“Was he right?” Camille asked.

  “Yes, he was. It’s hard to believe it was five years,” Isabel patted her tummy, “and fifteen pounds ago.” A nervous giggle escaped her lips.

  “Hey, wasn’t there another woman in that first class with us?” Maggie questioned.

  “Yes, Abby something?” Emily said.

  “Abby Randall,” Isabel replied.

  “Yes, poor Abby,” Camille said.

  “Poor Abby?” Emily echoed. “Why do you say it like that?”

  “Oh, you haven’t heard?” Camille sat up straight and leaned in.

  “Heard what?” Maggie perked up, apparently expecting a tidbit of juicy gossip.

  “Now, don’t tell anyone you heard it from me, but she and Bob are getting a divorce.” Camille leaned back a little, as if to let the information sink in.

  “Divorced? I ran into them a few times around town,” Emily said. “They seemed happy.”

  “Well, I’m not one to gossip, but I ran into her one day and we chatted for a few minutes.” Camille went on. “Abby had taken classes from me several times, so I probably knew her better than any of you. She told me she thought they were blissfully happy, then one day, out of the blue, Bob told her he had fallen in love with another woman and wanted a divorce. I’m sure it broke poor Abby’s heart.”

  “But how can that just happen?” At the mention of Bob’s other woman, Emily’s mind flew to the mysterious Delia and the note she’d found in Evan’s pocket. “I mean, how can you think everything is perfect and you’re happy, and then out of the blue your husband doesn’t love you anymore?”

  “Abby said he traveled a lot for work. He must have gotten involved with this other woman when he was away.” Camille’s expression turned sullen and her gaze dropped to her lap. “Now that I think about it,” her eyes lifted, “my Jonathan travels a lot for work too. You don’t think that could happen to me and him, do you?”

  “No.” Maggie put her hand over Camille’s. “You need to stop talkin’ like that.”

  “You and Jonathan are perfect together,” Isabel said. “I don’t believe for a moment he’d do that to you.”

  Emily didn’t say anything. She was caught up in her own thoughts, wondering if something like that could have happened to her and Evan. Like poor unsuspecting Abby, Emily had thought she and Evan were truly happy too, but now, finding the note, she was having doubts.

  Even in the refreshing outdoor air, Emily felt like she was suffocating under the talk about unfaithful husbands and her suspicions about Delia. She had to get out of there, had to breathe. “Hey, I’m sorry to cut this lunch short.” She stood abruptly, pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of her wallet, and laid it on the table.

  “But, Emily, you’ve hardly touched your lunch,” Camille said in surprise.

  “I didn’t realize how late it was. I need to meet those clients I mentioned.”

  “But, Em…,” Maggie moaned.

  Emily headed for the door, “I’ll talk to you all soon.” She dashed a quick glance behind her, finding her friends sitting in silence, with eyes wide and jaws dropped as she hurried away.

  Chapter Two

  What kind of person lies to their best friends? A horrible person. Nausea swirled in the pit of Emily’s stomach and splashed up into her throat. It tasted like guilt for having lied to her friends. But she simply had to get out of there, fast. So what else could she have said to them?

  All that endless chatter about seemingly happy marriages and possibly unfaithful men. She would never have believed it could happen to her, until this morning. How did Evan know the woman in the note? He had never mentioned her, as far as she could remember. She’d never be able to rest until she discovered who this Delia woman was.

  Her friends would surely forgive her for the fib, if they knew why she did it. Besides, she had told them the truth about having an appointment to show homes—later. So, since she now found herself with a couple of hours to kill before her showings, she decided to head over to Evan’s old office. One way or another, for her own peace of mind, she had to find out if he had been cheating on her.

  Emily pushed open the large wooden doors and entered the historic gray-stone building that sat in the heart of Paradise Valley, a quaint, picturesque town. The gold and black lettering of his private investigation office was still on the door. Fidgeting with the key in the old keyhole, it finally gave in and unlocked.

  She pulled in a deep breath to steady herself and stepped inside. Though she was still on the hook for the lease payments, she had not been inside this office since Evan’s murder.

  As she surveyed the room, heart-wrenching memories came flooding back and she was momentarily paralyzed by them. He had been found shot to death there, in the corner by the file cabinets, a single gunshot to the back of his head, the report had said. The police had no good suspects.

  The detective had even investigated Emily. Fortunately, she was having dinner with her friends when it happened. But there was always the possibility, he’d said, that she had hired it done.

  The police always suspect the spouse first, but she had no motive, no reason to want him dead. She loved him.

  With no real clues, they eventually gave up and filed it away as a cold case.

  Focus, Emily ordered herself. Her mission was to find out who Delia was.

  Sitting down at Evan’s old desk, she rummaged through it, searching for anything that had this woman’s name on it. Nothing. Then she went through all the folders in the file cabinet. Again, nothing. She checked his calendar, then did a total search of the computer’s hard-drive for the name—still nothing.

  A framed photo sat on the corner of Evan’s desk. It was a picture of her and Evan, smiling and snuggling in happier days. Mist filled her eyes and her throat tightened at the sight of it. She picked it up and lovingly traced his face with her finger.

  “Oh, Evan,” she sighed, grief and love bubbling together so near the surface.

  Glancing around the room, as she set the photo down, Emily spied a reverse-directory phonebook on top of the file cabinet. She grabbed the directory and flipped it open on the desk. Digging around in her purse, she found the slip of paper and laid it down next to the book.

  Scanning the pages as she ran her index finger across them, she located the number and the name beside it. “Delia McCall.” The name sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

  Who was she? Emily had to know, so she pulled her phone out of her purse and punched in the numbers, holding her breath as it rang.

  “Hello.” The woman’s voice was low and sultry.

  “Is this Delia?” Emily asked nervously.

  “It is. Who is this?”

  “This is Delia McCall?” Emily asked again, her heart thudding in her chest.

  “Yes. Who is this?” the woman insisted.

  “This is Emily Parker, Evan Parker’s wife.”

  “Oh, Emily, yes, Evan had mentioned you.” Delia’s voice changed to a lighter tone.

  “Evan mentioned me?” Emily was stunned by her comment. She wondered why her husband would be talking to this woman about her.

  “Yes, several times.”

  “I have to know, Ms. McCall, what was your relationship with my husband?” Emily held her breath for the answer.

  Delia stuttered and stammered, obviously caught off guard. Was she hiding something?

  “Well?” Emily pressed, irritated by the woman’s evasiveness. If it had simply been a business relationship, why would she not just come out and say it? She decided to ask what she was really wondering. “Were you having an affair with my husband?”

  “What? Oh my, no.” Delia laughed. “Is that what you thought?”

  “Well...”

  “No, Emily. Evan was doing some work for me, but it was supposed to be hush-hush.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. Can we meet somewhere? I’d be more than happy to answer all of your questions.”

  “When?”

  “Say, this evening around eight o’clock, at that Moxie Java over on State Street?”

  “All right,” Emily reluctantly agreed. She wasn’t sure why this woman was acting so mysteriously, but maybe she could shed some light on what happened to Evan.

  Emily clicked off her cellphone and tossed it back in her purse. She suddenly felt the need to get out of that office as quickly as possible, before more memories came back to haunt her.

  Emily drove home and grabbed her mail out of the mailbox before going inside. On top was a letter from the landlord of the office building that housed Evan’s office. Tearing it open, she found a past-due notice stating she needed to pay the back rent plus a sizeable late fee.

  Her real estate commissions had been enough to keep her personal bills paid since Evan’s death, but this extra fifteen hundred dollars a month for the office lease was putting an additional burden on her that she was having a hard time paying. With Evan and his income gone, finances had become uncomfortably tight.

  Kicking her shoes off, Emily grabbed a diet soda from the refrigerator and moved to the breakfast bar. She set the small stack of mail down and perched on one of the stools. Holding the past-due notice in her hand, she took a long drink of soda and glared at the words stamped in red—PAST DUE.

  She missed her husband for a lot of reasons, but right now it was for financial ones. Wondering what she was going to do, her thoughts drifted to the single asset she knew she could liquidate, her ace in the hole, but she had hoped it would not come to that.

  The asset was a three-carat, emerald-cut diamond ring that her grandmother had left her when she passed away a few years ago. Her grandmother had married well the second time, and the extravagant ring had been a gift from her husband. After his passing, his children from a previous marriage were left most of his large estate, but Emily’s grandmother was able to keep their home and her jewelry.

  Emily had been thrilled to receive the ring before her grandmother passed on, but because the ring was old, the setting needed to be cleaned and the prongs tightened. So, she’d kept it safely hidden away until she could have it polished and perhaps re-set in a more modern setting. While her husband was alive it was never a priority, but things change.

  Evan used to kid her about keeping the ring in a plastic artichoke in the vegetable drawer of their refrigerator. She’d tried to explain to him what she saw as the brilliance of it. The fake vegetable blended in naturally with the other items in the drawer, she would tell him. Plus, if there was ever a fire, the contents of the refrigerator would not burn. He understood, but he still thought it was hilarious.

  Now that her husband was gone and her real estate business was suffering from the housing crisis, she thought about selling the diamond to a jeweler. As much as she hated to think of parting with her grandmother’s ring, she did need the money. She should at least have it appraised to see how much it was worth.

  Emily went to the refrigerator to retrieve it. She pulled out the vegetable drawer and there laid her faux artichoke, nestled among the fresh tomatoes and asparagus. She unscrewed the stem and turned it over, prepared to catch the ring as it slid out.

  “Where’s my ring?” she cried in shock. She jiggled the artichoke, but it made no sound. She vigorously shook it upside down into her hand, but still no ring.

  Who could have taken it? No one knew it was in there. When could it have gone missing?

  She tried to remember the last time she saw it and realized she hadn’t checked on it since before Evan died. Evan—he was the only other person who knew it was there—but no, he would never have taken it and not told me...or would he? No one else knew it was there!

  Her thoughts jumped to the stack of cash the police had found in his desk the night he died. Had he pawned her ring and that was what he got for it?

  Heat rose up in her cheeks and she broke out in a cold sweat as she slumped down onto a chair at the kitchen table. With the ring gone, how she was going to pay the past due office lease and the mounting expenses in the months to come? Her heart ached at the thought that her husband may have stolen from her. She didn’t want to believe it, but it certainly appeared that way.

  Emily strolled into the Moxie Java coffee shop right on time at eight o’clock. A handful of customers were scattered around the tables, but she was looking for a woman sitting alone. As she stood at the counter ordering her tea, she spotted an attractive middle-aged woman sitting in the corner at a table for two. She was impeccably dressed with beautiful dark wavy hair down to her shoulders.

  Emily paid for her drink and then headed toward her. “Delia?”

  “Yes. You must be Emily. Please, sit down.” Delia motioned toward the empty chair across from her.

  Emily sat down and laid her large handbag on the floor beside her. Her stomach twisted and she fidgeted with her cup.

  “I recognize you from the lovely photo on Evan’s desk.” Delia took a sip of her latté.

  “I appreciate your willingness to talk to me and answer my questions.”

  “I’m happy to do it, Emily. I just want to say how sorry I am for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” Emily bobbed the teabag up and down before using the spoon to squeeze the water out, placing it on the napkin beside her.

  “Don’t you hate that phrase—sorry for your loss? It just seems so blasé. What I’d really like to say is that I am sorry that such a fine man died so early and for the pain you had to go through.”

  “I appreciate—” Emily started to say.

  Delia held up her hand. “No, please, let me finish. And I’m sorry for how he died and that no one has been able to figure out who did it so the matter can be put to rest.”

  Emily wished Delia had stopped after sorry for your loss instead of going on, which only made her feel awkward.

  “Thank you for saying that, Ms. McCall,” Emily said.

  “Please, call me Delia.” She gestured to the rows of muffins and scones in the display case. “Would you like something to eat?”

  “No, I’m good. Delia, I’d like to get right to it, if you don’t mind.”

  “All right,” she agreed.

  “Can you tell me what Evan was working on for you?”

  “You’re very direct, aren’t you? I like that,” Delia said. “I assure you, I am never short for words either, and I’m a big fan of always speaking your mind. It’s a sign of a strong and intelligent woman.”

  “Thank you, but I’m looking for answers, not compliments.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you.” She looked around the coffee shop, leaned forward, and lowered her voice. “I asked Evan to investigate my husband, Ricardo.”

  Emily’s curiosity was sparked and she leaned forward as well, taking her cue from Delia to keep their conversation private. “What did you suspect your husband was doing?” she questioned, “if you don’t mind my asking.”

  Delia looked around again before she spoke in a muted tone. “I own Heaven Scent, the company that makes the candles and lotions and things. I believed then, as I do now, that my husband was embezzling money from my company. Not only that, but I think he’s cheating on me.”

  Emily realized why her name had sounded familiar. She had heard it in the news recently because of the company’s explosive growth and expansion in the area.

  “Do you think my husband could have been murdered because of what he was working on for you?”

  “I don’t know,” Delia shrugged. “He was killed before he could give me the photos and the information he had compiled.”

  “If the police had found his folder full of photos and evidence, Detective Tolliver would have questioned you or your husband about it, wouldn’t you think?” Emily asked.

  “Yes, but he didn’t,” Delia replied, sitting back and sipping her hot drink.

  Emily looked down at her hands folded on the table, wondering what to ask next, wondering what else this woman knew. It seemed like she had hit a dead end with Delia McCall, but there had to be more. There just had to.

  “What if your husband killed Evan and stole the files so he would not be exposed?” Emily felt a sudden shortness of breath.

  “I can’t imagine Ricardo would be willing to do something so horrible to cover up his affairs and the money he stole.”

  Emily looked blankly past Delia, playing out the imaginary scenario in her head, envisioning those last minutes of Evan’s life if Ricardo had come to his office to kill him. This was the closest thing to a suspect or motive she’d had, to entertain the thought of.

  “Emily?” Delia called out.

  At the sound of her name, she shook her head and snapped back to the present.

  “I can see those wheels turning in your head,” Delia said as if she had a way of looking inside Emily’s mind. “Evan told me you have a good head on your shoulders, and you have the tenacity to keep digging until you find something. Am I right?”

  “I’d like to think so,” Emily admitted.

  “And he told me you had helped him with some legwork on a few of his cases.”

  “Yes, awhile back, before becoming a real estate agent.” She had done more than just legwork, but she preferred to keep that secret. “I’m a little surprised he mentioned that to you. He generally didn’t want people knowing I worked on any of his cases.”

  “He didn’t go into any specifics or anything, just that he thought you were smart and driven—a bulldog for details, he said.”

  “I see,” Emily acknowledged. “That sounds like something Evan would say.”

  “That being said, I have a proposition for you.” Delia folded her arms across her chest. “Would you consider taking over the investigation your husband began?”

  “Me?” Emily gasped, her eyebrows darting up. “Oh, I don’t know.” She sat back in her chair, her hand resting on her cheek, pondering.

  “Now Emily, tell me the truth,” Delia leaned forward now, locking onto Emily’s gaze, “wouldn’t you want to know if your husband was seeing another woman behind your back? Or if he was stealing from you?”

 

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