Chapter 17
Jack
I REALLY WOULD’VE liked to rush back over to the Wharfman’s house and demand to speak with whoever was driving that black SUV, but not only is Officer Moore going to be arriving soon, we’ve also put Connie Wharfman on her guard. The chances she’d even open the door for us again are slim. No, our best bet is to leave and hope that Officer Moore manages to find out the information for us.
Or we could hold an impromptu stakeout and watch the house until whoever it is comes out. I dismiss this idea almost as quickly as it comes to me. The SUV’s windows are tinted, meaning we won’t be able to make much out from the distance we’d need to maintain not to be noticed. Plus, if that woman who yelled at us for sitting on her sidewalk is any indication, we’d likely have other people from the neighborhood (or possibly even security) approaching our vehicle to ask what we’re doing here. Lucy’s bright red Jeep isn’t exactly inconspicuous.
No, it’s best to just get out of here and regroup.
Honestly, regrouping has never sounded better. I’m desperate to have the safety net that is the presence of Emily, Lucy, and Mel back in place. I can’t be alone with my wife for any longer if I’m going to keep this marriage platonic.
It’s like I’ve had an electric fence in place to keep my attraction to her contained, but then holding her in my arms and hearing her sigh just now tripped a circuit in my brain, shutting the fence off.
So now I need that motley trio of security guards back to help keep me in check. Given their predilection for romance, I’m not sure how good they’ll be at their job, but having anyone at all around should be at least something of a deterrent.
Lucy left the Jeep unlocked for us so that we could wait for them inside it without the realtor coming out and asking who we were. The two of us climb into it on our respective sides. This backseat wasn’t built for a man of my size, so as I’m getting in my elbow bumps the back of the seat in front of me at the same time that my head hits the ceiling and I tumble forward. Nora, obviously not expecting such an ungraceful entrance on my part, squeaks in surprise as I topple in slow motion onto her lap.
In an effort to not crush her, I try to stick my hands out and catch myself, but then panic at the last minute that I’m somehow going to end up groping her, and lift them up instead. I land with a grunt. My cheek is plastered to her thigh, my arms are stretched out above my head like I’m Superman, and my butt is in the air.
For a second I just lay there in disbelief, but then the legs beneath me start shaking and I realize she’s laughing. Uproariously laughing.
“Smooth,” she gasps between laughs, “real smooth.”
Carefully I retract my hands from their Superman pose and use the seat to lift myself back up to sitting. Nora is still laughing and, despite my embarrassment, I find myself joining in. Her laughter has a lightness to it that defies gravity. Fueled by her laughter my Superman arms may have actually had a chance at sending me airborne.
“You thought that was funny did you?” I quip, tickling her gently in the side. It’s a flirty move that takes me by surprise.
I’m a guy who has always enjoyed a good teasing session between friends. Nothing mean-spirited, just good-natured ribbing. When I started dating Nora—no, actually the day I met Nora—I discovered that with her my teasing nature translated to flirting like crazy. I found I enjoyed nothing more than sneaking in little comments here and there that made her blush or smile or laugh or lean in for a kiss.
Up until this moment, though, I have been very carefully avoiding flirting with her. I guess ending up with my butt literally in the air caused me to let my guard down. Still, as I watch a pretty pink blush bloom across her cheeks I find I can’t bring myself to care about my slip-up.
My fingers move of their own accord to the spot right under her rib cage, continuing their tickle attack. She shrieks and swats my hand away, but the smile on her face is wide and absolutely beautiful.
I retract my hands, waggling my fingers as I smirk at her. “That’s right, Miss Laughypants, who’s laughing now?”
“Miss Laughypants?” she snorts. “Is that the best you can come up with?”
“Hmm, would you prefer Miss Pee-your-pants,” I tease, lifting my fingers again. “Because these guys right here are ten energizer bunnies and they can tickle until the name fits.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” she challenges, but I don’t miss the nervous glint in her eyes. Let’s just say it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve given her the moniker. Turns out drinking three cups of tea then getting tickled by me has some unfortunate consequences.
“Don’t test me.”
“This is Lucy’s car, not a barn,” she counters. Oh right, the aforementioned tickling incident was in my barn. The site of so many of my favorite memories with Nora.
Not that tickling her until she peed her pants is a favorite memory, but the other times—the ones with kisses and soft brushes of her hand against mine and laughing together. Yeah, those are all part of the highlight reel.
Then again, Nora is basically my life’s entire highlight reel.
“It is red like a barn,” I point out.
“Jack,” she warns, “do not tickle me.”
“Okay fine,” I relent. “I won’t tickle you, if you—” I pull up short as I realize I was going to say kiss me. Yeah, no. Not going there. Like she said, we’re not in my barn. Kissing isn’t a thing we do anymore. You know, unless a judge tells us to.
“If I what, Jack?” Nora asks, her green eyes piercing me. I’m saved from—or perhaps robbed of—the chance to answer by the arrival of Lucy, Mel, and Emily.
“What kind of people require two toilets in the same bathroom?” I hear Lucy exclaim incredulously from right outside the car.
“You know what they say,” Emily answers sagely, “the couple that poops together, stays together.”
There’s laughing, then Mel adds in an announcer’s voice, “On today’s episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Fiber-heavy, we’ll answer your most burning questions: Just how many toilets can you fit in one bathroom before your plumbing breaks and where is the best store to register for his and hers toilets?”
They all open their doors and spot us for the first time. Immediately their laughter vanishes.
“You’re back,” Lucy hisses.
“How did it go?” Emily adds.
“Does she know you murdered her husband?” Mel asks, then clamps a hand over her mouth with a wince. “Sorry,” she says through her fingers.
“Don't worry,” Emily says quickly. “She didn’t give anything away inside. I made sure of it.”
I nod, still off-kilter from that playful interaction with Nora just now. What would’ve happened if we hadn’t been interrupted?
Nothing. The answer is nothing. Because if I had dared to suggest we kiss, Nora would have shot me down faster than a racehorse bursting out of the gate.
The conversation continues around me, Nora’s pretty voice telling them about Connie’s odd behavior and the other three postulating about what this could mean and who could have shown up in that black SUV. I don’t say anything, too lost in my own retrospections.
The thing is, there have been a few isolated moments when I’ve thought maybe she might have the tiniest little bit of residual feelings left for me. There was the kiss at our wedding. The kiss I could swear she returned with more than perfunctory enthusiasm. Then there was the way she grabbed ahold of me outside Connie’s door– like I meant something to her. And that sigh as I held her. Oh that sigh.
“Okay, so what now?” Lucy’s loud question finally breaks through my pathetic musings. It’s a good thing too; I was starting to sound like a teen girl pulling petals off a daisy—he loves me, he loves me not. Or in my case, she loves me not. The daisy petals will always end on that truth.
“Jack?” Nora turns to me, and my mind goes blank. I can’t even think of a single possible answer to her question.
“Can I say something?” Lucy asks from the front seat, her nose is in her phone. “I think we really ought to have a contingency plan here,” she goes on without waiting for a response. “Say this whole vacuum coverup goes to crap and the case goes to court.” For a brief second I’m confused, then I remember Becca’s code word plan and scowl. This isn’t a game. Lucy either doesn’t notice my annoyance or doesn’t care, because she carries on with her speech. “Have you considered what we can do to turn it into a mistrial? You know, like obtain evidence illegally or violate her Miranda rights or something?”
“Ooh,” Emily hums, sounding intrigued. “That’s an idea.”
“You ladies do know that a mistrial isn’t an acquittal, right?” I point out. “It just leaves the case in limbo until they decide how to move forward.”
“Limbo sounds better than a guilty verdict,” Emily points out.
I sigh. “Yeah okay, so then which one of your husbands or fiancés are you going to ask to risk their jobs by procuring this illegally obtained evidence?” I ask dryly.
The question is met by silence, then a rush of counter-arguments.
“Risk their jobs,” Lucy retorts with an uneasy chuckle. “Don’t you think that’s a bit extreme.”
“Yeah,” Mel agrees without much conviction. “Surely Chief Lytle wouldn’t really fire any of them.” The three women exchange nervous glances.
“Why does anyone have to know who specifically obtained the illegal evidence?” Emily pipes up with a doubtful shrug. “Wait, no that’s stupid,” she adds, her shoulders slumping. “How could you prove it was illegally obtained without knowing the specifics?”
“Exactly,” I say resolutely. “And since we’re on the subject, this is exactly why I don’t want you telling any of them what happened. You think it would be such an easy thing for them not to tell anyone,” I echo their earlier claims, “but once they know the truth, they’re involved in the coverup too and that puts their jobs at risk. Lucy, you’re having a baby. You really want Stafford out of a job?” Lucy’s cheeks color as her eyes drop to her stomach, but I’m not finished.
“And Mel, you’ve got a wedding coming up. Do you want your groom to be unemployed?” Mel’s mouth pops open, like she’s going to protest, but I keep going. “And Emily, how are you going to pay the mortgage on that house you just bought with only one income?”
A glum silence settles over the car as each of them take in what I’ve said.
“Look, I don’t expect anyone to risk their jobs for me,” Nora finally speaks, her voice firm. “Jack is already doing just that and it kills me that this could ruin his career. I’m not going to add more casualties to my conscience.”
I know I should speak. Should offer up some words of encouragement or an assurance that she’s worth more to me than my job. But there are three other women in this car who would explode into real life versions of the heart-eyes emoji if I said something like that, which would completely negate the sincerity of the words.
Anyway, it’s for the best that I keep silent. The only thing worse than her thinking I’m saying the words for everyone else’s benefit would be her realizing that I mean them for real. She darn well does mean more to me than any job ever could.
But I have my pride to think about. Not to mention my fragile heart. The one she’s holding without even knowing it–making it that much easier for it to end up broken.
“Okay,” Lucy says with a heavy sigh, “let’s forget the mistrial idea. We’ll think of something else, Nora. Okay?” She’s infused her previously downtrodden tone with false cheer. “Like isn’t there some horrible human we can try and pin this on? You know, someone like Kim Jong Un but more local.”
“Pretty sure the state of Michigan is fresh out of evil dictators to pin murders on,” I say.
“You know you’re being really negative, Reynolds,” Lucy huffs. “This is a brainstorming session, which means it’s the time to share any and all ideas, no matter how ridiculous.”
“Here, here!” Emily enthuses.
“Let’s focus on the endgame,” Lucy suggests. “I mean, what are we supposed to tell the guys if we can’t tell them Nora is the one who, you know, killed Ian Wharfman?” As Lucy voices this concern a worry crease appears on her brow. “I can’t lie to Nate forever.”
“Same,” Emily agrees. “Not telling Reed for a day or two is one thing…but not telling him ever…” she trails off.
“We could tell them, then all move to some foreign country and be fugitives from the law,” Lucy muses. “Maybe Antigua.”
It deeply disturbs me that she somehow came up with the same idea as me.
“What’s the real estate market like there?” Emily asks.
“Noah knows you snuck into Nora’s condo last night,” Mel blurts suddenly, then groans and sinks back in her seat.
“Wait, what?” I demand, and Mel moans again.
“I wasn’t supposed to tell you. I slipped up when I complimented Nora on her dress earlier. Noah got a call from one of Nora’s neighbors this morning that their dog was going crazy around 3am, and when they got up to investigate they saw someone sneaking out of Nora’s condo. They snapped a photo and though the darkness might’ve made it hard to recognize anyone else, your best friend was able to identify you right away.”
I’m in shock. Sure I heard that dog going nuts, but it stopped as soon as I got in the house so I didn’t think anything more of it. But someone took a picture of me. How could I have let that happen? How could I have been so careless?
Probably because I was too busy anticipating the happy look on Nora’s face when I showed her the clothes I’d gotten from her house for her. I’d been too focused on being her hero yet again. Stupid.
“Why didn’t he say anything?” I manage to ask.
“Because,” Mel says softly, “it turns out your friends consider you someone worth giving the benefit of the doubt.”
Her statement, said so plainly and without condemnation, guts me.
“Don’t look so surprised, Reynolds,” Emily says with a laugh. “Did you really think you held the monopoly on going the extra mile for your friends? You do so much for everyone else—of course the guys are willing to show up for you. You just never ask for help.”
“You can say that again,” Lucy snorts. “Why do you think that is, Reynolds?”
“Yes, why can’t you ask for help?” Mel seconds the question. “You do know asking people for help is actually a sign of emotional maturity, right? I have a book I could give you, if you don’t believe me.”
“I think the thing you should be considering is whether or not this whole not-asking-for-help method is working for you?” Emily says thoughtfully, and the other two nod. I don’t dare look at Nora to see how she’s reacting to their shenanigans.
This is all starting to feel like a therapy session where I’m expected to unpack any childhood trauma I experienced that might’ve made me this way. Only I have three therapists instead of just one and—like something out of a recurring nightmare—the woman I most care about impressing has a front row seat to the process.
“Look,” I say, attempting to keep my voice even and in control, “this really isn’t the time or the place to psychoanalyze me. Our focus now is on making sure Nora doesn’t go to prison for an act of self-defense.”
“That’s called deflection,” Mel stage-whispers. “But we’ll allow it,” she adds at a normal volume, “seeing as we really do need to figure out how to help Nora.”
“Exactly.” I nod definitively, then finally allow myself to peek over at Nora. She has a thoughtful expression on her face as she studies me, but when my eyes meet hers she snaps to attention, then quickly busies herself fiddling with her seatbelt.
“I have something to say too,” Lucy announces, looking distinctly uncomfortable as we all shift our attention over to her.
“Go ahead,” I prompt when she doesn’t speak for a full minute.
“Yeah, okay.” She nods, dragging in a breath, then lifts her purse and starts to rummage through it as she speaks. “I did something. Ouch.” She winces as her hand meets something in her bag, but then pulls the offending item out. Next to me Nora gasps.
“That’s my knitting needle,” she squeaks, grabbing her own purse and searching frantically through it. Her green eyes widen as her searching comes to an abrupt stop. “You took that from my purse,” she says softly.
Lucy wrinkles her nose, but then nods. “Yes, I did. But, I swear, it’s not what you think. I wasn’t going to show it to anyone. I saw the skein of yarn it was stuck in poking out of your purse back at Reynolds’ house, and I wondered if you’d even thought about getting rid of the needle. So I took it. I was going to hide it, you know, so that they couldn’t match the knitting needle used to this one and figure out that you were the one that, er, stabbed Ian Wharfman.” She grimaces, then presses on.
“But this discussion we’ve been having made me realize that this might have been a bit rash of me. I don’t want Nate to get in trouble for what I did, and it would also be bad if I got in trouble…” She rubs her belly. “I’m not looking to give birth in prison,” she says with a weak chuckle. “So now I’m thinking that the best thing to do would be to ask Reynolds what he thinks we should do with the needle.” She holds it out expectantly to me. “What do you think?”
What do I think? I think that was a huge misstep on my part not to think of getting rid of the needle first. A better man would admit they messed up, but I’m going to brush past it in the hopes of Nora not losing all faith in me.
“Yeah, we really should get rid of the needle,” I say gruffly. “Here, pass it over.” Lucy gives me the needle and I make sure to touch it all over so that it’s not just Lucy and Nora’s prints on the thing. I’m toying with the idea of putting it in Connie Wharfman’s trash can, but decide this would be too mean. She may be a little crazy, but she didn’t kill him, so I shouldn’t be trying to point the finger at her. Anyway, better to put the needle somewhere it’s unlikely to ever be found, like in the trash can at some random fast food store. Though we’ll have to wrap it in something so it doesn’t poke a hole in the bag.
“Let’s get out of here,” I tell them as I set the needle in the door panel. I’d hold onto it, but the thing really is sharp.
“Where are we headed?” Lucy asks as she pulls away from the curb.
Next to me Nora’s stomach grumbles and just like that I have a next step. Taking care of Nora is always priority number one for me.
“Time for lunch,” I reply.