Christine Rimmer - Ralphie's Wives

“You’re protective of her. Why?”

There was some huffing, but in the end, she answered him. “I just know she would never do anything to hurt Ralphie. She loved him. Truly.”

“You sound pretty sure about that.”

“I am sure. You should have seen them together. They were crazy about each other. She made him quit smoking. A woman who would run a man down wouldn’t make him stop smoking first. And there were times, especially lately, in the past two or three months, when I would see her looking at him—when he wasn’t looking at her. Pure adoration. No woman could fake that kind of a look. And why would she bother to try, if the guy wasn’t even looking her way?”

Rio was thinking that what she’d just told him was probably more about Phoebe than it was about Ralphie and Darla Jo. Against his own better judgment, he found himself taking a stab at helping her see that. “It’s important to you, is that it? To believe that Ralphie Styles was finally in love for real and forever? That Darla Jo loved him back? That they were having a baby, making themselves a happy little family?”

She sat up straighter. “You go ahead. Put it down, what they had. Tell yourself it wasn’t real. But it was real. He loved her and she loved him. I know it.” She speared her fingers through her tangled brown hair, raking it back off her flushed face. Then she grabbed her mug again—and plunked it down without drinking from it. “No. I’m never going to believe that Darla had anything to do with Ralphie getting run over in the middle of the night. Never. Not in a hundred million years.”

Rio saw there was a point he hadn’t quite made clear to her. He said, keeping it low and even, “You don’t have to believe it. You don’t have to do anything. You can run your bar and wait. Get together with Ralphie’s other ex-wives and argue about what might have happened. Maybe someone will talk who hasn’t yet. Maybe the OCPD will come up with something. Maybe I will. And maybe we’ll just never know.” Taking care not to let the chair scrape the floor, he pushed it back and stood. “Thanks for the coffee.”

He knew he had her when she stopped him before he could take a single step. “Sit back down.”

He allowed a solid five seconds to elapse before obeying. Then he dropped to his seat again and laid out the ground rules. “You’ll have to talk to me. Nothing held back. About anyone.” The demand was a little over the top. He’d take less, if that was all he could get. A lot less. But there was no reason Phoebe Jacks had to know that—at least, not at the moment.

“Fine. Okay.”

“About Darla…”

“Okay.”

“How did Ralphie meet her?”

“She came in the bar looking for work last September.”

“Ralphie met her at the bar?”

Phoebe nodded. “Darla was just twenty-one, fresh out of some tiny town in Arkansas. She met Ralphie the night she started working. He was gone on her at first sight. It took her longer. But not that long. Within a few weeks, she’d moved in with him. They got married last December, though I guess you know that, since he invited you to the wedding.”

Rio took a small spiral notebook and a pen out of his breast pocket. He flipped the notebook open and jotted down the major points. “The brother?”

“Boone’s twenty-six. He’s Darla’s half brother. Same mom, different dads.”

“Last name?”

“Gallagher.” She spelled it out for him. “Darla’s name was Snider—with an i.”

Rio nodded. “Go ahead. About the brother.”

“He’d been living down in Texas. Came up for the wedding and decided to stay in town. I hired him. He’s a good worker, dependable.”

“Did they fill out applications before they went to work for you?”

“Yeah.”

“They give you social security numbers?”

“Of course.”

“That’ll help. A lot. I’ll want to have a look at those.”

“An employment application is strictly confidential.”

“Think of it this way….”

Her sweet mouth turned down at the corners. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

He almost smiled. But not quite. “You use the information on an application to check your people out, right?”

She qualified, “I can check them out, if I think checking them out is necessary.”

“Because you’re their employer.”

She put it together. “Oh. And now, so are you.”

“Which means I have every right to run a few checks on Darla Jo and her half brother Boone.”

She leaned in, craning that smooth white neck across the table, her sleep-wild hair swinging forward, brushing the tabletop. “I just want to know. Why are you after them?”

He set down the notebook. “I’m not after them.”

“You know what I mean. Why are you suspicious of them?”

Rio considered evading some more. But to get information, you had to be prepared sometimes to give a little back. “I’m not suspicious of either of them. I am a little curious about Darla.”

“Why?”

He went ahead and laid it on her. “That baby she’s having? It’s not Ralphie’s.”

Outrage sparked in her eyes. “How do you know that?”

“Ralphie told me.”

She blinked. “Ralphie told you that Darla was havin’ some other man’s baby?”

“No. He told me I was the son he could never have. Ralphie Styles was sterile.”

More on the subject of sparkling comebacks.

Man: I want to wake up with you beside me. How do you like your eggs in the morning?

Prairie Queen: Unfertilized.

—from The Prairie Queen’s Guide to Life by Goddess Jacks

“STERILE.” PHOEBE repeated the word. It tasted dry in her mouth. And also impossible. A word without meaning in relationship to Ralphie Styles. “No…”

The man across the table from her didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Those black eyes said it all. She saw sympathy in them at that moment—sympathy that went well with the ugly suit and the glasses. With the rest of him? Not so much.

Then again, why shouldn’t a big, dangerous macho-type guy be capable of showing a little sympathy? It could happen. Maybe not in Phoebe’s own personal experience up till now.

But there was always a first time.

And the sympathy in Rio Navarro’s eyes wasn’t the question, anyway. The question was: Could Ralphie have been sterile?

And more to the point, if he was, shouldn’t Phoebe have been the first to know?

Phoebe had been Ralphie’s wife for three years. Once, for all the wrong reasons—because she knew she was losing him, because she needed a way to bind him to her—she’d begged him for a baby.

“Now, babe…” A rueful, tender smile had curved those big, soft lips of his when he’d answered her. “It’s not the time and you know it.”

“No. I don’t know it.”

“Come on. Ease off. Maybe later, huh?”

“When?”

“Can’t say. But don’t you worry. We’ll both know when it’s right….”

She’d known him well enough, even then, at a still-starry-eyed twenty-two, to get the message: The time would never be right; Ralphie would never have a baby with her.

Not for one second had it occurred to her that maybe he couldn’t.

But there had been a whole lot of women in his life. And, until Darla Jo, he’d failed to father a single baby or even get a woman pregnant that Phoebe had ever heard of—and she was staring into her coffee cup again, feeling a definite reluctance to meet Rio’s waiting eyes.

“Phoebe.” He said it softly, coaxingly.

So she looked at him, making her lips a flat line, narrowing her eyes a little, sending the clear message that just because he said something didn’t make it true. “How, exactly, do you know he was sterile?”