The Secret Lives of Doctors' Wives

Dead Men Do Tell Lies…Frequently

Becoming a doctor’s wife was Rose Marie Castle’s way of obtaining the beautiful life she wasn’t born into. But after being jilted at the altar by Mr Prominent Plastic Surgeon, this ageing beauty stumbles braless and pantyless out of her fortieth birthday party and into a murder investigation.

Dr Pierce Carver is Austin’s very own smoothtalking, fast-living, upwardly mobile, womanising…murder victim. And with his three ex-wives, widow, stepdaughters and estranged sons crawling out of the woodwork, it can finally be revealed just how many lives one man can lead.

Rosie’s sexy teen crush Michael Nash still remembers the time they spent together under the palm trees in Mexico. As the acting homicide detective on Rosie’s case, he just can’t agree with her on who derailed whose life. But with so much blame to pass, why not share it?

Now this nurse turned premature (yet never matured) grandmother has a coming-of-middle-age journey to take and a whodunit to unravel. With a rough-cut Texan police officer on her trail, Rosie snoops to find her fairy-tale ending behind the lies where the beautiful life loses its lustre.

Once, all she desired was Dr Pierce Carver’s head on a silver platter, and everyone knows it. Too bad her dreams do come true.

Also available from Ann Major

THE GIRL WITH THE GOLDEN SPURS

THE HOT LADIES MURDER CLUB

THE

SECRET

LIVES

OF

DOCTORS’

WIVES

ANN

MAJOR

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to Tara Gavin.

She contributed the title and

much more, as always.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I need to thank Kimberly Huett for her help.

Prologue

Austin, Texas

He remembered the flash of the blade, the slender hand in the dark. His screams had been followed by eerie silence. Too late he recalled that this house had a history of tragedy.

The dying man could barely hear Rose Marie Castle’s flying bare feet on the sculpted stone staircase. Besides her shoes, she was missing several intimate garments that, doubtless, the police would find later.

Run, run as fast as you can…

His hands were bound together with Rosie’s silky black bra. Her paring knife was lodged firmly in his Adam’s apple. The security cameras would capture incriminating images of her escape, but he would be dead long before she was brought to justice, which could be slow, even in Texas.

The deathblow had been savage. Delicate vertebrae had been smashed, his spinal cord nicked or severed. He’d had no sensation of falling as he’d crumpled to the white carpet, his blood staining it a vivid crimson.

He’d been a fool, ensnared like a stupid fly in a web. Because of her—the bitch.

He was cold to the marrow of his bones.

Downstairs, Rosie let out a panicked little cry. She began to pound on the door with her fists. When it finally opened, and she stumbled outside, the prisms of the chandelier above the grand staircase tinkled.

He thought of his mother and father. Of the old life and its false promises; of all the bitter years when he’d longed for vengeance, which would have been his—except for her.

Down the hill, the big engine of her Beamer purred to life. When she sped away, his useless body convulsed. As his eyeballs rolled upward, he heard the wind in the branches of the pecan trees outside. She must have left the door open in her haste to escape.

The harsh music of the cicadas joined the sweeter chime of the chandelier that she’d imported from Paris.

Paris, France; not Paris, Texas. What grand ambitions she’d had before the wedding.

Run, run; you can’t catch me…

Like hell.

She’d pay. She deserved to pay.

His body convulsed one final time.

He thought about her dreams of being a grand lady in Austin society, married to the eminent plastic surgeon Pierce Carver. She’d wanted to live down the poverty and shame of her childhood.

Was there enough money or fame to heal such wounds?

The dying man almost felt pity for Rose Marie Castle as he died.

But not quite.

One

Austin, Texas

“Oh my God! More blood?” She’d thought it was only a nick.

Rosie couldn’t believe what had just happened. Pierce had gotten angry so quickly. He’d seemed weird, strung out, not himself at all.

Her every breath was a harsh, tortured rasp as she grabbed a tissue and dabbed at her cut finger and the steering wheel. She didn’t want to think about her former fiancé, or their quarrel, or how quickly the violence had escalated.

Perspiration drenched her, not just because it was a hot, sultry August night or because of the champagne she’d drunk with Pierce before the evening had gone wrong. Or because today was her fortieth birthday and maybe she was simply having an early hot flash.

She rubbed her head. Her scalp hurt where Pierce’s watch had caught her hair. He hadn’t cared that he’d hurt her. In fact, he’d smiled.

She wrapped the tissue around her finger and applied pressure. When the Beamer’s tires squealed, rounding a sharp curve, she gripped the wheel. It wasn’t like her to mistreat her car by driving too fast. She was that anxious to get away.

Well, at least she was finally over him. No more wisecracks to the other nurses about wanting revenge, to salve her wounded ego because they knew he’d dumped her for Anita.

For what it was worth, tonight Mr. Prominent Plastic Surgeon hadn’t paid her a dime of the money he owed her, either. Big surprise. She still didn’t know why she’d snapped. But for sure, she had bigger problems now than the money he’d owed her.

What had she ever seen in Pierce? He was a gifted doctor, and being a nurse, she’d admired that. She’d been having a hard time accepting her grown daughter’s lifestyle, so maybe he’d come along when she’d needed to feel successful in other areas of her life. Being seen on the arm of a handsome plastic surgeon had made her feel good.

But even before he’d dumped her, the romance had taken a dark turn. Like a lot of Rosie’s boyfriends—and there’d been a lot, way too many in some people’s opinions, such as her mother’s—Pierce had developed the knack for punching the wrong buttons. He brought out the Bad Rosie, just like her mom, Hazel, did sometimes, which was why Rosie should have been delighted when he’d jilted her for a younger woman right before their wedding day nearly a year ago.

Okay, so Rosie hadn’t been delighted or acted mature, despite her “mature” age. Okay, so maybe that was partly because she’d been feeling romantic about being a bride again, and partly because she’d seen Dr. Pierce Carver as the ticket to the sparkling train car.

Rosie’s least favorite movie scene of all time, and of course it had to be the one that haunted her, was the opening sequence in Woody Allen’s Stardust Memories. In the scene, poor Woody sat in a dark, dirty train car with a bunch of other pathetic losers. Unfortunately, he had looked out the window just in time to see a sparkling train car filled with happy, glamorous people drinking champagne streak by him, and he had despaired.

There’d been a lot of times when Rosie would have sold her soul to be in that sparkling car.

Pierce had come into her life just when she’d been feeling superguilty about Carmen dancing at The Cellar and neglecting her five-year-old daughter, Alexis, to the point that Rosie had had to take Alexis under her wing. Pierce had seemed glamorous and caring and sure of himself, when she’d been feeling vulnerable because she was getting older and didn’t have enough to show for it.

When he had jilted her and she’d had to face reality again, she’d had to see a shrink for a while to reclaim her sanity—on a weekly basis, as a matter of fact.

So—okay. Okay. Okay.

Rosie really had thought she was over Pierce, until he’d called tonight. He’d flattered her and said he was tying up loose ends. He’d promised to pay her the money he owed her, and she’d agreed to give him a new key to the warehouse where he stored some medical records.

Now she was racing down the curving, narrow road in Westlake Hills that led through sweetsmelling juniper-covered, limestone hills, away from his mansion.

Rosie lifted her gaze to the rearview mirror. She caught a glimpse of one blue eye and her coppery-red curls. She adjusted the mirror and saw her shoes on the back seat.

As for her bra and panties…Her heart began to beat fast. She did not want to dwell on missing underwear.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

She couldn’t believe he’d made her feel so vulnerable and lonely. Why else had she started stripping for him and…

He’d said she was beautiful, and maybe she was…for her age. She was slim. Her legs were long. Okay, so maybe she was a little worried about her neck at times. Just as she lifted her chin to check it in her rearview mirror, her cell phone vibrated on her lap.

Damn. No way could she talk to anybody.

But when she picked up the phone, she saw Yolie’s name highlighted in brilliant blue. Yolie had let her and Alexis move in when Rosie’s house had burned not long after Pierce had jilted her. Alexis was home with Jennifer, who was just a teenager. A responsible one, but still a teenager. Yolie was supposed to go to her ranch tonight.

What if there was a problem? Rosie had to answer.

“Where’ve you been? Celebrating your big birthday with a lot of sex and sin and alcohol, I hope,” Yolie said in that crisp, in-your-face voice she usually reserved for the managers of her various fast-food Taco Bonito restaurants.

No way was Rosie admitting the truth. That she’d gone to Pierce’s. That she’d almost…Not to Yolie, of all people! Yolie, who, among her many identities, happened to be one of Pierce’s ex-wives.

Yolie had totally agreed with Nan, Rosie’s shrink, when she’d advised Rosie not to date for a while, so that she could confront the psychic wounds of her childhood. Whatever.

They both said she’d obsessed about Pierce for too long. They’d been the first to quit laughing when she’d joked about having vengeful fantasies, although Yolie had enjoyed her saying she’d have Pierce’s head on a silver platter if he kept refusing to pay her what he owed her.

Alarmed that Yolie, who hadn’t gotten rich in the fast-food business by being the dimmest bulb in the kitchen, might somehow hear the quiver in her voice and suspect something, Rosie tensed.

“Oh…I was at my house—you know, painting with Harry…so that someday—sooner rather than later—you’ll have your mansion back to yourself.” Not exactly a lie.

Harry’s main job was to run her rental properties, which included houses in her old East Austin neighborhood, as well as the warehouse where Pierce stored some of his stuff. Of late, Harry had been the contractor on her house.

“Really? Until midnight? I just got back from your place. Harry was smoking grass in that portable potty your nosy, next-door neighbor, Mirabella, is always in such a snit about. Would you believe Mirabella was actually up and that she and her dog watched me from her kitchen window? Does she ever mind her own business?”

“She makes a career of running me down to the entire neighborhood.”

“When I knocked on the door of the portable potty, I almost got high myself on fumes when he kicked it open. Harry was pretty fuzzy headed, but he did say he thought Jennifer called you around 11:00 p.m., maybe about Alexis, because you sure peeled rubber when you left.”

Busted. Rosie swallowed. She’d been only too happy to let him think it was Jennifer, her favorite babysitter.

But had she actually said she was going home to check on Alexis? No. Did she have to account for her actions to Harry, of all people? Definitely—no!

“I…” With Yolie, who was way smarter than Harry, sometimes the less said, the better. “So…what’s up?”

“I was on my way out the door, late as usual, to go to the ranch, when Beth called. In fact, I just left Jennifer and Alexis, who are fine, by the way. Beth sounds frantic. Says she’s been calling you for over an hour…”

Beth was an R.N. in the I.C.U. at Brackenridge Hospital, where Rosie worked. Beth had been sick earlier in the week, and Rosie had had to pull double shifts. Not fun, since she needed every spare minute to clean and paint her burned-out mess of a house because Harry’s progress on the job had been so slow and her neighbors, stirred up by Mirabella, were bugging her about the unmowed brown grass and the awful orange portable potty in her front yard.

“Beth?”

“She said to call her at the unit ASAP.” Yolie paused. “Oh, and before I forget, I left you a teeny piece of double-fudge, Italian-cream chocolate cake in the fridge for your birthday.”

“You swore you wouldn’t—” Rosie stopped herself.

There was no point in arguing with Yolie, who was a larger woman, who loved to cook, and who ate whatever she wanted. She wasn’t neurotic about her butt size or her jean size or even the fact that her next big birthday would be fifty. She had a thing for younger men, too. Her current hottie was Xavier, her gardener, of all people. He was ambitious. Yolie was always helping him with his English. He was going to school, and he worked for Taco Bonito, too. The one condition she’d made when Rosie had moved in was to leave Xavier strictly alone—or she’d teasingly threatened to turn her into taco meat for her restaurant chain.

Of course, Rosie had promised to leave the yardman to his clipping, but that was before she’d seen Xavier, who had a head of thick black hair, a body of sleek dark muscles and a lopsided smile that reminded her too much of the first man she’d ever given her heart to, under a palm tree in Mexico, no less.

“I swore I wouldn’t make brownies, but didn’t say anything about Italian-cream cake,” Yolie said. “Life is far too short and much too cruel to live without chocolate. You’re only forty once, sweetie. Enjoy…that is, if you ever get home tonight.”

Before Yolie, who no doubt had time to talk, went on to press her for details about where she’d been, exactly, Rosie hung up and dialed Beth.

“I’m sorry to bother you…but I really really need you to come in,” Beth began. “Just for an hour—it’s an emergency.”

“It’s after midnight. Can’t a supervisor pull a nurse off another floor? I can’t just…”

“Please.”

“I’m out. I’m a mess.” She couldn’t very well say, “You think you have problems? This has been the most terrible night of my life! I’m braless and pantyless and so totally mental after losing it with Pierce and Pierce losing it with me that there is no way I could take care of patients.”

Aloud she said, “Why don’t you get Margaret to find somebody?” Margaret was their supervisor.

“I can’t. I just can’t.” Beth, who wasn’t one to give details about her personal life, and who was usually very stoic, started in with broken sobs.

This was bad.

“I am not coming in!”

Two

In the mock Tuscan villa down the hill from Dr. Pierce Carver’s four-acre lot and mansion, Amanda Jones, who was a light sleeper, especially when Ralph was out of town on business, was awakened by the faint but persistent sound of her neighbor’s car alarm.

She sat up and listened.

When it didn’t stop, she grew frightened and went to the window. Pierce was anal about his Porsche.

No matter how hard she squinted, she couldn’t see much of Carver’s property through the thick cedar and oak. Suddenly, two black figures burst out of the darkness from the direction of the Carvers’ house and raced down the strip of road that wound in front of both their houses.

Since she wasn’t about to turn off her own house alarm and go out in the dark and investigate, or even step out onto her upstairs balcony, which had such spectacular views of the sparkling city far below, she went back to her bedside table and called Pierce’s place. When his answering machine picked up on the first ring, she hung up without leaving a message. Then she dialed 911.

Michael Nash had a bad case of brain fog. Not great when you’re Homicide and you’ve got a body upstairs with a paring knife in his Adam’s apple, and two punks in black with blood on their shoes handcuffed to a tree in the victim’s front yard.

The body was probably that of Dr. Pierce Carver. Who the hell else could it be?

Funny, the rich jerk just happened to be somebody Michael had something in common with—namely a woman. Rose Marie Castle, to be exact. Nash knew Carver was a prick because Rose Marie had told him so and quite heatedly—after Michael had ticketed her for stalking the bastard with her Beamer last year. Apparently, Carver had dumped her for a younger model, Anita Somebody from Guatemala. Rosie never had taken failure well.

Not that Michael wanted to think about Rosie or that night ever again because, as usual, she’d twisted him around her little finger and had made a fool out of him.

Carver and she had probably deserved each other. Rosie was trouble, always had been and probably always would be. She’d cut Michael’s heart out on more than one occasion. Just not with a paring knife.

Hell, maybe he should count his blessings.

But murder? Rosie couldn’t have anything to do with this. Still, she’d been royally pissed at the guy.

Michael glanced up from his notebook and said a silent prayer for the dead man in the house. Not that he was sure there was anybody up there to listen. Still, his mother had taken him to church when he was a kid. Old habits died hard.

Michael glanced at the punks handcuffed to the tree and then at his watch. It was late, nearly 2:00 a.m. He lacked the energy to deal with their lies.

Liars! He hated liars!

Too bad, Nash. Everybody lied to cops. The murderers lied because they had to. Witnesses lied to cover up all sorts of minor peccadilloes that as often as not had nothing to do with the case. Everybody else lied just for the sheer joy of it.

His head was pounding as he approached the punks again. His eyes felt grainy. On top of that he was sweltering out here even at this hour.

Michael needed to share a cold beer with Ronnie Bob at The Tavern before heading home, where he would’ve loved to zone out channel surfing. Maybe watch a tiger eat a zebra or a rattler pounce on a mouse before he passed out on his couch.

Instead, he forced himself to concentrate on the shifty-eyed kids in the faded black T-shirts and ragged jeans, slouching against the tree trunk. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Even though Michael didn’t think they had a damn thing to do with the murder, the older kid had a prior for car theft. No, they’d been after the Porsche and had set off the car alarm that had alerted Amanda Jones down the hill.

“You just got out of a detention center for stealing cars,” Michael began. “Am I right—Paulo—”

“Pablo.” The kid spat the name.

“Sorry.” Feeling the kid’s hatred, Michael scratched through the u and jotted a b on top of it. “Pablo.”

“We was joggin’.” This from Raul.

Michael’s thick, black brows shot together in a lethal frown. “Right. And you two live…where? Eight miles from here? East Austin. My old neighborhood.”

Rosie’s, too. Not that she liked to admit it even now that it was becoming rather gentrified.

“It’s a free country,” Pablo spat.

Michael was lifting his head to stare at the kid again when Ronnie Bob Keith’s florid face appeared at the front door. Keith’s smirk was a mile wide as he waved a plastic Baggie.

Michael loped toward his partner.

“Raul dropped his wallet. They were up there, all right. Their bloody footprints are everywhere. Talk about contaminating the scene!”

Michael returned with the evidence. Clenching the Baggie, he eyeballed the older kid. “Pablo, my men just found your little brother’s wallet in a pool of blood by a man with a knife in his throat, and you don’t know nothing?”

“Right.”

“How about you—Raul?”

Raul started shaking and refused to look up from the ground.

Michael continued to stare at Pablo. The youth was too tall and too skinny for his large frame. He wore a dirty red bandana. A greasy dark braid hung down the middle of his back. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and eased his weight from one foot to the other, his soulless eyes gazing anywhere but at Raul or Michael.

Michael wanted to know what the kids knew, what they’d seen, but he was going to have to take them downtown and separate them.

Sweat dripped from his brow onto his notepad as he sucked in a long, exasperated breath. “Kid, we’re getting nowhere fast.”

“I told you all I know.”

The fog in Michael’s brain thickened. He held up the wallet again. “You’re going to change your bullshit story before I’m through.”

Pablo stared at his dirty athletic shoes.

“Damn it! You were all over the house! Did you see anybody else? Hear anything?”

“Man, I don’t have to take this. I’m only sixteen.”

“Kids like you get tried as adults all the time. You think about that—Paulo.”

“Pablo! You think I’m just a kid, but I know my rights. We don’t have to talk to no cop without our lawyer.”

“All right. Have it your way.” Michael left them and headed toward the house.

“Hey! You! Come back here! Let us go!”

As their screams grew louder, Michael took the stairs beneath the brilliant chandelier two at a time.

To hell with them!

Finally, Beth had made it back to the hospital.

Maybe it was the late hour, maybe Rosie was just exhausted, maybe she’d seen too many scenes on TV where women got assaulted in parking garages, or maybe it was aftershocks from her ugly run-in with Pierce—whatever, Rosie had a bad case of the jitters as she climbed the concrete stairs to the fourth floor in the hospital parking garage. She was nearly to her Beamer when her cell phone rang.

Climbing faster, she dug for it in her purse, and for her keys, too, only to panic when she read Yolie’s home phone number in the little blue window.

It was well after two-thirty. Jennifer and Alexis were home alone now, since Yolie had driven to the ranch.

Rosie pushed open the door to the fourth floor. “Jennifer?” Her voice echoed in the dimly lit garage.

“Alexis is gone!” the teenager shrieked without preamble. “I’ve looked everywhere!”

Seeing her Beamer, Rosie raced to it. “She can’t be…gone. She’s hiding or something.”

“No…I’ve looked everywhere.”

With shaking hands, Rosie unlocked the car and got in. “Did you check the pool?”

“I turned on the pool lights and the floodlights and everything…She went to bed with Blue Binkie not long after Yolie left. My boyfriend called, and I was on the phone for a while. Then I went up to check on her. I swear, she was fine, but now her bed’s empty. I checked every door and window. They’re all locked. Your bedroom’s empty, except for Lula.”

Lula was Yolie’s huge, white poodle.

Rosie couldn’t believe anything else could go wrong—even if it was her birthday. Alexis gone?

Rosie squeezed her eyes shut and fought panic, not for the first time tonight. As she started the ignition, she thought about their mysterious break-in two days ago. That had been so strange…just as Pierce calling her tonight had been strange. Looking back, the break-in felt almost like an omen.