Chapter 9 Maggie #2
“Stop.” She unpeeled Jo’s arms. “Sit in the chair and look at my garden. Quick, before Anthony comes home.”
“Don’t they have cameras?” Jo Ellen asked.
“Nope. But hurry.” Maggie ushered her over to her beloved egg chair, but her gaze went beyond it to—
“What?” Maggie froze mid-step.
“No! He’s here? Oh, my—”
“Look at my garden!” She could barely utter the words as she stared at an overgrown, scraggly mess of roses. Blooms drooping like they’d given up hope. Dead stems still clinging, unpruned and sad.
Maggie stared, horrified on a level that felt deeply personal.
“This,” she said, voice trembling with outrage, “is a disgrace.”
Jo Ellen grabbed her elbow. “Maggie—focus.”
But they were her babies! In a daze, she walked to the side stairs that led to the garden, taking them slowly, trying to breathe.
At the bottom, she crouched and touched a brittle stem like she was checking a pulse.
“No one has deadheaded, fertilized, watered, or loved these roses,” she muttered. “He said he would! Look at this. Look at this.”
Jo Ellen swung like a five-year-old in the egg chair. “Whee! This is fun! We can come back and prune while he’s at work.”
“You cannot neglect roses,” Maggie snapped under her breath. “Roses are living things. These leaves are yellowing. That means—”
“That means you’re about to get caught,” Jo Ellen said.
Maggie ignored her, reaching deeper into the bush. “Where is the fertilizer schedule? Crista would never allow—”
Jo Ellen leaped out of the egg chair and shot toward the stairs. “Maggie!”
Maggie lifted her head, annoyed—and then froze.
The lights inside the house flicked on and the entire backyard flooded with warm, bright illumination.
“Get down here!” Maggie reached a hand up and practically yanked Jo Ellen down the two stairs, pushing them both to the ground so Anthony wouldn’t see their heads in the garden.
Not that he ever looked out here because if he had—and he had a heart—her roses would be thriving in the summer warmth.
They inched up like a couple of cat burglars, watching the light and movement. He was in the kitchen, then the eat-in area, to the den, then back to the kitchen.
“How do we get out of here?” Jo Ellen asked.
“We can’t without crossing the deck,” Maggie told her. “Maybe he’ll go upstairs and take a shower. Then—”
One of the French doors opened, and Anthony stepped out, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, a phone in his hand.
“Or not,” Jo Ellen whispered as both of them ducked into a bush of crispy, nearly dead roses.
“Shh!” Maggie jabbed her. “Listen! He’s on speaker!”
They heard the tones of another voice on the phone…a woman’s voice.
“Crista?” Jo Ellen mouthed, brows raised in hope.
“I don’t think so,” Maggie murmured. “Listen.”
They heard Anthony’s footsteps, coming closer as whoever was on the phone finished talking, still unintelligible from here.
“That’s fantastic, Pamela.”
“What’s his assistant’s name?” Jo Ellen mouthed the question.
Maggie could have kicked herself for not asking Crista when she’d talked about the woman. She shrugged and the move caught her top on a thorny branch, making a rustling noise.
They ducked deeper, stayed very still, and listened to…was that the egg chair?
Maggie inched up and stole a glance. Sure enough, Anthony was swinging in the chair, holding the phone out, talking to a woman named Pamela.
Oh, this was not good. Not at all.
“We’ll definitely look at it tomorrow,” he said, and she replied, but even on speaker, he was too far away to make out anything but the tones of a woman’s voice.
“You better come with me.” He added a soft chuckle that sounded…oh, not good. “I can’t make that decision without you. I need a woman…”
The rest faded as he stood and Maggie bit her lip as he disappeared into the house, leaving the French door open—meaning they couldn’t escape this hiding place.
Now what?
“Are you sure we can’t get out of this garden without crossing the deck?” Jo Ellen asked on a whisper.
“Unless you want to burrow under the deck. It has been done…by creatures, not old ladies spying on their sons-in-law.”
“Mags, look.” She pointed to a light upstairs.
“That’s their bedroom.”
“He’s up there. And what’s that?”
“The bathroom,” Maggie said, straightening and wincing at her back pain. She was too old for this.
“Could we make a run for it?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t run.”
“Then walk really fast.” Jo Ellen tugged on her sleeve. “Ready? Up and across and out, silent and fast like a ninja! Do not stop, sit in the egg chair, or make a noise.”
“But I—”
“Now!” With a jerk, Jo Ellen pulled her up the steps, the two of them prancing over the wood like aging ballerinas, neither turning to look at the house. They made it down the other stairs, slipped out the gate, and reached the path breathless.
“We didn’t get shot!” Jo Ellen announced on a laugh.
“He doesn’t have a gun.”
“Oh, Maggie, you had me—”
“But he does have evening conversations with someone named Pamela,” Maggie said, still hurting. “We have to find out who that is.”
“Oh, we will,” Jo Ellen agreed. “How?”
“I’m counting on you to figure that out, Jo. And I’m sure it will involve an elaborate lie.”
“At least one,” Jo muttered. “Come on. Let’s go have a drink and judge the furniture at our free Airbnb.”
Maggie tried to smile but it felt forced. Because a tiny, nagging, unwelcome doubt had just slipped into her heart. And after the horrible disregard Anthony showed for her roses?
Clearly, the man was capable of anything.