death turned out to
be nothing but an unfortunate accident, was it fair to tarnish Doug’s memory of
his wife? And what about her reputation in the community? Did I really want to
turn my dear friend into “that slut who got what she deserved”? No, I couldn’t
tell them yet
—
not until I knew more. “I can’t think of
anyone. I don’t really know Doug’s friends.”