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  Beth giggled.

  I smiled back at her. “Lunch at The Tidewater would be lovely.”

  A chill bristled over my skin at the thought of eating lunch so close to the spot where the woman’s body had been discovered, but I shook away the uncomfortable sensation. This was the second thing outside of my comfort zone this week—going out to eat with a new friend. I was making up for all the weeks I remained safely inside the farmhouse, taking no risks whatsoever. And since I was on a roll, I wondered if I should push myself to do one more thing. Maybe Beth was right. Maybe it was time to give Ethan another call. This time when I reached his voicemail, I’d leave a message.

  Six

  Elizabeth

  Before

  Last night’s Chinese food weighed like a rock in my stomach. I handed Jason a steaming cup of coffee. The aroma, which I normally found luscious and intoxicating, now made me gag. My morning sickness was in full swing.

  By the time Jason had returned with the carry-out bag from the restaurant, his spirits had lifted. He managed to shift his thoughts away from his mom’s recent death to visions of what our future baby would look like—whether he or she would have Jason’s blue eyes or my brown ones. Jason admitted he wanted a boy and I confided I was hoping for a girl, but we both agreed a healthy baby was the most important thing. Then we debated baby names for a solid hour. Jason said if our baby was a boy, we’d name him Jason Jr., and if it was a girl, we’d name her Elizabeth Jr. After laughing until my gut ached, I objected on both counts. Jason Junior would inevitably lead to people calling him JJ. I had a thing against names that were initials. And my name, Elizabeth, had too many variations: Liz, Lizzie, Liza, Beth. I argued for a simple name, like Helen or Jane. Something people couldn’t manipulate.

  When 11 p.m. had rolled around, my head sank into my down pillow, eyelids heavy. I wanted to tell Jason that if the baby was a girl, her middle name could be Mary, after his mom, but I knew any mention of her would send him plummeting into a depression. At some point, he’d have to deal with her death. His sudden retreats into silence, increasingly long hours at the office, and late nights in front of the TV drinking beer were beginning to take a toll on both of us. He needed to work out his issues before he became a dad. Maybe a few trips to a therapist could help if I could convince him.

  Now the morning sun shimmered in his eyes as he looked up from his phone and took the hot mug from me. “Thanks. None for you?”

  “No.” I inhaled a few deep breaths, hoping to control the queasiness. “It doesn’t smell good.” I pinched my lips together, placed my hands on the counter and walked myself over to a kitchen stool. My stomach swirled and I thought I might retch.

  “You should eat something.” He shuffled around me and grabbed a banana from the wire basket on the counter.

  “I don’t want that.” The words slipped from my mouth more sharply than I’d intended.

  Jason held up his hands. “Okay, I’ll take it.” He brushed something off his jacket. “How do I look? I have a big meeting today.”

  “You look handsome, as always.” It was true. He was consistently handsome, even when he wore an old T-shirt and shorts. In the black suit, pressed gray shirt, and blue tie he wore today, he looked like a million bucks. Meanwhile, I resembled a rat’s ass.

  He stepped toward me, and I straightened his tie which hung slightly to the right. His warm lips met my forehead.

  “Who are you meeting?” I asked.

  “Some guys Robert introduced me to a couple of weeks ago. They’re the real deal. If they buy into my fund, we’ll be living the good life.”

  “I thought we already lived the good life.” My voice croaked like an old woman on her deathbed.

  “That’s true.” He smiled at my unfortunate state and took a sip from his coffee mug. “Then we’ll be living the really good life. Word about my fund has spread to some heavy hitters.”

  He was playing it cool, but I could tell by the way the muscle in his jaw twitched that he was pumped. Maybe even a little nervous. Jason didn’t need to worry, though. I’d seen his business prowess in action many times before. He possessed chameleon-like social skills, effortlessly blending in with people from any background and adapting to whatever audience sat in front of him.

  “Where’s the meeting?” I struggled to sit up straighter.

  “Pine Hills Country Club. They invited me to lunch.”

  I squeezed his arm. “Good luck. You’re gonna kill it.”

  “Thanks, babe.” He set his mug in the sink and slung the strap of his laptop carryall over his shoulder.

  I gave him a pathetic wave. “Eat some lobster for me.”

  Jason chuckled. “Feel better.” He waved and closed the door behind him.

  Groaning, I lifted myself off the stool and filled my water bottle. It would be a slow day, as far as work went, and I envisioned myself getting back into bed until the worst of my nausea wore off. Balancing myself on the edge of the counter, I stumbled toward the stairway. Three steps into the living room, my stomach lurched. I darted to the first-floor bathroom and heaved into the toilet, a cold sweat erupting over my body. Breathe in, breathe out, I told myself. This will pass. This was what pregnant women went through all the time, and it would be worth it. I placed my hand on my queasy stomach, already feeling indescribable and all-encompassing love for the baby inside me. We’d get through this, the baby and I. Every muscle in my body tensed involuntarily, and I threw up again.

  Minutes later the retching and heaving had passed, and I lay strewn across the living room couch, water bottle in hand. I turned to one of my favorite shows, a reality show about people moving from regular houses into tiny houses. A couple building their dream tiny house played out on the screen. The energetic host toured them through their unfinished home, pointing out where the refrigerator and bathroom would fit. The future residents stared at the walls and the ceiling wide-eyed, almost as if they were in shock.

  “It’s smaller than I envisioned,” the woman said. “I need to be able to host parties.”

  “I’m not sure where I’m going to put my tools,” the man said, shaking his head.

  The smiling host stepped between them, draping his arms around their shoulders. “Two hundred and fifty square feet isn’t a lot of space, is it?”

  My phone buzzed from the coffee table in front of me, as a text appeared on the screen. It was Gwen, the editor of The Observer. I popped up, a bubble of guilt forming in my gut because I’d been watching TV instead of working on the revisions to my article. I read her message:

  I have a new assignment for you. Burlington, VT. Need to profile Smithson Manor B&B. Leave tomorrow a.m.

  I flopped back into the cushions and stared at the ceiling. There was nothing I felt like doing less than boarding a plane to Vermont, especially with my morning sickness to contend with. Gwen couldn’t know I was pregnant, though. Not yet, anyway. She was all business, all the time, and didn’t have any children of her own. I’d need to fit in as much traveling as possible before the baby arrived. I typed in my answer:

  Okay. I’m on it.

  A second later, Gwen responded:

  Great. Jackie will send you flight info by this afternoon.

  Jackie was Gwen’s assistant. I was thankful, at least, that I didn’t have to organize any travel plans. My jaw clenched at the thought of telling Gwen I was pregnant. I rubbed my belly, which hadn’t yet protruded beneath the elastic waistband of my sweatpants. Maybe a career change would be okay, though. I’d have new projects to fill my time, like playdates, mommy-and-me swim classes, and Gymboree. I’d find a way to do some freelance writing on the side. Perhaps I could start a travel blog. Then I could work for myself. Besides, if Jason was right about his fund, maybe I wouldn’t need to worry about money at all.

  Holding my phone close to my face, I shifted gears and googled Burlington Vermont Bed and Breakfasts. Gwen generally provided me with the names of hotels and resorts to profile beforehand, but sometimes she lef
t it up to me to locate some additional hidden treasures once I arrived at the location. I wanted to be prepared. The search results spanned five pages and included everything from quaint farmhouses to Victorian mansions. I saved the most intriguing ones to my favorites. Then I pulled up the Smithson Manor website and read about their comfortable rooms and farm-to-table breakfasts. Hopefully, I’d be feeling up to sampling the food.

  By the time I glanced back at the TV, the show had reached my favorite segment—the big reveal. The couple’s tiny house had been completed, and they were touring it for the first time. The outside was trendy, with a rustic and urban feel made up of stained-wood paneling and corrugated metal. The happy owners made their way inside, where the house appeared much bigger now. Some of the walls were painted a soothing blue color, while others were lined with panels. Storage cubbies separated the living area from the kitchen, and a ladder led straight up into a lofted sleeping area where natural light flowed in through a skylight. More hidden storage pulled out from under the bed and held the few clothes that had survived the journey from the big house.

  At last, the host waved goodbye to the gushing couple who hooked their arms together and bounced up and down. The camera panned out. The tiny house sat perched near a meadow with mountains rising in the background. I couldn’t help smiling for them.

  As the credits rolled, I propped myself up. My nausea had passed. I’d get myself showered and revise the article I’d written on the Aspen resort. Then, I’d drive to Lowes to pick out sample paint colors for the nursery. I clicked off the TV.

  For me, living tiny would be one of those alternate realities that every adult left behind to enjoy the life they’d actually chosen. I’d selected a different door to walk through, one with a loving husband, a new baby, and a beautiful house on the other side of it. My palm sank into my midsection and I smiled. Sacrificing the idea of a tiny house was easy, considering all my other dreams were coming true.

  Seven

  Gloria

  Now

  The waitress plucked my drained iced tea from the table and replaced it with a fresh glass. “Can I get you ladies anything else?”

  “No, thank you,” Beth said.

  I only shook my head, as I had just stuffed my last two French fries into my mouth. The Tidewater’s airy, nautical-themed dining room bustled with patrons. The summer tourists had arrived. In front of us, an enormous picture window overlooked Grand Traverse Bay, where the water glittered in the sunlight and waves crashed toward the sandy shoreline. I’d forgotten how the view of the bay could lift one’s spirits. Still, I couldn’t ignore the troubling thought poking into my mind.

  I leaned closer to Beth. “It’s hard to fathom how a young woman could have been murdered just down the road.”

  Beth pushed her napkin away. “Yeah. It’s crazy they haven’t identified her yet.”

  I clucked. “Maybe it was domestic abuse. Just horrible.”

  “Here’s the check then. No rush.” The waitress placed a narrow black folder on the table between us, cleared our plates, and hurried back toward the kitchen.

  We both reached for it, but Beth beat me, snatching the bill toward her. “My treat, Gloria.”

  “Oh, no. At least let me split it.” I didn’t want Beth to think I was a cheapskate, although relief washed through me at having been a second too late. Despite her recent cash payment, my money didn’t stretch as far as it used to.

  Beth waved me off. “Don’t worry. I can write it off as a business lunch. Plus, I wanted to thank you for giving me a shoulder to cry on yesterday. I’m not usually that emotional. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”

  “Well, we can blame the wine.”

  Beth smiled.

  “Besides, I was happy to listen.” I pointed to the check. “Thank you. My fish was delicious.”

  She nodded and signed. “I can see why your son likes this place.”

  Beth had barely touched her salmon-topped salad, so I wondered if she was only being polite. The mention of Ethan reminded me of the phone call I’d promised myself I’d make. I’d been too tired last night to follow through, but the call would happen tonight. Right now, the view demanded my full attention.

  It had been such a lovely change of pace, sitting at the table facing the bay and chatting with Beth. She’d shared a little about her parents in Kalamazoo and mentioned a younger sister who’d spent several years battling drug addiction, but now worked as a hairstylist in Ohio. A glassy sheen covered her eyes when she told me they’d lost touch. I squeezed her hand and told her I was sorry; her insistence that I reconnect with Ethan suddenly made more sense. I changed the subject, describing the different varieties of vegetables I planned to plant in my garden this year. She told me more about her job as a travel writer and explained how a magazine called American Traveler had commissioned her to write an article on northern Michigan. Her task was to find unique angles on well-known tourist attractions and resorts, and to discover new destinations that people may not yet know about.

  It sounded like a competitive business, but I wasn’t surprised that Beth was successful. She was clever enough, that was for certain. Her article for American Traveler was the reason she was so eager to talk to Amanda. Beth usually interviewed the owners or managers of the resorts she visited and generally received the same canned information as everyone else. She wanted to pick Amanda’s brain for another perspective on The Tidewater and ask her where the locals gathered. I’d rummaged through my own mind for any inside tips I could give her, but I hadn’t ventured out much since Charlie had died.

  The concierge desk had been empty when we arrived through the hotel entrance, and the man at the front desk told us Amanda’s shift started at 1 p.m.

  “Shall we go check for Amanda again?” I asked after the waitress had returned with the receipt from our meal.

  Beth glanced at her watch. “Sure. I don’t want to take up too much of her time, but an introduction would be great.”

  We stood up from the table and gathered our things.

  “I have to make a quick trip to the ladies’ room first,” Beth said.

  As she turned toward the hallway, a vibration from inside my purse startled me. Someone was calling. I fumbled through my purse. “My phone is ringing. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  As Beth slipped away, I pulled out my cellphone; a number I didn’t recognize appeared on the screen. I studied the glowing numbers, debating whether to answer. It was probably another one of those bothersome telemarketers. Still, the latest chapter I’d read in The Thirty-Day Life Coach encouraged me to take risks. I pushed the green button.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, this is Joe Miles,” a gravelly voice on the other end said. “I’m calling about the apartment for rent. Is it still available?”

  I swallowed, excited at the prospect of another renter, but my skin turned cold at the same time. I’d only rented it to women in the past. Then again, maybe a man would be better equipped to repair the tricky lock or fend off mysterious intruders. Nonetheless, I hesitated, suddenly leery.

  “Well, yes. I have someone else who is interested in it, but no lease signed.” I exhaled. A little white lie never hurt anyone. Plus, it gave me a way out in case Joe Miles turned out to be someone less than desirable.

  “Can I see it this afternoon?”

  “Uh,” I stumbled again, hoping I could schedule the showing during a time when Beth would be around.

  “I’m an artist,” the man said, probably sensing my unease. “I live in Detroit, but I’m doing all the art fairs in the area this summer and need a temporary place to live and store my paintings. I can pay upfront.”

  An artist. That sounded acceptable. The chill on my skin vanished, replaced by warm memories. Charlie and I used to love going to the art fair in Harbor Springs. We purchased a painting of a boat there one summer. It still hung in the upstairs hallway. “Well, yes. I guess you would need a place for your paintings, wouldn’t you? I can meet you anytime a
fter 2:30 p.m. today.”

  “How about 3 p.m.?” he asked.

  “That sounds fine.” I made a mental note: Stand outside the garage at 3 p.m. “My name is Gloria.”

  “Thanks. See you then.”

  I slid my phone back into my purse, overcome by the sudden urge to drive home and tidy up the apartment. It would be a relief to have the space occupied, especially after the unsettling door incident. How wonderful would it be to collect a full summer’s rent for the apartment on top of the money Beth had already paid me? Maybe I could finally replace those drafty windows in my farmhouse. Charlie might not have approved of me renting out the apartment to a complete stranger, especially one who was a man, but he wouldn’t have wanted me to be cold all winter either.

  Dishes clanged behind me and a couple lingered nearby waiting to be seated. Remembering the plan to meet Beth in the lobby, I started down a hallway lined with framed photos of yachts and seagulls. Beth wavered in the distance, her hands shoved into her pockets, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Her eyes darted around the room the way they often did, as if she were searching for something. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have guessed she was nervous.

  I stepped next to her. “I’m back.”

  Her demeanor changed when she noticed me. She relaxed her arms and stopped fidgeting. Beth tipped her head toward the concierge desk. “I think that’s her.”

  My eyes followed her gaze. Amanda stood behind the desk studying a computer screen. It had been quite a few months since she’d rented my garage apartment, and she looked different. Her hair was lighter than I recalled—almost white—and she’d cut it short, so it didn’t quite reach her shoulders. She’d gained a few pounds, too. The weight gain suited her. I’d always thought she’d been too thin, not that I would have told her that. I hadn’t been close with Amanda, not the way I’d already become friends with Beth. But Amanda had been nice enough. She’d kept to herself and paid the rent on time.