CHAPTER 21
Sheila and Tom Bruebaker shared a bedroom suite that was at least twice the size of Sonny’s current living space at Neptune Apartments.
After observing the estranged couple for several hours, she was surprised they didn’t keep separate bedrooms. Or live in separate houses, for that matter. The perfectly coiffed pair had hardly spoken two words to each other the entire afternoon.
While Ben stood sentry at the top of the stairs, Sonny thumbed through boxes of photos and keepsakes, looked into linen closets and peeked behind furniture, pushed aside hanging fur coats and reached into satin-lined pockets.
She found a lot of loose pharmaceuticals and stray tubes of lipstick, confirming what she’d already suspected, that Sheila was fond of pills and flashy colors. Her closet was overflowing with designer dresses and shopping bags.
Something was missing, but Sonny couldn’t think what. Sheila appeared to own everything a material girl could dream of.
Moving on, because she knew she had only a few moments, she rifled through Tom Bruebaker’s belongings, which were meager in comparison to his wife’s. He was neat and orderly, like Ben, and she didn’t expect to find anything of note in his dresser drawers. Men tended to tuck away their secrets in the study or at the office, preferring a more personal space than a shared bedroom.
On a hunch, she continued down the hall, taking a quick glance at Ben’s back before she ducked into the next room. In this gorgeously decorated guest suite, she located Sheila Bruebaker’s holy grail: the shoe closet.
Her eyes widened with appreciation. Sonny wasn’t a fashionista by any means, but what woman’s heart didn’t beat a little faster when presented with such a glittering array of footwear? There must be a thousand pairs, all the outrageously expensive kind, made by designers whose names Sonny probably couldn’t even pronounce.
Before she had a chance to process the sheer magnificence of the collection, Ben rushed into the room and pushed her inside the closet. “They’re coming,” he said in a low voice, tightening his arm around her waist as he pulled the door shut behind them.
The closet went pitch black.
“Why didn’t you stall them?” she whispered back.
“I panicked,” he admitted.
Sonny stifled a groan. Most of the guests had departed, including Carly and Nathan, so the Bruebakers would be very surprised to find a few stragglers hanging out in an upstairs closet. Ben was supposed to act as though he’d been looking for Carly.
From beyond the closet door, she heard a muffled voice. “What are you doing in here?” It was Tom Bruebaker.
Behind hers, Ben’s body stilled. Sonny held her breath.
“I thought I saw someone…” This from Sheila.
“You liar,” he growled, his voice dripping with menace and increasing in volume. Sheila made a small cry of distress. “Who were you meeting?”
The closet door was the old-fashioned kind with a keyhole. A tiny sliver of daylight poured in. Ben’s body was taut, like a tiger ready to pounce, so she clutched his arm in warning and whispered, “Wait.”
Bending her head, she peered through the keyhole.
Tom Bruebaker was holding his wife down on the guest bed, his hand partially covering her mouth. “Are you issuing invitations for sex at your own daughter’s funeral?” he asked. “Is that how low you’ve sunk?”
Sheila bit down on the fleshy pad of his thumb.
Wincing, he jerked back his hand, drawing his arm up as if to slap her. Sheila glared up at him, her eyes glowing with spite, daring him to follow through.
He didn’t.
Sonny let out a slow breath and placed her hand on Ben’s knee, signaling for him to stay calm. She was aware of his body pressed intimately against hers, his groin against her bottom. The position was made all the more provocative with her bent so far forward.
He tried to back up a step and give her some room, but the closet was so littered with boxes and loose shoes that he almost stumbled. Tightening his hands on her hips, he steadied himself instead of sending them both crashing to the floor.
She had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Because there was nothing funny about Tom and Sheila’s dysfunctional relationship, she remained quiet, sinking into a kneeling position in front of the keyhole.
Ben was still too close for comfort, and if she turned her head, her mouth would be level with the fly of his pants, but that couldn’t be helped.
“I saw his number on your cell phone,” Tom continued, breathing hard. “There were three missed calls the night Lisette disappeared. Is that why she’s gone, Sheila? You were out boinking Ben Fortune while our daughter was being murdered?”
Sheila stared up at him in bleary-eyed confusion. “I didn’t know he called me.”
Tom let out a harsh laugh. “Are you so wasted you can’t even remember who you’ve been screwing?”
She pushed at his chest, but he didn’t budge. “We haven’t been screwing, you idiot. Ben hasn’t so much as looked at another woman since Olivia.”
“Oh, yeah? He was doing more than looking at that little Italian girl. Or whatever she is. They were all over each other on the back lawn.”
She stopped struggling and raised her brows. “Really? I can’t imagine what he sees in her. She looked so coarse, with that dark complexion and unfortunate hair.”
Sonny ground her teeth together.
“You’re jealous,” Tom remarked.
Sheila’s lush mouth thinned with anger. “I wish I was having an affair with him, just so I could throw it in your face.”
“Who is it, then?” Tom asked, holding his hand over her throat. “I know you’ve been with someone, in this very room. Yesterday there was sand in the bed.”
“Go to hell,” she spat.
“Did you pick up a stranger on the beach again?”
Sheila bucked and clawed, almost dislodging her husband. He grabbed her flailing arms and pinned her wrists to the mattress. “It’s none of your business if I screw Ben Fortune, one of his surfing buddies, or the entire West Coast,” she panted. “You were with Jennifer the weekend Lisette went missing, after promising to go away with me!”
He loosened his grip on her, empathy softening his expression. “No. I only said that because I saw Ben’s number in your directory.”
Her lipstick-smeared lips trembled and tears squeezed out her eyes, leaving dark rivulets of mascara on her face. “I hurt so much,” she whispered. “Every few seconds I think about my-” Her voice caught on a sob. “My little baby. And I want to die. Oh, God, I wish I’d died with her.”
Tom stared down at her in silence, his chin unsteady.
“I don’t want to hurt anymore,” she said, tears streaming from her eyes. “Please, Tom. I don’t want to hurt like this anymore.”
Letting out a defeated groan, Tom lowered his head to his wife and kissed her, his mouth made sloppy by grief and his motions stilted with pain. Sheila didn’t stop crying, but she kissed him back, and when he let her wrists go she moaned softly, arching her back and running her clawlike fingers through his thick silver hair.
In the next instant, he was reaching beneath her skirt, tearing off her panties, and she was wrapping her legs around him, urging him on. He fumbled with his zipper, reared back, and thrust inside her. It wasn’t the most tender coupling Sonny could imagine, or the most aesthetically pleasing sight, but at least they were making love instead of hate, and holding their misery at bay for a few fleeting moments.
Sonny pulled her gaze away from the keyhole, realizing that she was gawking at the spectacle. Feeling mildly
