The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom Read online

  “Umm…” I began, under the guise of contemplating which men might have been in their attached garage. But really, I was stalling. Did I want to blow Karen’s affair wide open at this stage? If her death turned out to be nothing but an unfortunate accident, was it fair to tarnish Doug’s memory of his wife? And what about her reputation in the community? Did I really want to turn my dear friend into “that slut who got what she deserved”? No, I couldn’t tell them yet—not until I knew more. “I can’t think of anyone. I don’t really know Doug’s friends.”

  “Well…” Portman stood up. “I think that’s about it, Ms. Atwell—Paige. We’ll let you go collect your children now.”

  “Right,” I said, having momentarily forgotten I had any. “Yes, well, I hope I helped… at least a little.”

  “One more thing,” said Conroy, still seated, said. “Can you think of anyone who may have wanted to hurt Karen Sutherland? For any reason?” His eyes bore into mine, and I felt the heat of panic rise into my cheeks. Was he on to me? Could he see that I knew more than I was telling?

  “No,” I said, eyes darting nervously from one detective to the other. “Everyone loved her.” There was an awkward pause while Detective Conroy continued to sit motionless on my couch. This must have been some sort of “bad cop” tactic, like the pressure of his gaze would cause me to blurt out, “Okay, okay… Her secret lover might have killed her, or, possibly, her-low-sperm count husband.”

  But I held my tongue, and soon was following the detectives to their unmarked car and placing my digits on a small scanner. Before departing, Portman turned to me. “If you think of anything else that we should know about…”—he proffered a business card between his index and middle fingers—“give me a call. My direct line is on the card.”

  “Okay.” I took his number. “I will.”

  “Thanks for your cooperation.”

  “You’re welcome.” I smiled at him, thankful that he had been there to buffer his cold and somewhat abrasive partner. Detective Portman smiled back. He had such an attractive face, despite being a bit heavy. And, I had to admit, cops were sort of sexy. I guess it was the power thing, I mean… he was carrying a gun and everything. I was still smiling. He was still smiling. What were we doing? Were we flirting… just a little bit? “Bye,” I said, my voice sounding ridiculously seductive.

  “Have a nice day,” he said, eyes still connected to mine.

  God, I really needed to have sex with my husband.

  Half an hour later, I had gathered the children and taken them to their swimming lessons. I sat in the bleachers, giving the appropriate thumbs-up signals to their aquatic endeavors, but my mind was fixed on the case. The police interview was concerning me, and not just my slight flirtation with Detective Portman. I was almost getting used to my lack of self-control around attractive men. But their presence on my doorstep obviously meant there were suspicions surrounding Karen’s death. I knew it couldn’t have been as simple as an accidental fall. But now, I was afraid I could be in trouble. I was withholding evidence—or withholding motive, or something… Whatever the proper term was, if the cops found out that I knew about Karen’s affair, they would be angry. They’d probably want to see me prosecuted for obstructing the course of justice—or something like that. What if they put me in jail? The kids would have to visit me at the state pen, wearing one of those hideous orange jumpsuits. I didn’t want to put them through that trauma.

  When we arrived home, I sent Chloe to the guest bathroom to shower the chlorine off, and drew a bath for Spencer. With the sounds of my son happily splashing in the background, I sat down in the hall holding the cordless phone. I had to talk to someone about my police interview today, but who? After a few moments’ contemplation, I dialed Carly.

  “Hello?”

  I was relieved when she answered. Lately, both Carly and Trudy had been so busy catering to Doug’s needs and working on Karen’s charitable foundation, that they had been largely unavailable. “Hi,” I said. “It’s Paige.”

  “Oh, hi. How are you?” She sounded upbeat.

  “Fine… fine… And you?”

  “Busy.” She launched into an explanation of the banking processes involved in setting up a memorial trust. I half listened to her, the other ear trained on the bathroom to ensure Spencer wasn’t drowning. “So…” she finally said. “What’s new with you? How are the kids?”

  “They’re good.” I paused briefly. “The police were here today, to talk about Karen’s… death.”

  “They came to see me, too,” she said, casually.

  “Really? What did they ask you?”

  “Oh, it was just a routine visit—something about fingerprints in Karen’s attached garage.”

  “They took my prints. They’re eliminating possible suspects.”

  “Mine, too. That’s right. They said they were eliminating suspects.”

  “Which means,” I said, my voice escalating. “That they are looking for someone.” I lowered my voice to a hiss. “A suspect.”

  “I wouldn’t read too much into it,” she said. “They have to do this whenever there’s an unexplained death.”

  I continued, my voice hushed, “But if everything had checked out with the autopsy… If it had simply been an accident or the result of some pre-existing condition that caused her to fall and hit her head, why would they care who was in her garage?”

  “You’ve been watching too much CSI!” Carly laughed. “It was a routine procedure.”

  I felt defensive. Carly obviously thought I was on some kind of insane witch-hunt. If only she knew Karen’s secrets, too, then she would see the validity of my suspicions. If she knew, we could commiserate, hypothesize and brainstorm together. Once again, I felt the overwhelming urge to spill my guts, but something stopped me. I wasn’t sure how Carly would react to the information. She was still so hurt by her ex-husband’s infidelity that she might feel betrayed by Karen. She might think that Doug deserved to know what kind of woman he had been married to. She might put a halt to the Alternative Infertility Clinic trust, thus prompting a number of questions from Trudy and others—not to mention all the barren women who needed her help!. No, Carly was not an ideal confidante. And, I had to admit, I did watch a lot of CSI.

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” I said. “I guess I’m still having a little trouble believing that Karen just fell over and died in her attached garage.”

  “Well, she did,” Carly stated, factually. “There were no signs of forced entry, no signs of a struggle, Doug has an airtight alibi—”

  “He does?”

  “The coroner set the time of death between 11:15 A.M. and 1:00 P.M. Doug was on a flight back from Chicago that didn’t land until 1:45. There’s no way he could have done it.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I was there when the police called to tell him he wouldn’t be considered a suspect.” Why hadn’t I thought to ask Carly all this stuff before? If Doug was out of the equation, it made it all the more imperative that I speak to Javier. He was definitely the prime suspect now. Carly interrupted my reverie. “It was an accident, Paige. That’s all. Let it go.”

  I laughed, awkwardly. “I know. I know. I’d better lay off the prime-time dramas.”

  “I’ve got to go,” Carly said. “Trudy and I are getting together to discuss having a celebrity golf tournament with proceeds going to Karen’s charity.”

  But of course, getting my mind off of Karen’s death wasn’t as easy as forcing myself to watch Everybody Loves Raymond. I had to admit that Carly made some sense, but I couldn’t let go of my suspicions that easily. Until I spoke to Javier on Wednesday, I would be stuck living with a pervasive uncertainty. I was still obsessing when Paul got home from work at eight.

  “How was your day?” he asked, kissing me quickly as he entered the kitchen.

  “Fine,” I said. “I made us some chicken curry. I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Starving! I’ll go kiss the kids and be right dow
n.”

  When we were alone, seated at the kitchen nook, I spoke. “How’s the curry?”

  “Good,” he replied, taking a large drink of milk. “Hot.”

  “So…” I began casually, forking a piece of chicken. “The police were here today.”

  “The police? What for?”

  “They had some questions about Karen’s death.”

  Paul dropped his fork. “What kind of questions?”

  “Routine,” I shrugged, adopting Carly’s casual manner. “Apparently, they have to ask certain things when there’s an unexplained death.”

  “So, what did they ask?”

  “They asked who would have had a legitimate reason to be in Karen’s garage. They found a lot of prints in there.”

  “What did you tell them?” Paul was staring at me intensely.

  “Well… I said: me, Carly, Jane, Trudy…”

  “I don’t like this,” Paul said, standing and moving to the fridge to refill his milk glass.

  “Is it too spicy? I could add some more yoghurt?”

  “Not the curry, Paige. I don’t like the police nosing around asking questions when you’re here alone.”

  “They weren’t nosing. They were asking routine questions.”

  “There was a death across the road. You placed yourself at the scene.”

  “I was at the scene,” I said, my voice rising in frustration. “I used to go to Karen’s place all the time. My prints would be all over the place. They were eliminating me as a suspect.”

  He returned to the table. “Next time the cops come around, I want you to call me.”

  “Why? What’s the big deal?”

  “Just call me next time, okay?” He said, forcefully.

  “Okay,” I snapped.

  “We have to be careful. Things get misconstrued. People can be falsely incriminated.” Now who was watching too many prime-time dramas? “If they come around again, we should call a lawyer.”

  “They won’t be coming around again,” I fumed. “You’re the one who said it was just a freak accident.”

  “And what do you think?” He growled. “That there’s some murderer on the loose in Aberdeen Mists?”

  “I never said that.”

  He put his fork down. “Do you think it was Doug?”

  I hesitated. “Why, do you?”

  “No! Christ, Paige. All you have to do is look at him to see that he couldn’t possibly have done it. He’s devastated.”

  I took a mouthful of food and chewed in silence for a few moments. Paul obviously hadn’t noticed Doug’s cool aloofness and detached air, but now wasn’t the time to bring it up. “He has an airtight alibi, anyway,” I said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Carly told me. She was there when the police cleared him.”

  “Well…” Paul said, scooping up some curry. “That settles it then. There was nothing sinister about Karen’s death. Can we please just drop the subject?”

  “Fine.”

  “But if the police come around again, call me.”

  “Fine!”

  We finished our meal in angry silence, until Paul excused himself and went to his study. I loaded the dishwasher noisily, banging dishes and slamming cupboards with frustration. It annoyed me that Paul wouldn’t even entertain the possibility that Karen’s death was anything more than an accident. And even more annoying was his attitude toward my police interview. Next time the cops come around, I want you to call me.” Did he think I was such a bumbling fool that I would somehow implicate myself in Karen’s death? Ha! He obviously didn’t realize what a savvy woman he was married to. I was fast becoming a master at keeping secrets and feigning innocence. And in a couple of days, I could very well be taking my wealth of knowledge to the police. After my meeting with Javier, I would decide whether he needed to be turned over to the law. Paul would be eating his words when the police thanked me for my contribution to the case. I might even get an award or citation of some sort.

  With the kitchen clean, I decided a long, soothing soak in the tub was in order. As I headed for the stairs, I poked my head briefly into my husband’s office. “I’m going to have a bath,” I said shortly then turned to go.

  “Hey,” he called, his voice conciliatory.

  I stuck my head back inside. “What?” I was not ready to forgive him yet.

  “I’m sorry. I just… I just worry about you, that’s all.”

  “Worry about what?”

  He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyebrows with his fingers. “This whole thing with Karen… I don’t know… you’ve been acting strangely ever since it happened.”

  “Of course I have. She was one of my best friends!”

  “But it’s like you’re obsessed with the way…” he trailed off. “… With the way she… passed away.”

  “I’m not obsessed. I’m not. I just think…” Suddenly, my words were blocked by a lump of emotion, and tears obscured my vision.

  “Hey…” Paul said gently, moving toward me and enveloping me in a warm embrace. “It’s okay, babe… It’s okay.”

  I cried for a little while, soothed by my husband’s soft words and warm hands on my back. When I had spent some of the sadness in me, I nuzzled into his neck. “Thank you,” I murmured. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Our faces turned inward and our mouths found each other. We kissed for a while—at first small, comforting pecks that eventually grew in intensity and passion. “Let’s go upstairs,” Paul whispered into my hair.

  It was only Monday, a night before I had planned our session of earth-moving sex. But hey—just like Jane said, sometimes you had to be spontaneous. “Let’s go,” I whispered back.

  Chapter 14

  The sex was great, really, really great. It had been ages since Paul and I had had an encounter like that. It had been ages since we’d had any sort of encounter at all. My earlier attempts at resexualizing had all failed miserably, and since the tragedy across the street, I hadn’t been in the mood. Paul had tried once, shortly after Karen died, but I had called him an insensitive prick and he had been fearful to approach me again. I had been so absorbed in my loss and the mystery surrounding my friend’s demise, that fucking had dropped dramatically on my list of priorities.

  But now… well, now any sexual hunger I’d had had been sated. How could it not be? We had done it for an hour and a half—which, in case you have not been married for twelve years—is a very long time. We did it all: fellatio, cunnilingus, even sixty-nine! We tried all the positions: missionary, girl on top, doggy-style, spoons… It was incredible! Crazy even! It was just what I had needed. There was only one problem. The entire time, I had been thinking about Javier.

  It had sneaked up on me. When we first entered our bedroom, I had been completely into Paul. I had been so happy that we were finally reconnecting, thrilled that I was having intense, passionate feelings about my husband again. But suddenly - during spoons I think it was—Javier popped into my brain. It was no longer Paul taking me from behind; it was a sexy Spanish lothario, with smoldering eyes and a chiseled jaw. “Oh Javier!” I wanted to cry out. “Harder! Harder!” But I managed to refrain—at least the “Oh Javier!” part.

  I was not a prude. I knew it was completely normal, even healthy, to fantasize during sex. It wasn’t like I hadn’t done it dozens of times before. But previously, my fantasies had been focused on the completely unattainable: George Clooney, Mikhail Baryshnikov, and for awhile, Joe Sakic—when the Colorado Avalanche was having a particularly good year. But I had not made it a habit to visualize real, everyday people while screwing my husband. Certainly not people who were my friends’ lovers! Okay… once, Trudy’s husband, Ken had popped into my head during the act, but it had been more of a quick flash of his face than a full blown fantasy. Obviously, this was not going to make it any easier to face Javier at tonight’s art class.

  Staring into the bathroom mirror, I painstakingly outlined my eyes in kohl pencil
. I didn’t normally wear a lot of eye makeup but I felt my upcoming encounter called for some. Adding a coat of mascara, I took in my reflection. Too much: I looked like Cleopatra… or else Alice Cooper. Grabbing a Q-tip from the bathroom drawer, I proceeded to remove some of the dark liner. There… that was better. I hoped Paul didn’t notice that I was heading to the Wilde Rose Arts Center wearing a full face of evening makeup. Who was I kidding? I could have pranced out of the house wearing a tin foil bikini and Paul wouldn’t have noticed. Although… after our Monday night session, he may have become a little more tuned in.

  Hair and makeup done, I moved to my bedroom to dress. At my lingerie drawer, I hesitated, just for a moment, before extracting the red water bra and G-string. It wasn’t that I expected anyone to see me in this sexy underwear. It was a confidence thing. I remember reading a quote from some supermodel who said all women should wear sexy underwear to feel sexier. Normally, I did not put a lot of stock in the quotes of supermodels, but this one seemed to make sense. And, since my intention was to get Javier to notice me, the illusion of big breasts couldn’t hurt, either.

  Over the red ensemble, I slipped a formfitting black sheath dress and put on a pair of black knee-high stiletto boots. The leather boots were a constant source of buyer’s remorse: they had been ridiculously expensive and I’d had ridiculously little opportunity to wear them. But tonight, they were the perfect complement to my femme fatale look.

  “Whit woo!” Spencer fake-whistled when I walked into the kitchen where my children were finishing a desert of chocolate ice cream. “You look so beautiful!”

  “Thanks, sweet boy.” I kissed his head.

  “Why are you so dressed up?” Chloe asked, almost snidely, taking in my outfit.

  “I’m not so dressed up,” I replied, silently thanking God that she couldn’t see the red underwear. “I just wanted to look nice. I’m going to my drawing class… and then, maybe, out for a bite to eat with some of the other… artists.”