The Secret Lives of Doctors' Wives. Ann Major

      Fortunately, the service moved right along. Soon everybody was singing “Amazing Grace” and then saying the Twenty-third Psalm in unison. When the impersonal service was over and people were starting to get up, Rosie suddenly felt compelled to do something, anything, to make Pierce seem real and alive to everybody.

      Hardly realizing her intention, she lifted her right hand and made the Hook ‘em Horns sign. Shakily, she began singing “The Eyes of Texas,” and for the first time was struck by its gruesome lyrics.

      Everybody turned and gaped. Mirabella Camrett stared at her as if she’d gone crazy. Then, remembering what a huge University of Texas fan Pierce had been, individuals joined in. Soon the entire congregation, even Mirabella, were flashing the Hook ‘em Horns signal as their singing grew louder and louder.

      “‘The eyes of Texas are upon you/all the livelong day…’”

      When the University’s most sacred song was over, a shocked hush fell over the chapel. Except for Rosie, who was responsible for the spontaneous outburst, there wasn’t a dry eye.

      Why couldn’t she cry?

      Would everybody think it was because she was glad he was dead? Why was she always worrying about what other people thought?

      Well-dressed women swept past her, commenting on how lovely the service had been. When Ticia Morgan passed her, she averted her gaze and quickened her pace. Several of Pierce’s staff, who’d worked with Rosie, rushed by without speaking, as well.

      “Oh, my God. Yolie…they don’t think—”

      “Don’t make me say I told you so.”

      An hour later, at Pierce’s house, the crowd had thinned to a more manageable number. There were two gatherings after the funeral service—one in the church parlor for his patients and the general medical community, and one at his home for the family.

      As the mother of his son and the stepmother who’d raised his other son, Yolie decided she was family—at least for today. Rosie knew she shouldn’t tag along, but she felt drawn to the scene of the murder and couldn’t stop herself. If the police suspected her, she had to learn all she could.

      When Yolie and Rosie entered the grand salon, the first thing she saw were the shoes. Pierce would have had a fit. Everybody was wearing shoes on his spotless carpets, even the widow and her girls.

      Anita, who was slim and dark, struck just the right note in black silk and hose and black pumps as she sat sobbing quietly between her sulky teenage daughters on grandiose, pink leather couches beneath Pierce’s portrait.

      Couches I picked out, Rosie thought, trying not to feel resentful even as she avoided looking up at the painting she’d done of Pierce when they’d first met and she’d been in love.

      Mother and daughters had the huge, teased hairdos and heavy makeup of Latin American movie stars. Even though Rosie felt an unpleasant jolt at the sight of her younger, showier replacement and her truly enormous diamond rings, she tugged Yolie’s sleeve.

      “She looks so sad. Do you think we should go over and say something to her?” Rosie whispered.

      “If you had a brain bigger than a peanut, you wouldn’t even be here, much less ask a stupid question like that.”

      “Okay. I get it.”

      Anita looked up at her, her dark eyes glittering with dislike…and something else.

      “No, sweetie, you don’t,” Yolie said. “That’s the problem. She almost looks scared of you.”

      Feeling worse by the second, Rosie scuttled quickly toward the dining room, where the table was piled obscenely high with platters of food—salmon, deviled eggs, fruit, fried chicken, ham, chips and dips. Even though she’d skipped breakfast, she had no appetite. She wanted one thing—to see the bedrooms upstairs.

      Rosie left Yolie and the boys loading their plates, and stealthily headed for the staircase, which she ascended quickly. Trying not to look at the yellow tape that sealed off the master bedroom at the end of the hall, she marched up to the door of Pierce’s guest bedroom. This door was also shut, but the knob turned easily. She looked around the hall and, when she saw no one, slipped inside quickly, shutting the door behind her.

      Walking briskly toward the bed, she knelt and lifted the dust ruffle so that she could peer under it. Her heart thudded, but all she saw were a few errant dust bunnies; no sexy bits of black lace.

      Hopefully, Pierce had found them and hidden them from Anita before his death. Rosie got up and walked around the queen-size bed, kneeling several more times on the wild chance they were still there.

      Nothing.

      She stood up slowly. Then she raced out into the hall.

      She was about to go downstairs again when she turned and stared at the yellow tape. Would it be so terrible if she went inside? She looked around, and when she saw no one, slipped under the yellow police tape forbidding entrance. Careful to make no sound, she went inside and shut the door.

      The drapes of the master bedroom were partially drawn. The room was dark. Aware of an antiseptic smell, she shrank against the door. When her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she shivered at the sight of dark stains and spatter on the light-colored carpet and ceiling.

      Pierce had died here. Even in this taped-off room of death, why couldn’t she get that he was really gone?

      Other than the bloodstains, the room with its purple bedcovers was exactly as she remembered when her designer had finished with it a year ago. Glancing furtively over her shoulder to reassure herself she was alone, she went toward the dark spots and stared down at them.

      Pierce…At last she felt a warm wetness trickling down her cheeks. He was gone; really gone. She’d seen people die—many people, but not like this. Never like this. And she’d sent him into this room.

      She wanted to scream that this couldn’t have happened, that this couldn’t be his dried blood. He couldn’t have been here, so vital one minute, and then just be gone. Not when he’d consumed so much of her heart and soul for so long. Not when he’d begged her to come back.

      Death.

      People died. She was a nurse. She knew that. But she was feeling mystical and sad, not professional. Everybody she knew, everybody she loved, would die, and who knew when or how?

      She couldn’t take it in. She felt some huge disconnect with a universe and a God that could let things like this happen just when new possibilities had presented themselves. One minute you were rocking along, and then wham—a rampaging elephant stepped on you. Even vibrant, little Alexis could be gone in a heartbeat.

      Rosie turned away from the blood stains, feeling exhausted and jittery.

      She wanted to run out, to escape this horror, but, oh, God, she needed to think about this, too.

      Cold beads of sweat trickled down her back. Instantly, fear snapped her out of her muddle. She had to get out of here before someone found her.

      She was walking rapidly toward the door when the curtains were yanked open. “Looking for something, Ms. Castle?” Michael’s hard, all-too-familiar voice called.

      She jumped, caught in a brilliant streamer of sunlight.

      “An intimate item of apparel? Black lace, I believe? C-cup…? Matching thong panties?”

      “Michael!”

      When he stepped out of the shadows, she sprang toward the door.

      “I—I saw you at the service,” she whispered. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

      “Ditto.” His dark face was grim. “There’s a theory that killers like to return to the scene of the crime. I wondered who’d get curious and have to come up here.”

      She notched her chin higher. “I’m not a killer.”