Deconstructed(52)

Another muffled response.

“I gave it to him. What else could I do?” Scott said, his voice in a whisper yell. “Cricket might suspect something, but I think she won’t bother snooping. She’s content with her life. She never rocks the boat. So this has to be about the deal. You said it was foolproof. I’m telling you, I’m not going down, not for what I’m getting. I’m out.”

The words grew heated, but my mind was too busy hanging up on the words “deal” and “going down.” And then it leaped back to my mother’s words in the store last week, about how Scott had some kind of opportunity for an investment. A prickling of suspicion rose on my neck.

What exactly was Scott Benoit Crosby up to?

The only other bit I caught before the two slipped back the opposite way was something about “Keep them comin’ or you’ll regret it” and “Leave that to me.” Those words were from whomever Scott was talking to. I saw a vague figure as they slipped around the corner, but I couldn’t even begin to guess who it was since he wore a dark tux and had a medium build and conservative-looking haircut . . . just like half the men at the gala.

I pressed a hand against my galloping heart, my mind whirring like the blender I rarely used. Except for margaritas. I was brilliant at margaritas.

Pulling my thoughts from chasing that drunken bunny, I tried to decipher exactly what Scott could be involved in. I already knew he was engaging in an extramarital affair, but this sounded . . . illegal. Or at the very least worrisome. And Scott didn’t think I would do anything. She never rocks the boat.

He didn’t know me.

“He doesn’t know me,” I said aloud for good measure.

Then I pulled myself from the wall, determined to figure out what kind of risky business my soon-to-be ex-husband was up to. It might come in handy to have leverage, and if he was doing something illegal, I needed to know what that was. Which meant I needed to talk to Juke and impart this information and see if Ruby’s sad-sack cousin had managed to get what I needed for my attorney. The private investigator looked like he could use extra money, so I could add on the research into Scott’s business dealings and perhaps discover who had just essentially threatened him. That seemed like a smart thing to do. And in the meantime, I could do some snooping around the house. My advantage was that Scott thought I was a nonthreat, so he might have left some evidence of what he was involved in lying around.

I walked down the hall back into the function, saying hello to a few people, and found myself facing Stephanie and her friends.

“Hey, Cricket,” she said, giving me her normal cheerful smile.

I flinched. I couldn’t stop myself. And then something ugly and dark stirred in my belly. What would she do if I launched myself at her and wrapped my hands around her throat? Because that was the feral inclination that surfaced inside me.

Destroy. The. Threat.

And, oh Lord, now I was thinking in Susie Simmons’s punctuated style.

I tamped down the darkness instead and smiled at the usurper of my throne. “Hello.”

“I’m Julia Kate’s tennis coach,” she confirmed as if I couldn’t place her, but the slight widening of her eyes told me she sensed danger. Or maybe that was my very active imagination.

“Of course, yes,” I said, smiling at her and her young, fit friends. “It’s lovely to see you. How are things at the club?”

I wanted to add “skank” to the end of that question, but really, did I blame her? She was a tennis pro, and Scott was a VP of a local bank, heir to stock in a shipping company in Cut Off, and mostly fit and decent looking. Part of me understood. And the other part of me wanted to drop her into a fast-moving river with a stone tied to her ankle.

God, I was bloodthirsty.

“Oh, things are heating up this spring. Everyone seems to want lessons when the weather turns nice.”

“I bet,” I said, somewhat dismissively. “I need to run. My mother wanted another martini.”

“Of course,” Stephanie said with her pretty, shiny lips. “It was good to see you.”

I didn’t respond. Instead I gave a winky little wave and moved away. Inside I was trembling, but on the outside, I was convinced I looked like the normal Cricket—happy, kind, nonthreatening.

“I can’t believe she talked to you,” Ruby hissed as she fell into step beside me. She must have been looking for me because I doubt she knew anyone at the event other than Ty.

“She has no reason not to. She thinks I don’t know. Or she could think I suspect and likes getting her jollies by pretending to be friendly to the cuckolded wife.”

“Can women be cuckolded?” Ruby asked, opening the door for me so I could slide inside the main room.

“I don’t know, but I know that this woman is tired of not rocking boats. I’m biding my time, Ruby. You know what that means?” I took her arm and pulled her to face me.

Ruby, who looked so beautiful that I couldn’t believe she was the same girl who had come into my store that day months ago looking more like a whipped pup than the magnificent peacock she was now, gave me the smile of a coconspirator. Which was better than a shot of whiskey . . . and I needed a shot of something that would chill me out.

“Of course, Cricket. I grew up on biding time and knowing exactly when to make a move. My family has always survived on knowing when to hold cards and knowing how to avoid detection. We only get caught every now and again. I’m a child of misfortune with a side of lawlessness, and I know how to rock a bitch right out of a boat.”