The Housewife(10)

“Truly, I’m so very sorry,” I’d said. “Please email or text me the amount and how to reimburse you, and I’ll take care of it immediately.” Then I turned on my heels and went back to the kitchen where I changed out of my uniform into my own clothes and walked out of the building .

I didn’t hear anything from Roy for the next few days. After two weeks had passed, I knew he wouldn’t contact me, and I was trying to figure out my next move when he called and asked me out for a drink that very evening.

That made no sense. Did he want me to reimburse him over a drink?

“But what for?” I blurted.

He sighed into the phone. “Because I want your recipe for oysters Mornay.”

“Really?” And I was about to say, It’s not mine, I was just carrying the tray, when he laughed.

“No. That was a joke.”

“Oh.” I didn’t get the joke but I laughed anyway.

Then he said, “I want to get to know you, and I’m asking you for a drink, on a date if you will, which is something people do when they want to get to know someone better.”





At first, I thought it was a trap, that he’d recognized me. He was setting me up and the police would be there to arrest me, but for what? Spilling oysters Mornay on a tuxedo? Being his dead wife’s sister?

Don’t be silly, I told myself. This was my chance! We’d have a drink, I’d pay him back and convince him to give me a job.

I had to get into that house.

So I said yes. He took me to a French restaurant in West Hollywood where we sipped champagne in a courtyard that looked like the set of a fairy tale. The Grimms kind, obviously, with a really horrible ending. Garlands of tiny lights sparkled above our heads, the autumn breeze drifted across the bougainvilleas… I told him later that was the night I fell in love with him, and I’ll always remember his face in the candlelight, the way his eyes twinkled, the way I had the urge to stab them out with my fork so badly I had to sit on my hands.

I didn’t tell him that part. That should go without saying.

I stayed at his house often, but it was hard to search when he was right there all the time. I had to find a way to be there alone. He seemed smitten but let’s face it. He was a famous psychologist, he was rich, he had no children, and he was a widower. I was poor, more or less homeless, and an ex-con. Meanwhile, he had hordes of beautiful women pounding on his door.

I had no idea how long our affair would last, but I didn’t have high expectations. So, six weeks after our first date, I told him I was pregnant. He was shocked, but not unhappy.

Another six weeks after that, I became Mrs. Roy Davies.

And I’ve been searching that house ever since, trying to figure out how he killed Deb, and why. There has to be some proof, some shred of evidence that the police missed.

There has to be something to bring him to justice.

Otherwise, I’ll just have to kill him.





6





My days always begin the same way. I glance at the clock on my bedside and find that it’s around six in the morning. Roy is still asleep, and I carefully extricate myself from his embrace, gently move his arm that will be slumped across my chest, then pull the bedclothes off, swing my legs out slowly so as not to wake my husband, and push my feet into my slippers.

This morning, I go into our en suite bathroom to get ready for the day. I shower, dry myself, style my hair, and carefully apply my makeup. This is the part that takes the longest because I have to look perfect for Roy when he wakes up. I cannot give him any excuse to tire of me. Not until I have found what I’m looking for.

After I’ve cleansed and toned my face, I apply moisturizer, then sunscreen because the Beverly Hills sunshine can be very harsh. Then I put on primer, followed by a dab of color corrector. Then foundation, setting powder, bronzer and blush, highlighter, eye shadow primer, eye shadow, false eyelashes, lipstick, and a cloud of setting spray. Later, I will make a delicious and nutritious breakfast for Roy, and he will say, “You are so pretty. You look like a porcelain doll.” And I will click my eyes closed and open them again wide, and he’ll laugh, and then he’ll kiss me.





Roy showers and gets dressed while I cook oatmeal pancakes. Oatmeal pancakes are his favorite and I feel I have ground to make up after our argument last night.

Marie walks in and stops, frowning at everything I have laid out on the breakfast bench: a stack of fluffy pancakes, Greek yogurt, sliced banana, almond butter, chia seeds, and maple syrup.

Marie is not that much older than me. She can’t be more than thirty, maybe early thirties. She has long, dark hair that she gathers up into a bun and wears a black blouse with a white edge around the collar and a white apron with a lace edge, so that she looks exactly like a housekeeper. Put it this way. If you rang our front door and Marie opened it, you would not mistake her for the lady of the house.

I pour myself a cup of coffee. “Can I ask you…”

She raises one dark eyebrow at me. “Yes?”

But before I have a chance to ask, Roy calls out from his office. “Marie?”

“Yes, coming, Dr. Davies,” she replies. She leaves the room, returns a few minutes later, picks up a cup and saucer from the shelf, and makes a coffee from the machine .

I sit up. “Is that for Roy?” She doesn’t hear me over the noise of the machine, or she pretends not to. When it’s done, she takes the cup and walks away.