Merry Market Murder(37)

I got the latch on the third try and waved at Hobbit as I closed the gate behind me. She lifted her nose in the air to cheer me on, her version of a fist pump.

Even though we’d shaken hands, I hadn’t noticed Stephanie had been wearing gloves; but she was removing the second one, one finger at a time, when I joined her in the front entryway.

Stephanie was tall with killer posture and shoulders that were so wide they’d be masculine on anyone else. I’d noticed that she walked smoothly but with such long strides that I’d have to jog if we ever decided to hang out at a mall together. She had the sharpest, most judgmental green eyes I’d ever seen.

I felt downright frumpy just breathing the same air.

“In there.” She nodded with her head. “Have a seat. I’ll go place our drink order. It’s whiskey for me. You?”

“Iced tea would be great,” I said. Even if she’d wanted someone to drink with, I was driving and not a frequent drinker, and I was dating a cop. Even Stephanie couldn’t intimidate me quite that far.

“Excellent,” she said. “I’ll be back momentarily. Make yourself at home.”

The thought of throwing off my shoes and putting my feet up on something did cross my mind, but only as a semi-amusing idea. I ventured into the room she’d nodded toward and was pleasantly surprised again.

It was big and full of expensive furniture, but it was all comfortable furniture: contemporary but homey. Chairs, couches, and tables were all well placed for entertaining. It looked like a room in which you could choose to read a book quietly, play a game of cards with a large group, or chat easily with a roomful of guests. In fact, it was so big that all of those could be done at once and everyone would still have some privacy. I took a seat on a chair that flanked the predictably large fireplace. I tried sitting forward on the edge, and back with my ankles crossed. Finally, I chose something that was in between.

A large portrait of Stephanie hung above the fireplace. She was dressed in a white, off-the-shoulder evening gown. The painter had exaggerated the lines of her collarbones and, again, I realized that the look would have been decidedly masculine on anyone else, but it wasn’t on her. On her, it was strong and feminine and somewhat ferocious.

“Here we are,” Stephanie said as she came into the room carrying a tray with our drinks. She set the tray on the table next to me and asked how I took my iced tea.

After the appropriate amount of sugar had been stirred in, she sat on a chair and faced me. “Are you dating Brenton or something?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. He and I have known each other for years. We’ve been friends.”

“Great. So, why do you want to know about his marriage to me?”

“Well, at first I wanted to confirm that the two of you had been married.” She nodded. I continued, “You know, he’s pretty soft-spoken. I’m trying to . . .”

Stephanie laughed. “Imagine him with me?”

“That sounds awful, but yes.” She’d mentioned that she liked direct.

“Not really. I understand. It’s been a long time since I’ve truly talked about Brenton.” She smiled and looked back into the past for a moment. “We had a great time for a long time. We were young—really young, though.”

“Too young?”

Stephanie shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps, but only in the way our ambitions changed. When we divorced we still loved each other, it was just that neither of us could imagine living the kind of life that the other one wanted.” Her eyes opened wide and then she took a sip of her whiskey. “Wow, I can’t believe I just shared that with a virtual stranger. You’d better share something with me quickly before I resent inviting you in.”

“I’ve been divorced twice and I didn’t like or love either of my husbands when we parted. I’ve reconnected with one, but only as a friend and that’s been fun, but I’m very jealous that you and Brenton were able to do what you did. I still hate the horrible feelings I had during my divorces.”

She took another sip. “That was a good and fair share. But, hell, Becca, divorce is ugly no matter how ‘amicable’ it is.”

“That’s probably true.”

“Brenton still selling dog biscuits?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, very successfully. He has a big Internet business, too.”

“I’ll have to look it up.”

“You two don’t talk at all?”

“No, not for years.”

“But . . .”

“What?”

“A fellow vendor, Barry, said he was going to call you.”

“I talk to Barry all the time. He tried to call me two days ago, but he didn’t leave a message. I tried to call him back but I have yet to hear from him. Was he calling me about Brenton?” Concern creased her barely wrinkled forehead, but I was certain it would flatten out again quickly.