If It's Not One Thing, It's a Murder Read online

  DEDICATION:

  For Patricia LaCaria, Pamela Cournoyer, and

  Penny Schufreider.

  Because sisters make the best friends.

  Published 2008 by Medallion Press, Inc.

  The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO

  is a registered tradmark of Medallion Press, Inc.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”

  Copyright © 2008 by Liz Wolfe

  Cover Illustration by Adam Mock

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Typeset in Adobe Caslon Pro

  ISBN# 9781933836393

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

  I want to thank my critique partners, Theresa Stevens,

  Bobbie Cole, Alexis Fleming, and Sara Hanz. This

  book would not have been possible without

  their invaluable input.

  Thanks also to my husband, Keith, for his incredible

  support, and for making my dreams come true.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  CHAPTER ONE

  I held the lingerie up by its tiny straps. A froth of cheap, bubblegum pink nylon with little round doilies of gold lace over the nipple areas. Matching lace ruffles around the legs. Open crotch.

  Not mine.

  “I’m going to kill him.” The thought formed slowly and the words were whispered behind clenched teeth.

  “Then, I’ll kill her.” I didn’t even know who she was, but I was damn well going to find out.

  Blood pounded in my head and I felt sick to my stomach. A little dizzy. Then I realized I was hyperventilating. I sat down on the unmade bed and tried to breathe normally.

  It was hard because this wasn’t normal. I knew what normal was. It was my life. I took care of my husband, our eighteen year old daughter, Sheridan; and our home. I decorated the house, orchestrated our schedules, volunteered at Sheridan’s school, and played hostess to Craig’s business associates. I played tennis at the country club, grew flowers in the front yard and tomatoes and strawberries in the back. My hobby was taking photographs that chronicled our lives, a selection was included with the family newsletter every Christmas. My life was the definition of normal. Until now. When the nausea faded, I looked at the dreadful evidence of his unfaithfulness again.

  Outside of being wrinkled, it didn’t appear to have been used. At least it hadn’t been laundered, from the condition of the papery tag sewn into the back seam. I fingered the tag and squinted at the information printed in English, Spanish, and French. Nylon/acrylic. Hand wash, line dry. Size XXL.

  XXL? Craig Williams, my husband of nineteen years, was having an affair with a fat woman. I cringed at my attitude. There was nothing wrong with being fat. My friend, Lily, was plump. I was carrying a few extra pounds myself. Nothing wrong with it. Besides, XXL didn’t necessarily mean fat. She could be big boned. Or tall. Maybe statuesque.

  She was probably a freaking Amazon goddess.

  In my bed. With my husband.

  That certainly explained why we rarely had sex anymore. Craig was having Amazon-sex with his voluptuous mistress instead of Pygmy-sex with his five-foot-two-inch wife.

  “Skye?” Craig’s voice floated up the stairwell to me. “I’m home.”

  I froze like I’d been caught sweeping dirt under a rug. I glanced around the room, searching for a place to hide the lingerie. What the hell was I thinking? I didn’t need to hide the damn thing. I wasn’t the one who’d hidden it under his side of the bed.

  “Hey.” Craig walked into the bedroom, looked at the sleazy pink confection in my hand, and stopped. His mouth opened, then closed into a grim line.

  At that point, I really had no choice. I would have preferred to confront him at a different time, in a different place. Perhaps with all my wits about me. Even with some of my wits within arm’s reach.

  “What is this?” I held out the handful of wrinkled pink and gold teddy.

  He looked confused. It was a decent attempt. Genuine, almost. Maybe it was more surprised than confused.

  “What do you mean?”

  What did I mean? Oh, okay. We were doing the I-have-no-idea-what-you-are-talking-about thing.

  “I mean, what was this,” I shook the thing at him, “doing under the mattress on your side of the bed?”

  “Why were you looking under my side of the mattress?” he asked.

  Oh, no. I was not going there. I wasn’t about to play his game of making me feel guilty for doing something he construed as snooping. I’d played that game before and lost every time. Besides, I had not been snooping. I’d been changing the sheets and the mattress pad. As any good housewife would every freaking Wednesday for the past nineteen years. I lifted an eyebrow.

  He stared at me.

  I glared back.

  I watched several emotions flicker in his eyes and wondered why I couldn’t put a name to any of them. A smile wavered on his lips.

  “I bought it for you, sweetie.”

  Bullshit!

  Any possibility that I might believe him was killed when he said “sweetie.” Craig never used endearments with me. A fact that had annoyed me to no end the first few years, but I’d adjusted. He just wasn’t an endearment kind of guy.

  “Liar!” I threw the lingerie on the still unmade bed and stomped out of the bedroom.

  “Why would I lie?” Craig followed me down the hall and stopped at the stairs.

  “I have no idea, Craig. But I know that you did not buy that cheesy piece of garbage for me. For one thing, it’s not my size. By a long shot. For another, you know I’d never wear anything like that.”

  “Well, maybe you should.”

  I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned to look up at him. He had a sheepish grin on his face that just pissed me off even more. “Are you saying that I am somehow lacking as a woman because I don’t wear trashy lingerie?” I turned on my heel and continued into the kitchen. Craig followed me.

  “I’m saying maybe I’d like to see you in something like that.”

  I stopped in front of the refrigerator and turned to him. Had he lost his mind?

  “You would? You want to see me in that pink piece of dreck?”

  “Why not?” Craig lifted his shoulders and grinned.

  “I don’t think so. I think you want to see someone else in that.” I held up a finger. “Correction. I think you have already seen someone else in it.” I jerked open the refrigerator, pulled out the T-b
one steaks I’d marinated for dinner, slammed them down on the counter, and turned back to him.

  “You think I’m having an affair with another woman?”

  I had to hand it to him. He had the whole shocked-and-disappointed look down pat. I almost felt bad about accusing him.

  “Skye, I would never want another woman over you.”

  Damn, if he didn’t sound sincere. Craig looked like his feelings were hurt. I had a momentary twinge of regret before righteous indignation boiled up inside me again.

  “You really expect me to believe that? You are so full of shit!”

  “Skye, I swear. There is no woman in my life but you.” He laid a hand on my shoulder and I shrugged it off.

  “Just get away from me.”

  Craig shook his head in a sad way, held his hands up in defeat, and walked out of the kitchen.

  Nice try. I looked down at the plastic bag of steaks swimming in red wine, herbs, and olive oil and realized I hadn’t made the salad. Or the garlic bread. I hadn’t even fired up the grill yet. I glanced at the clock. Five thirty. I hadn’t done all those things because it wasn’t dinnertime.

  Besides, why should I prepare dinner for that jerk? Bad enough he was screwing around. I certainly didn’t want to feed him so he would be strong enough to cheat on me. I threw the steaks back into the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. One of Craig’s beers. I’m usually a wine drinker, but the idea of drinking his beer appealed to me. Opening the pantry, I took the last bag of his favorite chips and headed to the patio.

  I downed half the beer in one swill, which calmed me down some. Also gave me a little buzz. The buzz felt so good that I decided to switch to wine. Craig came into the kitchen while I was filling my glass with Merlot.

  “What’s for dinner?”

  At least he hadn’t asked in a demanding tone. Still, he surely didn’t think I was in any mood to cook?

  To be fair, I had trained him to expect dinner at seven every night. The only exceptions were when we dined out; the night I’d gone into labor with our daughter, Sheridan; and the night I’d spent in the hospital with her when she had her appendix removed. Our lives were structured and predictable, because that’s how Craig wanted it. I’d left my spontaneity at the altar, and after so many years I was accustomed to the structure and predictability.

  “I’m having wine.” I took my wine back to the patio and listened to Craig fumble around in the kitchen for a while. Finally, I heard the ding of the microwave and then silence.

  Once the anger died down to a cold knot in my stomach, I wondered who she was. And when they did it. And why. What had happened in our marriage to make him want someone else? And how had I missed the signs? Weren’t there always signs that pointed to this sort of thing? Was I just one of those women who ignored flagrant indications that her husband was cheating? Maybe I was.

  There was no point in trying to continue the conversation with Craig. I was half-drunk and I knew he would be in shutdown mode. I rinsed out my wineglass, threw away the empty chip bag, and went upstairs.

  The bedroom was dark and empty. Craig was probably in the den working, which was his usual method of not dealing with something. I changed into a set of short cotton pajamas and looked at the unmade bed. No way was I going to sleep in that bed with him. Fortunately I kept the guest bedroom made up, so I went in there and cried myself to sleep.

  I woke up disoriented.

  Not quite sure where I was, I closed my eyes again. After I realized I was in the guest room, I tried to think of why I would be there.

  Oh, yes! Craig was having an affair. And lying about it.

  Rotten bastard.

  I opened my eyes again and turned my head. The clock read nine fifteen. Normally, I’m up by seven. I make breakfast for Craig and Sheridan, see him off to work and her to school, then get on with my day. Craig would have left for work already and Sheridan was away at a summer music school, so no breakfast duties today. I could get started on my list of things to do. Shopping for groceries, washing the car, taking old clothes to Goodwill, cleaning the bathrooms.

  Considering the events of last night, the list was a bit overwhelming, so I settled for brushing my teeth and putting on a pot of water for tea.

  “Skye?”

  “Craig, what are you doing here?” He should have been in his office an hour ago.

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  The teakettle whistled and I poured the hot water in my cup, added a tea bag, and sat at the breakfast table. Craig spooned coffee into the coffeemaker, turned it on, and leaned against the counter, studying his feet. I waited. Years of living with him had taught me if I did anything to try to hurry him along, he would just dig in and take even longer to speak. I was halfway through my tea when he finally spoke.

  “About that lingerie.” He cleared his throat. I straightened in my chair and watched him. Whatever he was about to say seemed to be a struggle.

  “Yes?” My stomach flipped and fluttered.

  “This is really hard.” Craig turned and poured himself a cup of coffee. “It’s mine.”

  “Excuse me?” I heard his words but my mind just couldn’t assimilate them.

  “I’ve been curious about stuff, you know?”

  Craig passed his coffee cup from one hand to the other. “About what it would feel like to wear something like that. So, I’ve been chatting online with some other cross-dressers.”

  Oh, God, was I married to one of those men who wore evening gowns and pancake makeup and sang show tunes? Weren’t they all gay? Craig couldn’t be gay. We’d been married forever. We had a daughter. We had sex. Not often, and maybe it wasn’t really hot, but still.

  “I know it’s probably weird to you. But, really, it’s not that big a deal.” He shrugged. “I was just curious.”

  Not that big a deal? Just curious? I took a deep breath and thought it would have been easier to deal with the Amazon goddess. I stared at his broad back and long torso, then it hit me. “That thing is too small for you.”

  “I thought it would fit. I wear XXL in a sweater.”

  He was still turned away from me, and I wished I could see his face so I’d have a clue as to whether he was lying to me.

  “I just didn’t want you thinking that I was having an affair with another woman. I’d never do that to you.”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t sure what I really meant by that. Was I okay with him being a cross-dresser? Did I believe he wouldn’t have an affair? I had no idea. But it seemed to work for him.

  “I have to get to the office. I’m late.” Craig set his cup down, turned, and leaned over to give me a quick peck on the lips.

  I don’t think I moved for half an hour. Cross-dressing? My Craig?

  Eventually an image formed in my mind and I almost fell off my chair laughing. Craig is a big, masculine guy. Six feet three inches, hairy, barrel chest, biceps as big as my thighs. The thought of him in a lacy teddy was not a pretty one. But was it worse than the thought of him in bed with another woman?

  I finally set my cold tea down and looked at the phone on the kitchen wall. I really needed to talk to someone about this. I had two friends close enough to share this with. Lily would be busy at her New Age shop, which left Bobbi Jo. The phone rang just as I reached for it.

  “Hey, Skye, you won’t believe what happened.” Bobbi Jo’s familiar Texan drawl made me feel like life was normal again. “What?”

  “Edward’s car was broken into last night.”

  “Where?”

  “In the garage at his office. He had a late meeting and when he got to the car, the lock was popped off. They stole his laptop.”

  “That’s terrible, Bobbi Jo, but at least they didn’t take the car.”

  “The police said something must have interrupted them, so they just took what they could get their hands on and ran.”

  “Didn’t the alarm go off?” I asked.

  “I guess not. Edward said he couldn’t remember if he’d turned it on when he parke
d it. It’s a weird feeling to know somebody’s been rooting around in our car.”

  “Speaking of weird, can you come over?”

  “Sure, but why is that weird?”

  “Sorry, it isn’t. It’s just that something weird has happened and I need to talk about it.”

  “You sound serious, darlin’. What’s up?”

  “It’s too much to go into on the phone.”

  “I’m at the salon getting my nails done. I’ll be there in an hour.”

  I hung up the phone and headed for the bathroom. After a quick shower, I pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, slathered some mousse onto my hair, slapped on some moisturizer, and called it done. I knew Bobbi Jo would be hungry, so I arranged a small platter with mini-muffins, fruit, and cheese. I’d just put on more water for tea when the doorbell chimed.

  “It’s open,” I called from the kitchen.

  “Hey, how ya doin’?” Bobbi Jo whirled into the kitchen, folded her arms around me for a fierce hug, then stepped back. “Now, what’s so weird that you want to talk about?”

  If I didn’t love Bobbi Jo so much, I could hate her for being so perfectly groomed all the time. Something I’d never mastered. Sure, I could pull myself together for a special occasion, but I just didn’t have the same raw material. I was short with an average build plus a couple of pounds had crept up on me the past few years. My hair was a light brown with blonde streaks, cut to a medium length.

  Bobbi Jo, on the other hand, was tall and slender with a short mop of flaming red curls. At thirty-eight, she could easily pass for ten years younger, and everyone assumed she was a trophy wife to Edward Melrose, her husband of twelve years. They were wrong. Bobbi Jo and Edward were a love match in spite of the twenty-four-year difference in their ages.

  “You want something to eat?” I asked. “It’s probably going to be a long story.” The teapot whistled, and I poured the hot water into a ceramic teapot, set it on a tray with cups, sugar, milk, and lemon, and carried it into the living room. I turned to go back for the tray of food, but Bobbi Jo had picked it up and followed me.

  Bobbi Jo poured herself a cup of tea and lifted an eyebrow. “So, tell me everything.”