Deconstructed(58)

Scott had come in, looking bleary eyed from a hangover, but seemed thrilled that I had made him breakfast. He didn’t know that I was holding the oars in that nonrocking boat and that he was very lucky that he wasn’t dead. I mean, I had actually contemplated who would play me in the Lifetime movie When Cricket Cracked: A Shreveport Murder. Would Reese Witherspoon be available? So . . . yeah, he was lucky he was eating waffles and not the end of whatever pistol I could figure out how to use from his gun safe.

Then I had spent the day at my mama’s house helping her clean out her greenhouse. I picked up dinner and chocolate cupcakes with bunnies that I felt sure Julia Kate would like. I even managed to kiss Scott good night and not throw up. I closed my eyes on Sunday night knowing that my husband couldn’t possibly suspect me of suspecting him.

Boom.

Mission accomplished.

When I awoke on Monday morning, I was a determined woman.

So I had called Ruby and told her that I was going to run a few errands before I came in that morning. I dropped Julia Kate at school, which was back in session, thank goodness, and went to Lowder’s to get cinnamon rolls for my private eye. He seemed like a man who needed a little care, and since this conversation was important, buttering him up with delicious pastry seemed a good bet. I was hopeful Juke had gotten the incriminating photos and evidence of my husband’s infidelity because then he could do the extra snooping to see exactly what kind of deal Scott was involved in and where he might have placed our life’s savings. If it was something illegal or unscrupulous, that might be the leverage I needed to get the money he’d taken back into our accounts . . . before I filed divorce papers. Unless he’d invested it in some stupid opportunity. But I couldn’t see him doing that. He was cautious with money.

Ol’ Scott was about to get his fat butt rocked right out of the boat . . . and then I was going to pull the cord and motor away, leaving him in the middle of shark-infested waters.

So after I procured the pastries, I pointed my minivan north.

I had decided not to alert my PI as to my intentions. I figured if Juke wasn’t in his office, no big deal. I could make an appointment and go back. But something inside me—one of those intuitive hunches—urged me to drop by.

No cars or trucks were parked at the bar, but there was an older van parked beneath the metal staircase leading up to North Star Investigations. I climbed the stairs, balancing the bakery box, and knocked exactly ten times, trying not to be aggravated that I was constantly being stonewalled in my progress. As I knocked, I thought I caught a whiff of whiskey through the crack beneath the door but wasn’t certain. By the time I had turned around to leave, I was irritated. Juke had wasted two weeks of my life with no proof of adultery.

Then the door ripped open.

“What? Goddamn it!”

I turned, set my free hand on my hip, and glared at the bare-chested man standing in the threshold of the office.

“You’re drunk,” I managed to growl between my clenched teeth.

“No shit,” Juke said, looking me over. “Do I even know you?”

“Do you even know me?” I repeated his words, my voice rising as I advanced toward him. “Are you serious? I’m your client, you idiot!”

He stepped back only because I shoved him, entering the office, frowning at the mess. Juke closed the door and rubbed his head, making his hair stick up like porcupine quills. “You are? Which one?”

“I’m Cricket. Ruby’s boss.”

“Oh yeah.” He squinted at me, staggering a little as he journeyed to the desk, which held three Chinese-takeout cartons, a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey, and a stack of folders that had almost slid off the desk. The place smelled like sweat, booze, and kung pao chicken.

“What are you doing, Mr. Jefferson?” I looked around at the couch that he’d been sleeping on, the sweatshirt crumpled on the floor, and the overflowing trash can. “This place is a disaster, and so are you. You’re drunk at nine in the morning, for heaven’s sake. You don’t need clients. You need rehab. I’d like my money back, please.”

“Hold on, hold on,” he said, pressing the air and half falling into his chair. The resounding squeak was like brakes being applied on the conversation.

I stood and waited, still clutching the cinnamon rolls. I would be danged if he would get the still-warm pastries. Over my dead body . . . which no one would probably find in this pigsty for months.

Finally, after he’d sat looking confused for long enough, I said, “Do you have the pictures of my husband?”

Juke reached behind him, snagged the T-shirt on the back of the chair, and shrugged it on. “Sorry about that. Um, your husband is the banker, right?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said, turning toward the door.

“No, no. Wait. I have something.”

I stopped. “What?”

“He’s a busy guy, your husband. Been meeting with all sorts of high-in-the-instep people. Don’t worry—I’ve been watching him for you.”

I turned back toward him. “But do you have pictures of him with Stephanie, the woman he’s screwing?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet?” I parroted, using the sarcasm I kept for special occasions. “Thing is, I needed those yesterday. I have a meeting with my attorney to go over my financials, which at the present moment is very little. I need proof of his infidelity so I don’t have to wait six months, which means I need leverage, Mr. Jefferson. I came here this morning hoping you’d done your job, but it seems you haven’t. And I had more work for you, work that with your background in law enforcement might have intrigued you. I think my husband isn’t just cheating on me. He’s involved in something bigger.”