Charlaine Harris - Many Bloody Returns

“They don’t think so,” Patricia said. “The police say the murder didn’t take place there. They think he was abducted.”

“Kidnapped and murdered? But why?” Which wife killed him, I wondered. How many deserted women wished him dead?

“No one knows. But it gets worse. Jack’s body was drained of blood. Completely dry.”

“That’s awful,” I said. “I’ll go see Margaret immediately.”

I hung up the phone quickly, hoping to hide my elation. Jack the Ripper was dead—horribly dead. My husband no longer had a divorce lawyer. I felt a brief stab of shame for my selfish thoughts, but Jack’s death was poetic justice. Someone had sucked the blood out of the city’s biggest bloodsucker. Someone had given me more time.

I put on a navy pantsuit and a long face, and stopped by a smart specialty shop for a cheese tray and a bottle of wine. My long-dead mother would be proud. She’d taught me to bring food to a house of mourning.

There were other cars in Margaret’s driveway, including what looked like unmarked police cars and three silver Lexuses. Lawyers’ cars.

Margaret was a wreck. Her eyes were deeply bagged and swollen. Her jawline sagged nearly as badly as mine. All my husband’s fine work was undone. I felt petty for noticing. She’s a new widow, I told myself. Show some pity.

“Katherine!” Margaret ran weeping into my arms, smearing my jacket with makeup.

“I’m sorry,” I said, patting her nearly fleshless back. I could feel her thin bones. It wasn’t a lie. I was sorry for so many things, including the death of our friendship. Women need the sympathy of our own kind. Margaret had destroyed even that small comfort for me.

“Come into the garden where we can talk,” she said. “The police are searching Jack’s home office. Three lawyers from his firm and a court-appointed guardian are arguing over what papers they can take.”

We sat at an umbrella table near a bubbling fountain. Palms rustled overhead. Impatiens bloomed at our feet. It looked like every other garden in Florida. A Hispanic maid brought iced tea, lemon slices, and two kinds of artificial sweetener.

“May I have sugar, please?” I asked.

“Sugar?” the maid said, as if she’d never heard the word.

“You use sugar?” Margaret might be dazed with grief, but she was still surprised by my request. In our crowd, sleeping with a friend’s husband was a faux pas. Taking sugar in your tea was a serious sin.

“Doctor’s orders,” I said. “Sweeteners are out. Cancer in the family.”

Actually, I liked real sugar. And it was only eighteen calories a spoonful.

“How are you?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Margaret said. Two more tears escaped her swollen eyelids. “I thought Jack was seeing someone, and that’s why he worked late so often these last few weeks. I was furious, but I couldn’t say anything. I was too afraid.”

“I understand,” I said.

She flushed with guilt.

“My husband went to see Jack,” I said. “So I know how you feel.”

Margaret had the grace to say nothing. I appreciated that.

“Do you think Jack’s lover killed him?” I said.

“I don’t know. I don’t even know now if he had a lover. One of the firm’s associates found Jack in the parking lot when she came to work at six this morning. Maybe he really had been working late. I had to identify him. Jack didn’t look dead so much as…empty. Someone took all his blood. It wasn’t some slashing attack. Just two holes in the side of his neck. There were bruises, too. Terrible bruises on his wrists, legs, and shoulders.”

“Was he beaten?” I asked.

“No. They think someone—or maybe more than one person—held him down while he was—while they—” Margaret couldn’t go on.

“Do the police think it was a serial killer?” I asked.

“They won’t say. But the way they’re acting, I know it’s strange. There were other attacks like this in Lauderdale. Jack wasn’t the only person to die like this.”

“No,” I said. “Eric told me that the woman found off of Bayview had been drained dry, too. He heard that from the medical examiner’s office. The police kept it out of the papers.”

“It’s like some nightmare,” Margaret said, “except I can’t wake up. Mindy is flying home this afternoon from college. This will be so hard for our daughter. Mindy idolized her father.” Margaret started weeping again.

I wasn’t sure what to do. If we’d still been friends, I would have folded Margaret in my arms. But she had betrayed me. I knew it, and she knew it.

I was saved by a homicide detective and a lawyer.

“Margaret,” the lawyer said, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we have some more questions about your husband.”

“I’d better go,” I said. “I’ll let myself out.” I air-kissed her cheek. It took all my self-control to keep from running for my car.

Once, I would have called my husband and told him the awful news. Now I didn’t. What could I say? You know that lawyer you hired to strip me of my last dime? The son of a bitch was murdered. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.

I suspected Eric already knew about Jack’s death. He was probably looking for a new bloodsucker.

I spent the afternoon taking calls from Margaret’s shocked friends, pretending to be sad and concerned and hating myself because I couldn’t feel any of it. Instead, I felt oddly excited. I broiled a skinless chicken breast, steamed some broccoli, and waited for my husband to come home.

At eleven o’clock, there was still no sign of Eric. He didn’t bother to phone me. I didn’t humiliate myself by calling around asking for him.

What if he turned up dead, like Jack? I wondered. Then my troubles would be over. I felt guilty even thinking that. But it was true.

At three in the morning, I woke up alone and drenched in sweat. Night sweats, another menopausal delight. I punched my soggy pillow and tried to settle back to sleep. At three-thirty, I gave up. I reached for my jeans, then abandoned that idea. Instead, I pulled out a long, nearly sheer hostess gown that looked glamorous in the soft moonlight.

I wasn’t going for a walk. I was going hunting. For Michael.

There was no party tonight. His condo was dark except for flickering candles in the living room and the opalescent light of a television. Michael was alone, like me. He couldn’t sleep, either.

He was waiting for me down by the Dark Harbor docks. At first, I heard nothing but the gentle slap of the water and the clinking of the halyards as the boats rocked back and forth. It was a peaceful sound. A light breeze ruffled my hair and pressed my gown against my body.

“You dressed for me, didn’t you?” he said.

Michael seemed to appear from nowhere. His white shirt, open at the throat and rolled at the sleeves, glowed in the moonlight. His hair was black as onyx, but so soft. I longed to run my fingers through it.

“Yes,” I said.

His hand touched my hair and traced the line of my neck. I stepped back. It wouldn’t do to seem too eager too soon.

Michael smiled, as if he could read my mind. “You don’t have to play games,” he said.

“I’m not playing games,” I said. “I’m being cautious. I don’t know anything about you. Are you married?”

“My wife has been dead for many years. I live alone.”

“You have such lovely parties.” I couldn’t keep the wistful note out of my voice.

“I have many friends. We enjoy the night.”

“I do, too,” I said. “I’m tired of the Florida sun. It burns the life out of everything.”

“You may be one of us,” Michael said. “I’d like to see more of you, before I go.”

“Go?” The word clutched at my heart. “Where are you going?”