If It's Not One Thing, It's a Murder Page 2

  I popped a bite of muffin into my mouth to stall for a little time. Bobbi Jo sat back on the sofa and waited. She tapped her perfectly manicured nails on the arm of the sofa and sipped her tea. I finished chewing the mini-muffin and swallowed.

  “Craig is a cross-dresser.”

  Her blue-gray eyes sparkled under raised eyebrows. A smile slowly spread across her lips. Then she laughed. A big, boisterous belly laugh.

  “Oh, my gawd! Skye, that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “It’s not funny!” It was, of course. Hadn’t I just been laughing earlier?

  “What makes you think he’s a cross-dresser?”

  “He told me so. This morning.”

  “Now, wait a minute.” Bobbi Jo set down her teacup and held up a hand. “Craig just woke up and said he’s a cross-dresser?”

  “Not exactly.” I told her about the frothy pink nylon with the gold lace doilies and missing crotch.

  “So, that’s why.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A man isn’t about to tell his wife he’s a cross-dresser unless he’s caught with the lingerie. I should know.”

  “You should know?” I asked.

  “My first husband was a cross-dresser. He didn’t admit it until I walked in on him in his undies and stockings. Well, his undies. They were my stockings.”

  “You never told me that!”

  “Well, what was the point? He was gone and it didn’t seem to matter.”

  I nodded. Bobbi Jo’s first husband had been killed in a boating accident just a year into their marriage.

  “I don’t know what to think. Last night I was sure he was having an affair and now he tells me he’s curious about wearing lingerie. What’s next? Is he going to tell me he’s gay?”

  “There are a lot of regular men who just like to put on women’s clothes. Who knows why? But they aren’t necessarily gay.”

  “That’s a relief. So what should I expect?”

  “It depends. Some men just like to cross-dress as a sexual outlet. Others like to dress up and see if they can pass for a woman. A few of them actually want to be a woman, but that’s a whole ‘nother issue.”

  “I don’t think Craig wants to be a woman. I doubt he even wants to pass as a woman,” I said, unable to picture my tall, masculine husband trying to pass for a woman.

  “Yeah, there’s no way he could pass. I’d bet with Craig, it’s a sexual thing. And, darlin’, that part of it can definitely be fun.”

  “Fun? You mean he’ll want to wear stuff when we make love?”

  “It was the best sex my husband and I ever had. After a while, I started to think a man in see-through panties was the hottest thing on God’s green earth. But I think it was mostly that he was so turned on by wearing them.”

  I dropped my head into my hands, afraid I was going to hyperventilate again. Was I ready for this? Probably not. On the other hand, Craig and I weren’t having much of a love life lately. None actually, for several months.

  “Is that why we never make love anymore?”

  “What? Problems in the bedroom?”

  “Not problems, really. Just nothing. I think it’s been five or six months since we’ve made love.” Or had it been longer? Possibly. Mostly I tried to not think about it.

  “Darlin’, that’s just not right. Have you talked to him about it?”

  “At first I thought it was his back. He had a bad sprain and had to wear a brace for a couple of months. Then he seemed tired all the time, and then he was working really long hours on a new project.”

  “But did you talk to him about it?” Bobbi Jo asked.

  “Well, I asked him if anything was wrong, but he said no. I didn’t want to push him because he had so much other stuff going on.”

  “And before that, was everything all right?”

  “I guess so. I mean, we’ve been married for a while. It’s not like we’re on our honeymoon.”

  “Just how often do you two make love?”

  “Not as often as we did in our twenties,” I admitted. “But that’s normal. It just drops off over the years. I think we usually make love once a month, most of the time.”

  Bobbi Jo’s eyebrows crept toward her hairline. “And you’re okay with that?”

  “I just think he has a low sex drive. Besides, it’s not like we aren’t affectionate. Sex isn’t everything.” I wasn’t really comfortable discussing my sex life. Much less, picking it apart.

  “Well, of course, everyone’s sex drive isn’t the same. Still, once a month doesn’t seem like much of a sex drive at all.” Bobbi Jo sounded concerned enough to make me wonder if that was true.

  Had I just gotten used to infrequent sex? More importantly, was this the key to revitalizing our sex life? The comment Bobbi Jo had made about having such great sex with her first husband when he wore panties was intriguing.

  “So, you had hot sex when your husband wore panties to bed?” The idea titillated me. More than a little. The thought of Craig in lacy little nothings still made me want to giggle, but the thought of hot, sweaty, screaming sex was nothing to laugh about.

  “Oh, darlin’! You would not believe how hot it was. Brings a tear to my eye just thinking about it.”

  “Maybe I should buy Craig some panties, then.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I realized I wasn’t joking.

  “Oh, my gawd! Are you ready for that, Skye?”

  “Is anyone ever ready for something like this?” I didn’t know what I was ready for. But I wasn’t going to let it stop me. “Why not?”

  “Great. Fix your hair and get your purse. I know just the place to go.”

  What was wrong with my hair?

  Adult videos and toys.

  Rentals and sales.

  Obviously, I had lost my mind.

  I took a deep breath and fought the urge to hyperventilate. Surely they didn’t mean to say they rented adult toys. Next to the sign offering to sell or rent videos and toys, glowing neon script proclaimed the name of the establishment.

  “Silky Secrets?” I asked as Bobbi Jo pulled her Range Rover into a parking spot in the strip mall. The display windows held a variety of lingerie. Teddies trimmed with feathers. Stockings with seams up the back and elastic lace at the top. Really, really high heels. There were the usual outfits—French maid, stripper, nurse. Outside of the poorly worded sign, the store wasn’t sleazy looking. Still, did I really want to do this?

  A Lincoln Navigator pulled up next to us, and a young woman with perfectly streaked hair burst from the vehicle. The enormous diamond on her French-manicured hand drew my attention to the fact that all she carried was a platinum credit card and her car keys as she ran into the store.

  “You think she’s having an erotic emergency?” I asked.

  “Haven’t we all, at one time or another?” Bobbi Jo waggled her eyebrows at me. “Let’s go buy your husband some panties.”

  The store was much nicer than I’d thought it would be. The woman from the Navigator stood in front of a rack of videos in a room set off to one side of the store. I wasn’t quite curious enough to check out the selection of entertainment. The front of the store was dedicated to the milder lingerie, and the farther back we went, the more imaginative it became. Bobbi Jo pulled me over to a section marked Plus Sizes. I guessed that’s what Craig would wear. I picked up a pair of large bikini panties in black nylon with a red glittery design. Bobbi Jo shook her head.

  “You want something crotchless.”

  “Crotchless?”

  “Well, how else are you going to get to the goods, darlin’?”

  She had a point. This was supposed to be as much for my benefit as his, and having his family jewels encased in nylon probably wouldn’t do me much good. Bobbi Jo pawed through the selection and finally held up a pair of fire-engine-red sheer panties with black sequins and lacy black ruffles around the high-cut legs.

  “These are perfect.” She stuck her hand through the open crotch and waved it
around.

  “I think these are nice.” I held up a pair of not-quite-sheer white panties with sparkly pink ribbons on the sides. Unfortunately, the crotch was intact.

  “Too tame.”

  “Really? I’d wear them.”

  “Exactly.” She waved her hand in dismissal of the too tame undies, then grabbed my arm. “Oh! Good point. What are you going to wear?”

  “Me?” I usually wear an oversized T-shirt and cotton boxers to bed. I didn’t think that’s what Bobbi Jo wanted to hear. “I have a long negligee. It’s black and it’s very low cut in the front.”

  “Can you see through it?”

  “Not unless there’s a light behind me.”

  “We need to get you something. Does Craig have any fantasies?”

  “Sexual fantasies?”

  “That you know about?” she added.

  Hell, I hadn’t even known about the panty thing until this morning. “None that I’m aware of.”

  “Okay, we’ll just wing it. Go with something standard.” Bobbi Jo dragged me back to the front of the store.

  Half an hour later, we left with the panties for Craig and a French maid outfit for me, which included high heels, mesh stockings, a garter belt, and a boned black satin teddy with holes for my nipples and a bright green satin bow tie that Bobbi Jo said brought out the green in my hazel eyes. I don’t know how because the bow was on my butt.

  Bobbi Jo pulled into my driveway and shooed me out of the car. “I want to hear every detail tomorrow. Now, go get ready.”

  I dumped my purchases on the bed in the guest room and considered my options. How, exactly, should I present this little setup to Craig? I had no idea. Planning and shopping with Bobbi Jo had been fun, but the reality of getting my husband into panties and then seducing him was intimidating.

  Could I really look at Craig in frilly see-through panties and not laugh? I reminded myself that hot sex would be my reward. We’d never really had hot sex. It was okay, but nothing to scream about. Hot sex would be good. If I could just not laugh or throw up.

  I ran a bath and soaked for a while. I shaved my legs and under my arms. I washed my hair and even used conditioner. I rubbed my expensive lotion everywhere, then styled my hair, taking more than the usual three minutes.

  That didn’t seem to be really enough, so I painted my toenails a bright red and applied makeup with a heavy hand while they dried. The makeup didn’t look so bad, but the toenails were a mess. I spent ten minutes with a box of cotton swabs and nail polish remover to neaten them up a bit. I considered polishing my fingernails, but looking at the job I’d done on my toes, decided I was better off with the natural look.

  Bobbie Jo had insisted I forget about dinner. We could always eat later, if we still had the energy. That thought left me a little light-headed and it had the added benefit of me not having anything in my stomach to throw up. I left a note on the table in the entryway telling Craig to meet me in the bedroom. Not that I would be waiting for him there. But I had laid the crotchless, sheer panties on his pillow.

  My plan was to wait in the guest room until I heard him arrive. Give him a few minutes to find the undies and get into them, then saunter into the bedroom and let the games get underway. I refused to think about exactly what might happen. I’d be open to everything. I’d go with the flow. I’d give Craig a night to remember. Maybe this would rejuvenate our marriage. We’d start another phase of our lives together. At the very least, I’d get laid.

  I poured myself a glass of wine and took it to the guest room to get dressed. Craig was due home in fifteen minutes. I wriggled into the outfit, struggling with the zipper in the back. The boned garment pulled in my tummy and pushed up my breasts. I’d never had such a tiny waist or so much cleavage. I tried to ignore the fact that my nipples protruded from the little lace-trimmed cutouts. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I regretted that I’d been skipping the gym for the past few weeks. Or was it months? I turned to look at my backside. The big green bow did nothing for my butt, and there was a jiggle to my thighs that I hadn’t noticed before. No problem. I’d just keep the lights low.

  I’d gotten a really big glass of wine, but it wasn’t making a dent in my nerves. I sat on the bed, one mesh-clad knee crossed over the other, my high-heeled foot jumping up and down until my shin started to burn.

  Finally, I heard the front door open. Oh, shit! What if he came to the guest room? I lurched across the room and locked the door, then sat on the bed and concentrated on being quiet. That was better than thinking about what I would be doing in just a few minutes.

  I heard Craig walk up the stairs. I heard the bedroom door open. The clock read 5:47. I waited until it read 6:01, slugged down the last of my wine, and stood on wobbly four-inch heels.

  Showtime!

  CHAPTER TWO

  I stood a few feet from the bedroom door paralyzed with indecision. I didn’t want to keep Craig waiting but I didn’t want to walk in on him if he was still putting the panties on. That thought brought up an image of Craig wearing the sequined, lacy panties and I choked back a hysterical giggle.

  What if I laughed when I saw him? Oh, God, that would be awful. For both of us. I took as deep a breath as I could in the corseted outfit and had a stern talk with myself.

  You will not laugh, giggle, or smirk. You will smile enticingly. Besides, who are you to laugh with your nipples sticking out of fur-trimmed holes and a big bow on your butt? And remember to dim the lights.

  I took the few steps to the doorway, turned the knob, and pulled the door open before I could chicken out.

  Craig sat on the edge of the bed still fully clothed, his face in his hands, elbows propped on his knees. The panties were still lying on his pillow. Paralysis set in again. I wanted to turn and run, but I couldn’t even breathe. Craig looked up at me and I saw tears trickling down his cheeks. Craig wasn’t normally a crier. Outside of a few tears of joy when Sheridan was born, I couldn’t remember him ever crying. These didn’t seem to be tears of joy. For a moment I wasn’t even sure I was looking at my husband. My heart contracted painfully.

  “Craig. Honey, what’s wrong?”

  “This is not what I wanted.”

  “But you said you had thought about it and you bought that lingerie.”

  “This isn’t about us, Skye. It doesn’t have anything to do with you so stay the hell out of it!”

  The apology that hovered on my lips slipped away in the face of his anger. Craig was usually so even tempered. I had no idea how to deal with his anger. Suddenly I was horribly aware that he was fully dressed and my nipples were visible. My night of hot, screaming sex was turning into a painful embarrassment.

  “Just leave me alone!” Craig balled the panties up and threw them at me, then turned his back.

  The panties landed on my exposed nipples, and I automatically clutched at the nylon and stared at his back until it became clear he had nothing more to say. I wanted to say something that would make it all go away. Failing that, I turned and tottered back to the guest room.

  I cried myself to sleep and the next morning my first thought was that I was a failure. A complete and total failure.

  Which was as good a reason as any to still be lying in bed at nine in the morning. I forced my eyes open, then closed them again when I saw the French maid costume lying over the back of the chair across the room. I should have burned it. And the panties I’d gotten for Craig. Then there would be no physical evidence of my failure.

  Seeing him in tears had confused me. Hearing him yell had pissed me off. So, I’d retaliated by stomping off to the guest room to sleep in the full-sized bed while he slept on the incredibly expensive king-sized bed with the adjustable air chambers, the temperature-sensitive foam topper, the down pillows, and the seven-hundred-thread-count sheets. Yeah, I certainly showed him! Not that my guest sheets were crap, but still.

  What had I done that was so wrong? Couldn’t he have faked being aroused? Even a little? God knows I had on more t
han one occasion.

  It was all Bobbi Jo’s fault. The phone rang and I glared at it. No doubt that was the bitch calling now, wanting to know how exciting my evening of kinky sex had been. I could hardly wait to share.

  “Hello?”

  “Skye?” Bobbi Jo’s soft drawl was broken, and I sat straight up in the bed, last night’s debacle forgotten.

  “What is it?”

  “Can you come over?”

  “Sure. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s probably nothing, but I need some company.”

  “Bobbi Jo, will you please tell me what’s going on?” I got out of bed and carried the phone into my bedroom looking for clothes. Bobbi Jo had me worried and now I was sorry I’d called her a bitch, even if it was just in my thoughts.

  “Edward just called from the office. The police say that someone was murdered last night with my gun.”

  “Your gun?”

  “That little thirty-eight with the mother-of-pearl handle that Edward gave me—”

  “I know the gun, Bobbi Jo. Who was murdered with it and how? Wait. I’m getting dressed; I’ll be right over.” I hung up the phone and pulled on jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. I figured this was going to be a long story and I’d rather hear it in person. Plus, I wanted to tell Bobbi Jo just how wrong she’d been about the damn lingerie. I pulled up at her minimansion less than half an hour later.

  “Oh, gawd! I’m so glad you’re here.” Bobbi Jo pulled me inside. I followed her through the great room and dining room to the French doors that led to a spacious patio. Her husband, Edward, and a young man were having coffee at the glass table.

  “Skye, this is Sean Castleton, Edward’s assistant,” Bobbi Jo said as we both took chairs.

  Sean and I nodded to each other. Edward had stood when we came out and now leaned down to kiss my cheek.

  “Skye, you’re looking lovely as ever.” Edward was gracious to a fault. I’d barely taken time to run a brush through my hair.

  “Okay, now what’s going on? Who was murdered? And what does your gun have to do with it?” The doorbell chimed and Bobbi Jo jumped up.