Ralphie's Wives. Christine Rimmer
“Darla?”
“Umm?”
“The baby…”
“Umm?”
“It’s not Ralphie’s, is it?”
With a soft little sigh, Darla snuggled in closer still. “Oh, Pheeb…”
“Is it?”
Darla answered at last in a dreamy voice. “Strictly speakin’? No, it ain’t.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The gene pool could use a little chlorine.
—from The Prairie Queen’s Guide to Life by Goddess Jacks
DARLA KEPT HER HEAD on Phoebe’s shoulder and continued, in that same dreamy voice. “It was…a one-night thing, you know? I met this guy in a bar before I even came to the city. I never got his number and I ain’t seen him since and I never would’ve had sex with him if I’d’a known that in a few days I would be meeting the man I would love until death.” She rested her hand with its chewed-down nails on her bulging stomach. “Ralphie knew the baby wasn’t his. I told him. I always told him everything. He didn’t care. He said the baby would be our baby and that was that. He said we’d tell everyone he was the daddy—because he was going to be our baby’s daddy in all the ways that really count. And Pheeb?”
Phoebe rubbed Darla’s shoulder and stared blankly at their shadowed reflections in Ralphie’s big-screen TV across from the sofa. The last thing she’d expected was a straightforward confession. The baby was not Ralphie’s. Impossible—and apparently, true.
“Pheeb?” Darla asked again.
Phoebe smoothed Darla’s hair. “What, honey?”
“As far as I’m concerned, this is Ralphie’s baby.” A thread of steel had found its way into Darla’s voice. The sudden determination surprised Phoebe as much as the confession had. Darla might beg you or con you. She had a certain frail, needy charm about her, a charm that was sexy and innocent and too wise all at once, a charm that could knock certain types of men right off their feet. But determined? Uh-uh. No way, not ever. Darla lifted her head. Phoebe met those red-rimmed brown eyes. “I told you because I love you,” Darla said. “And Ralphie loved you. I know I can trust you to understand, and not to tell another soul.”
Phoebe nodded, keeping her expression fittingly solemn, knowing that she would betray Darla’s confidence to Rio the first chance she got.
“AND YOU BELIEVE HER about the real father being a one-night stand,” Rio said.
They were sitting in Phoebe’s kitchen. It was eleven-fifteen at night. “I do,” said Phoebe, thinking that those were the words a woman says on her wedding day, the words of a witness swearing an oath….
“¿Por qué?”
She blinked. “What?”
He gave her one of his patient looks, eyes soft, mouth firm. “Why do you believe her?”
“I just do.”
“Blind faith. It’s hardly an argument.”
“No. It’s more than blind faith.”
Rio eyed her sideways, clearly doubtful. “How?”
“It…makes sense, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“If there was some other guy in the picture, he would have come around by now.”
“Not necessarily. And maybe he has come around, but nobody told you about it. He’s come around—and killed Ralphie while he was at it.” Before she got a chance to argue, he asked, “Did Ralphie seem happy to you, about the baby?”
“Oh, yeah. Ecstatic. He built a crib, helped Darla fix up the baby’s bedroom. He was into it. And I wasn’t surprised. When he came home last August, he told me he was through with the footloose life. He only wanted to stay home and be happy. Then he met Darla, married her, settled down with her. And if he was shootin’ blanks, well, being the father of Darla’s kid would have been a way for him to have a baby he could call his own, to have it all—Darla and a kid and the settled-down life he’d finally realized he wanted.”
Rio leaned both big arms on the table. Sleek, hard muscles bulged beneath the sleeves of his black T-shirt. Gone were the cheap suit and geeky glasses of that morning. Tonight, he was all in black. Ready to creep around in the dark, snooping into other people’s secrets. “Okay,” he said. “For now.”
She eyed him sideways. “And by that you’re telling me…?”
“At this point I’ll buy Darla’s story.” Phoebe felt relieved for Darla’s sake. And yeah, she knew she was too protective of Darla. But so what? Ralphie would have wanted her to be. Rio added, “I ran into Boone this morning at the bar when I dropped off my bike.”
“So he told me. He said he thought you were ripping us off.”
“We got past that, Boone and me.”
“He said he took you in the bar and gave you some coffee and a microwaved cinnamon roll.”
“That’s right. I tried to get the guy talking about himself.”
“Learn anything?”
“Nothing you didn’t already tell me. He and Darla are from Arkansas. Boone moved to Texas a couple of years ago—and then came here for Darla’s wedding. He liked Oklahoma so much, he stayed on.”
“He knew you were pumping him for information.”
“The ones who are hiding things always do.”
In the center of the table stood a red napkin holder and red Fiestaware salt and pepper shakers. With great care, Phoebe straightened the napkin holder and lined up the salt and pepper beside it. “Boone also told me that he thought your glasses were fake and he had a sneaking suspicion you might be up to no good, nosing around into stuff that’s none of your business. He said you asked way too many questions.”
“Busted.” Rio chuckled low, an intimate sound, one that shivered down through Phoebe like a physical caress. “And what did you say to Boone when he told you all that?”
“I reminded him that, as of Ralphie’s death, you’re my business partner. I said I gave you a key and he should keep in mind that you’re now his boss as much Ralphie ever was.”
“How much is that?”
“Seriously? Not a lot. Over the years, Ralphie pretty much left the running of the bar to me. He was gone so much anyway and he always had some deal going that demanded all his attention. Whenever it was time to count up the cash, though, he’d get his hand out fast.”
“Nice work if you can get it.”
“So I told him, more than once.”
Those dark eyes held a teasing light. “Before Boone showed up, I was about to go inside and have a long, in-depth look around.”
“Why shouldn’t you? It’s half yours.”
“I’m glad you see it that way.”
“And what else did you do today, besides parking your bike and having coffee with Boone?”
“I got a car. I changed hotels.” He shoved one of his cards across the table, face down. On the back was the name of a residence hotel over on Northwest Expressway, including a room and phone number. “I hooked up with an associate who’ll help me go door to door, interviewing people around the area where Ralphie got hit.” He pushed another card her way, one for a local detective agency: Red Wolf Investigations. He pointed at the name in the lower right-hand corner. “Mac Tenkiller. In case he comes looking for me, you can trust him.”
“Thanks.”