Unlawfull Alliances Page 7

  “Sorry, lass, didn’t mean to pressure you.”

  I ran through the list of men I had noticed observing Amy. “Of course, every man in the place seemed to be looking at her. These were the ones who stood out.”

  “So, of these, did you get a feeling about any?”

  “I told you, Charlie, my intuition seems to be taking a vacation.” I sighed and closed my eyes for a moment. “Richard Stratton, I can’t imagine Amy having anything to do with him. Too much like a used car salesman. But I suspect he’s been putting in some effort there. And Hugh. He was the most subtle of her admirers, but no. Or maybe I just hope not.” For Meredith’s sake. I shook my head. “No. I don’t see it. Besides, her lover may have been the one man not watching her at all. Maybe I should have looked for that.”

  “Then look for a man with more self-restraint than the rest of us daft clods. And if that were the case, he would be restrained enough to resist having an affair with a married woman.”

  “You have something there.”

  “The most obvious suspect seems to be Jake the bartender. He’s the only man at the entire party that I saw Amy smile at, other than when she was doing the smiling hostess bit.”

  “I’ll run a check on him.”

  “I wish I could be more helpful.”

  “Jenny, this is magnificent. You’ve given me three possibilities. Three more than I had fifteen minutes ago. Which reminds me, my break is almost over. So, what next?”

  “I suppose it’s time I started working out again. Matt keeps pestering me about it, insists walking and yoga aren’t strenuous enough. What time did you say Amy goes to the club?”

  Charlie smiled. “Ten o’clock. Thanks, luv.”

  By the time Charlie dropped me home, Joe was fast asleep. I wondered what time he had gotten home. The salad and vegetarian pasta I had left for him in the refrigerator were untouched. I should have left a note rather than rely on my right-brained teenage daughter to tell him it was there. But I suppose if he’d been hungry, he would have found it.

  Despite the fact that the decision to go to the office on a Sunday afternoon was Joe’s, I felt guilty for not being there when he got home. I shouldn’t have, especially since I had resented his decision to go in the first place. Not only that, but I had waited until eight o’clock before leaving for the pub. Somewhere in my childhood, my early childhood, it must have been ingrained in me, this guilt, this woman’s guilt.

  But when I crawled into bed beside my husband, and his arms reached out and encircled me, even in his sleep, all was forgiven. Him for leaving, and myself for not being there when he came home.

  * * *

  No makeup, hair in long pigtails. Still, Amy Morrison could make oversized sweats look elegant. Even the droplets of perspiration across her forehead looked sexy.

  Bad timing. She had finished her workout and I was about to begin mine. I couldn’t very well hang out in the women’s dressing room and watch her.

  I said a quick hello and headed for the weight room. It must have been longer than I’d realized since I’d been here. My old friendly machines had vanished. In their place were some very attractive and sleek-looking machines. The only problem was, I couldn’t tell where to sit, let alone which direction to face. I wondered if ET had felt like this when he landed in a forest in Mother Earth’s backyard.

  Finally, a woman near my height and age slid onto the abdominal crunch like it was home territory. I followed her from machine to machine, studying and imitating her every move. Fifteen minutes with the weights, ten minutes on the bike and I was done. If I was lucky, at best I would catch a glimpse of Amy, showered and dressed on her way out of the building. I would have to come earlier tomorrow.

  But, to my surprise, when I reached the dressing room, Amy was seated at the mirror, working on her make up. Her thick black hair was spread across her back like a fan, waiting to be swept into a clip.

  “That was quick,” she said.

  “I didn’t want to overdo my first day out. It’s been a while.”

  “You don’t exercise on a regular basis?” she asked.

  I took it as a criticism. “Actually, I do. Just not the weight machines. Mostly yoga.”

  “Because you’re in great shape.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  I was glad she thought so. I had been working hard. For good reason.

  It happens gradually, slipping out of shape does. I sometimes wonder if I would have noticed it at all, if not for my kind and generous family.

  “Mom, you’re looking a little chunky around the waist.” Holly at twelve. Apparently I resembled her favorite peanut butter.

  “Why don’t you come to the club with me, Jenny. I think you’d enjoy it. Great weight room. Aerobics classes, all levels. You’ll get back in shape in no time. You could even take up tennis!” My husband had used the word tennis and my name in the same sentence. Silly man.

  But it was Matthew, the person who had put an end to my dance career—I use the word loosely—who had convinced me to take up moving my body again. “I worry about you, Mom. Stagnation isn’t good.”

  Those words had stayed with me for a long time. They had not only thrust me back into the world of physical exercise. They sent me deep into the world of mental, emotional, and spiritual exploration, a journey that once you are on, will not allow you to turn back.

  Setting my faded canvas bag on the floor beside Amy’s chic designer bag, I scrambled through the contents in search of the brush that I had carefully tucked in the corner, all the while, eyeballing the contents of her open bag. A bodice ripper peaked out from beneath her sunglasses. A scarf and hat rested below the book. Sunglasses, scarf, hat. Maybe she was meeting her lover. She was, after all, spending an inordinate amount of time on her make up. Or did women do that for themselves?

  She was almost finished with her left eye. I excused myself and hurried into the shower. I wanted to watch her leave. I wanted to see who she talked to at the club. I didn’t bother washing my hair. No time for that. I climbed out of the shower, dried off with a towel that was too skimpy for Holly when she was eight, and jumped into a clean pair of sweats, a turtleneck, and a sloppy sweatshirt.

  Too late. Amy had vanished. She must have done her second eye faster than the first. Oh, well, there was always tomorrow.

  But being somewhat experienced at snooping, I found a window with a good view of the parking lot, and scanned for the automobile that Charlie had described to me last night. A shiny white Jag convertible sat in the middle of the parking lot. She must have still been on the premises. I snatched up my long mane of hair, wrapped it in a band, and headed out of the women’s dressing room. If anyone asked, I could easily tell them I was looking for my husband. After all, he played tennis once or twice a week. Usually on weekends, of course, but every now and then, he found a time slot midday or after work.

  A strong possibility was that Amy was tanning by the side of the pool perhaps with her library romance. After all, she had brought it with her. But she was wearing a long silk dress when I last saw her. She would not be tanning in that. Although it did have an impressive slit up the side, from calf to thigh. Maybe that was the reason for the sunglasses and hat. Just in case, I walked out on the deck that overlooked the pool.

  A group of young mothers and their preschoolers were gathered at one end, as far from the lap swimmers as they could get. Only three sunbathers, and all were at least two decades older than Amy.

  The tennis courts. I walked around the deck to the other side of the club. It was impossible to see all the courts from one spot, but if Amy were here to watch someone play, she would most likely be on the deck outside of the club cafe. Most of the tables were filled with women dressed in tennis skirts, chatting about their completed matches. There was no one I recognized on the deck or the court.

  I sighed, disappointed, mostly because it meant more weight lifting tomorrow. My arms were already beginning to ache. I thought about watching some tennis, but decide
d to treat myself to an iced cappuccino instead. I went inside to escape the unusually hot sun.

  Bingo. There she was, sitting at the last barstool, munching a burger, and sipping a soda all with her usual elegance and grace.

  I entered the room slowly and sat down at a table in the corner. I pulled out a notebook so as to appear busy and distracted. It wasn’t until I was sitting down that I realized who the bartender was. None other than Jake Holbrook, of muscle and hunk fame. Jackpot. I quickly reminded myself never to assume anything.

  But they sure seemed friendly. Amy was laughing. Jake was laughing. Amy didn’t laugh very often, at least from my observations. Jake was talking. Amy was talking. Amy didn’t talk very often, at least from my observations.

  Hmmm. They knew each other well. They were teasing each other. They were good friends. Or more.

  I didn’t dare move close enough to hear their words. I only caught an occasional one here and there, nothing significant. I didn’t even know how long I could get away with sitting here before someone noticed me. Not long apparently.

  Jake the bartender, who evidently was Jake the waiter too, called across the room. “Can I get you something, Maam?”

  Amy turned to see who he was talking to. I smiled. She didn’t. I hoped she didn’t think I was following her. Of course I was, but she didn’t have to know that.

  I stood up and walked toward the bar. “Hi, Amy. And Jake, isn’t it?”

  He nodded, smiled, put down the glass he was drying and reached across to shake my hand. “Belhaven, right?”

  “Good memory.” But I couldn’t risk Amy bolting and my being stuck at the bar. “But it’s a bit early in the day. I could use some water though. Actually, I just sat down so I could write a few notes to myself.” So much for that iced cappuccino. Oh well, I didn’t need the calories anyway.

  Amy’s eyebrows furrowed. She wasn’t being terribly friendly. Was she irritated that I kept showing up like a bad dream at inopportune moments or was she worried that I had noticed her friendly rapport with the bartender?

  “Wouldn’t want to forget to go to the post office or the dry cleaners,” I mumbled. “You know how it is.”

  Amy nodded, and in one fluid movement, pushed away her glass and plate, slid off the barstool and grabbed her bag from the floor. “That reminds me, I have some errands of my own.”

  “Oh. Of course. See you around.” I grabbed the glass Jake had plunked down on the table, took three long swallows, thanked him, smiled, and left the club.

  I sat in my 1982 Volvo station wagon, two rows over from Amy’s brand new Jaguar. She made a phone call before turning on the engine, folded the phone back into its compact position, opened the convertible roof, and turned on her radio. Three stations before settling for the one she wanted. Jazz. Good jazz. Loud jazz. Very loud jazz.

  She released her hair from its clip, closing her eyes as if inhaling the freedom of the moment. Her fingers laced their way through her hair, combing it away from her face. She backed out of her parking space, her hair flying in all directions. Music blared as she peeled out of the parking lot. I counted to ten, then peeked over the steering wheel. It was bad enough spying on people I didn’t know.

  I turned over my engine and pulled out of the parking lot, with a tad more dignity than Amy had demonstrated a moment before. Just as I turned onto the street, Amy’s Jag far off in the distance, another car pulled past me into the parking lot. He did not see me. He was in a hurry. To get in a workout before he had to head back to the office? Or to meet his lover? If that was the case, he was too late.

  Chapter 6

  “Okay, Jenny, forgive me if I sound suspicious, but why, after all these years of our husbands being law partners, would you invite me for lunch now?”

  I put down my menu and turned my attention to Meredith. I wanted to tell her the truth. I wanted to tell her I was here on a mission. I wanted to tell her I was trying to find out who the other man in Amy Morrison’s life was and why he was in her life.

  There was only one thing I did not want to tell Meredith—that there was a possibility that the other man was her husband.

  But I didn’t tell her any of those things. I stuck by the rules and kept my thoughts to myself. “I figured it was about time I emerged from my reclusive nest.”

  She nodded, her smile a bit on the cautious side. “Well then, I’m honored that you chose me to help you break out of your hibernation.”

  I studied her as she studied the oversized menu. Her silvery-blond hair was fluffy with curls. She was wearing less make up today. I wondered if she knew she got prettier with age.

  For once, she was more casually dressed than I was. She was wearing a simple mauve colored wool skirt that fell to mid-calf, and a soft black sweater. Both new purchases, she had told me. I was unabashedly dressed in the same blue linen suit Meredith had last seen me wearing. I was pleased it was appropriate for L’Auberge, the restaurant of her choice.

  She ordered the seared ahi tuna with porcini mushroom sauce and I, the lemon and caper salmon. We both ordered a glass of their driest Chardonnay. We definitely had more in common than I had originally believed.

  “Nice weather we’re having,” she said somewhat facetiously.

  “Right.” The weather had returned to the Seattle norm, grey and drizzling. “But if the heat wave had lasted any longer, we wouldn’t have known what to do with ourselves.”

  “True. We do get cranky. We’re a weird bunch, we north westerners.”

  “Have you been to the club lately?” I asked. Innocent enough.

  “Sure. I try to get there at least four times a week to work out.”

  “What time do you usually go?” I asked, and added quickly. “I’ve just started working out there too.”

  “Early morning usually, unless I have a tennis game scheduled. Then I get there a little later.”

  I nodded. “I should think about taking up tennis.” Don’t push it, Jenny.

  Meredith looked at me as if she were hearing my thoughts. Or maybe she was just trying to picture me on the tennis court.

  “How about Hugh, does he find the time to work out too?”

  “Not as much as he’d like. This latest case has him so busy, he barely has time to eat. You know, the Miller mess. Joe’s mentioned it, hasn’t he?”

  I nodded so that she wouldn’t go off in that direction. “It must be hard for you too.”

  She reached for her wine glass. “That’s one of the reasons I’m glad there have been so many parties lately. At least I get to see my husband there.” She laughed self-consciously.

  “I know what you mean,” I said. “Do you ever feel jealous of their work?”

  She glanced up from her wine glass, then back down at the table just as quickly. “That’s putting it mildly. Sometimes I think they take themselves too seriously. I’m not convinced they have to work this hard.” Her eyes met mine with a question, or perhaps it was a plea for support.

  “Nor I, but they seem to like it, don’t they?”

  Through visibly gritted teeth, she said, “Way too much.”

  I didn’t press. I had gotten what I had come for. There was no doubt in my mind that it had occurred to Meredith that her husband might be having an affair. If she wanted to tell me about it, that would have to be her decision. This was as far as I was willing to pry.

  “But I do think we’re better off with corporate attorneys for husbands,” I told her, “rather than divorce attorneys.”

  “Maybe,” was all she offered.

  The waiter brought our food at that point and we thanked him and took our first few bites in silence.

  “I must say that you were right about the entertainment value of the dynamics of the Morrison law firm and family,” I said to break the silence and introduce the other subject that I had come here to pursue.

  “Definitely good grounds for gossip.” Her smile was more relaxed, as was her posture.

  I wondered if she had an inkling that the affa
ir she suspected her husband of having, could possibly be with one of the Morrison clan. I rather doubted it, or she would not have treated the subject so casually. But maybe I was way off. Maybe it was Meredith, not Amy, whom Hugh was hoping to see the day before when he passed me in the club parking lot. Or maybe he was just anxious to get to his work out or tennis game.

  “They certainly make for interesting people-watching,” I said. “That reminds me, what did you mean the other day when you said I’m out of the loop?”

  She broke off a piece of bread, smooshed it in the mushroom sauce, and popped it into her mouth. Her forehead wrinkled as she recalled our conversation. “Oh! Erica Stratton.”

  “Right.”

  She threw back her head and laughed.

  “Did I miss something?” I asked.

  “Apparently quite a bit. Are you sure you’re willing to give up your hibernation to get back in the loop?”

  “Absolutely. Shock me.”

  “Well, when you said that Richard seemed to be holding on by a thread, and I said that thread was Erica—” She took another sip of wine before finishing her sentence. “Erica Stratton and Anthony Morrison have been having an affair since day one.”

  “You’re kidding! I thought she had a thing for Scott.”

  “Only as a stepmother might have, or a woman who flirts with anything in pants. Or, who knows, maybe she was after Scott, but settled for Anthony.”

  “Erica and Anthony? Right under their spouses’ noses?” A regular Peyton Place, this was. No wonder Meredith looked to Morrison, Gimble, Stratton, and Morrison for entertainment.

  That also explained Richard’s frequent lack of sobriety. “Why would Richard put up with it?”

  Meredith’s eyebrows did their imitation of Groucho Marx. “Put it this way. He’s caught between feeling indebted to and dishonored by his wife.”

  “Enough to drive a man to drink. But what about Rosemary? I can’t imagine her tolerating that kind of betrayal and embarrassment.”