“Let me open the door for you; don’t touch anything. Get in the car, and drive home. You picked me up at the airport and gave me a lift home. Period. You never came in the house.” He checked his watch. “Jessica will make a perfect witness. Do me a favor; stop by an all-night drive-through and get yourself a soda or something, so we’ll have proof you went home and... Fiat” —Oh, the tenderness in his voice— “you know I’m trying to protect you.” He paused. His eyes found mine, held, then a whisper. “Sweetie, please go. I need to call the police. And don’t call my cell. I’ll contact you.” Such concern and determination in that face I so loved.
I was too stunned to talk or react in any way. He practically dragged me away, but I had to look back. I couldn’t resist—the dark spot had to be blood. And next to the body, a woman’s purse, open, the contents spilled out. A black, worn purse with a tarnished silver clasp.
EIGHT
IT HAD TO be her. The strange woman who rang the doorbell when I went to pick up Angelique’s mail, the one who wanted to talk to Tristan about his father. How did she get into the house? Or better yet who let her in?
I walked into my safe little home still holding the pint of milk I purchased at the all-night Quick Mart around the corner. I bet they didn’t get many requests for milk at five am. Then again how would I know? I didn’t often wander around at five a.m.
My great idea of surprising Tristan had turned into a nightmare. My brain searched for some sort of logic. Who was that woman? Whatever fueled her need to talk to Tristan had cost her life. It couldn’t be an accident; someone had to let her in the house. Who?
I should have told Tristan the dead woman was the person who’d come to the door asking to speak to him. But everything happened so fast. I went to the airport full of romantic fantasies, sweet nothings whispered in the dark, a night of passion?
On cue, the old Catholic guilt kicked in. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife. Or husband in my case. The church said nothing about a marriage that wasn’t a marriage. Damn, I brought this on myself. This what? Enough already.
The milk went in the refrigerator, and I headed for the bedroom to rid myself of the jeans from hell, shedding my clothes as I walked. Maybe we wouldn’t have had sex anyhow. We did kiss, but that was all. I saw myself on the mirrored doors of my bedroom closet—the new black push-up bra with matching panties cut low enough to show my pierced navel. No sex, heh? Hypocrite.
My suspicions regarding the identity of the poor soul on the floor still messed with my head. I shouldn’t have listened to Tristan and left. He also told me not to call. I would have to wait until the noon news to find out what really happened? Damn.
I filled the bathtub and sat in it, my cell phone close by just in case. Should I call Brenda? By now it was past six a.m. Call and say what?
Ironically, I ended up warming the just-bought milk in the microwave and drinking it all up. Got into my flannel nightie, and against all odds, I fell asleep.
The cell awoke me at eight forty-five a.m. Kassandra’s voice thundered in my ear.
“Did you hear about the murder?”
“Kassandra, please, I have a splitting headache. What are you talking about?” said my lips, while my heart sank.
“At the Dumonts’ residence. Turn on your TV. Were you sleeping? The spokesperson for the Phoenix PD said the death appeared suspicious. That’s code for murder.” Her voice was downright shrill, like she was reporting some entertaining circus act directly from Vegas. “They showed a wide shot of the Dumonts’ place. You think they used a drone? Media everywhere. This has to be good. You think he finally snapped and killed her? I’m sure it’s the wife. They said an older woman.”
I couldn’t talk, I’d hyperventilate.
Shut up, Monica, remember Tristan’s forewarning: “Imagine what it would look like to the outside world. I don’t want you to get dragged into whatever this is.”
He was so right. A surge of love and gratitude toward him overwhelmed me. I couldn’t find my voice.
“Hey, girlfriend, am I boring you to death?” Kassandra pounded on me with her sick sense of humor. “So I’m thinking we order carry-out for lunch, we’ll hole up in the kitchen and watch the news as it happens on Scott’s large new tablet. What do you say? You in?”
“Kassandra, honestly, are you trying to get us fired? The Dumonts are Sunny’s good friends. Remember her? Sunny Novak, our broker and boss?”
“Oh, cool it, she won’t be in until the afternoon. She’s in a meeting with Kay, Dale Wolf, his associates, and a band of lawyers. Come on, it’ll be fun, you can be like a newscaster and tell us who the people are and all that.”
“What people? What makes you assume I know people that you don’t?” This wasn’t fun; this was sick. Did Kassandra know something I didn’t?
“You’re such a party-pooper. You sold them the house, and you were at their housewarming party when that guy... what was his name? You know, Sunny’s old boyfriend who died. Wait, seems to me like that Dumont house is bad luck. That’s two dead people in what? A year?”
It wasn’t even ten a.m., and I was already exhausted. I cleared my throat. “I did not sell them the house. Sunny did. I only did the paperwork because that was my job. When that unfortunate man died, I was working the event as B&B Catering’s assistant. Okay? I’ll get ready and come in but forget the hiding in the kitchen part. If you’re bored,
