Free Talk of the Town by Suzanne Macpherson

grabbed the offending chair like it had betrayed him, then sat firmly down and faced her.
    He straightened his golf cap. “Where were we?”
    “My divorce. It’s a bit of a story.”
     
    Married. She was married. He’d figured she’d been in an auto accident or had some other personal injury matter. He took out his damned yellow legal pad and smacked it on the desk. She jumped. He got a damned pen. He was an idiot.
    “What state did you marry in?”
    “California.”
    “California?”
    “Yes.”
    He could feel beads of sweat form on his forehead. He smacked his hand against it and rubbed, then ran his fingers through his hair.
    “You didn’t hurt your head on that palm tree did you?”
    “Only wounded pride.” He took in a deep breath and tried to gather himself. There was a rock in the pit of his stomach. “I can tell you the process. The divorce can be filed anywhere the court can get jurisdiction over both parties and their community assets, so where is the spouse?” He hated even saying the word.
    “L.A.,” she answered.
    “I do know someone down there. I’ll do some research and see what I can find. You’re not in a hurry, are you?” It was an odd question, and he wondered why he’d asked it.
    “Not really.”
    Okay, so she was married. She was getting a divorce. So what? He could pick up with her later, right? Divorced women were nothing new. She was taking a positive step. Right?
    He took off his golf hat and stuck it back in the drawer with a slam. “I’ll need some information. Names, marriage date, assets, that sort of thing.”
    A very long pause came from across his desk. Kelly shifted in her chair. In his experience this was not a good sign.
    “The thing is, I’m not Kelly Applebee.”
    The rock in his stomach rolled over. Here we go.
    “My name is Kelly Atwood.”
    “That’s close.”
    “I’m sorry I lied to you, but I have reason to believe my husband might try and track me down.”
    Great. Crazed husband. Should he even ask? “What makes you think that?” He went ahead, tapping his pen against his forehead, which was beginning to ache.
    “I stole his car.”
    Sam smacked the pen down and got up. “Maybe you better tell me the whole story.” He paced the long side of the office.
    “We got married.”
    “How long ago?”
    “About a week ago.”
    “You’re filing for divorce after what seven or eight days, and you stole his car?”
    “I thought you were going to let me tell you the whole story.”
    “Yes. Continue. Please.” He sat back down and stared at the car thief with the red dress, hot red lips, stick-up hair, navel ring, and tattooed leg. This, he was thinking of dating. He might as well be in a B movie.
    “We came home from the wedding and were getting ready to leave for Jamaica. I found cocaine in the lining of his suitcase. I confronted him about it, and he slapped me.”
    “He slapped you?” Something in Sam got dark. He hated that kind of crap from a man. “Had he ever done that before?”
    “No. Quit interrupting.” She chewed at herlower lip, which made it swell up, Sam noticed. “Then I knocked him out,” she said.
    Sam put his head in his hands and bowed over his desk. She went on.
    “He must have forgotten I was left-handed, and I kind of surprised him. He fell against a coffee table and hit his head. I ran and got my stuff and when I heard him start to come to, I got out. I took his BMW. But it was partly mine. I helped pay for it.
    Sam lifted his head. “You shared the car? Did you live with him? What’s his name?”
    “Raymond. Raymond Bianchi. Yes, we’d lived together for two years. We shared expenses, we worked together—”
    “And you didn’t know anything about his drug use?”
    “No. He hid it well. Actually, I don’t think he used as much as he probably sold it.”
    “He sold drugs.” Things just kept getting better. Car thief with red dress, hot red lips, stick-up hair, navel ring, and tattooed leg married to L.A. drug