In Hot Water
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At the time, however, she had patched her broken heart as best she could and gone on with her life. She’d worked her way through school as an interior designer while taking care of her mother who had been stricken with Alzheimer’s.
During those years of hardship, her social life had been nonexistent. Only once had she agreed to attend a charity ball given by a client. There she had met Dr. Seymour Ramsey, a man twenty years her senior. He had been instantly smitten with her and wouldn’t leave her alone. Finally, he had worn her down after promising to love, honor and cherish her while at the same time resurrecting her previous life of wealth and luxury.
That had been a deal she couldn’t pass up. While she hadn’t loved him with passion, she had loved him.
She’d certainly been bowled over by his attention. Seymour had turned on the same charm that had helped catapult him, a young man from the wrong side of the tracks, to the top of his profession. Maci had sensed he was a decent man who wanted to make a home with her.
Being “in love” was no longer high on Maci’s priority list. Seymour understood, having told her he’d take her any way he could get her.
Two weeks after taking a Jamaican holiday, Maci had married Seymour despite the teasing from her friends that she would be joining the “trophy wife’s club.” Maci had known better. In their own way, she and Seymour had formed a bond based on mutual respect and admiration.
She had signed a contract that entitled her to a certain amount of money for every year she remained married to him. Once that fact hit the gossip mill, her friends had upped the ante on their teasing.
She had taken it all in stride since that contract had been so important to Seymour, which she understood. She’d had no quarrel with him wanting to protect his investment and his pride. What no one knew was that she’d had no intention of touching the money for her own use. Instead, she’d put it in trust to care for her Alzheimer-stricken mother as long as she lived.
The fact that shortly after they had exchanged vows Maci had found out she was pregnant had served to strengthen her and Seymour’s marriage. They had both been delighted. Her life then settled into a normal routine. She had thrived on her role as expectant mother and wife of Doctor Seymour Ramsey, convinced she had everything she’d always wanted.
And while she’d concede their marriage was far from perfect and probably unconventional by most standards, it had worked for them.
Until now. Until his abhorrent habit had come to light.
Maci’s heart faltered as she leaned down and kissed her baby on the forehead, holding him a bit tighter, careful not to disturb his sleep.
The consequences of what Seymour had done could be forever life-changing. They had already been life-altering.
If her husband failed to get control of his problem, then she… Maci refused to think about that. Seymour would mend his broken life and emerge a stronger, healthier individual. She had to hold on to that thought. Anything else was too painful to pursue.
Jonah stirred again prompting her to place him in his crib. That done, Maci glanced at the Waterford clock on the table and realized that Seymour should have already been home. She knew Annie, the housekeeper, had their brunch ready. And so did Seymour. Maci frowned, trying not to panic. Most of the time her mind was her own worst enemy.
Still, she couldn’t settle the disquiet that accompanied her downstairs. After passing Liz who was on her way back to Jonah, Maci made her way into the breakfast room. She was startled to find her husband.
No one would ever guess Seymour’s secret by looking at him.
His charming demeanor and handsome features persuaded many to believe in him.
He was tall and lean with silver hair that showed no signs of thinning. His deep-set green eyes seemed to smile when he did. But his pride and joy was his body. He kept it in tip-top condition by working in their gym at home as well as one at an exclusive country club.
“You’re just in time, my dear.” Seymour smiled and pulled out her chair. “Annie’s just about to serve us.”
“I didn’t know you were home,” Maci said inanely, feeling herself staring at him, looking for signs that he was using again. She couldn’t believe such horrible terminology popped into her mind much less applied to any part of her life. The idea seemed to sully everything around her.
If Seymour noticed her reaction, he didn’t let on. Instead, he smiled and asked, “How’s my son?”
Clearly he wanted to pretend nothing out of the ordinary had happened, even though they had had the sharpest disagreement of their marriage. Momentarily her temper flared, but she held it under wraps. Maybe his way was the best way. Holding a grudge definitely wasn’t the answer.
Maci released a sigh. “He’s great, as always.”
“I started to come up, but Liz told me you were rocking him.” Seymour shrugged. “I figured he’d be asleep.”
Maci sat down and the buxom housekeeper served their food. After taking a sip of almond-flavored tea, she glanced at Seymour. “How was your morning?” she forced herself to ask, still having difficulty pretending everything was normal.
Seymour touched his mouth with the white linen napkin, then smiled. “Fine. Another normal surgery day. One stacked on top of the other. How ’bout you?”
“Same here. I called on a new client who I think will turn into a gold mine. Shortly, I’m headed to Bobbi’s.”
“How’s that project coming?”
Maci played with her chicken salad. “Down to the wire, actually.”
Bobbi Trent was her best friend turned client. As a divorcée, she was trying to adopt a baby. Maci felt driven to get Bobbi’s house refurbished before the agency called her to say that they had located a child for her.
“I just wish you wouldn’t work so hard.”
“I know,” she said softly but with determination. “You also know how important it is for me to keep my independence.” Especially now, in light of the circumstances, she was tempted to add, but didn’t. There was no point in fueling an already simmering fire.
“You’re right, and I’m sorry, my dear. There’s no point in my belaboring the point. Besides, I just want you to be happy.”
“I am, Seymour. Or at least I—”
The chiming of the doorbell aborted her sentence.
“Are you expecting anyone?” Seymour asked.
“No. Are you?”
He shook his head just as Annie appeared in the doorway, a perplexed frown on her face. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” her eyes turned to Seymour, “but there are two gentlemen here who insist on speaking to you.”
Putting down his napkin, Seymour stood. “Tell them I’ll be right there.”
“Don’t bother, Doctor, we decided to come to you.”
The taller of the two men had made that declaration and now strode over to Seymour. He had a stern look on his face.
“And who are you?” Maci demanded, furious with their blatant intrusion and total lack of manners.
“I’m Detective Greg Johnson,” the short, stout one said. “And this is my partner, Detective Oscar Ford.” They both flipped open their badges.
Maci was glad she was seated as every muscle in her body weakened.
Johnson’s gaze whipped to Ramsey. “Doctor, we have a warrant for your arrest. The charge is criminally negligent homicide in the death of your patient, Grant Dodson. Cuff him, Ford.”
Maci gasped in shocked horror at the same time Seymour’s tanned skin turned deathly white.
Three
Keefe Ryan looked like what he was—a socially inept attorney. He was short, bald, wore black-rimmed glasses and there was nothing attractive about him or his personality. Maci had always considered him to be the most boring man she’d ever met.
Yet when he walked into the police station, she had never been so glad to see anyone. She would never think ill of Keefe again.
In the process of being led out of the house by the two officers, Seymour had barked an order for her to call his attorney. She had waited until she was on her way to the station to do so. By then her mind had cleared somewhat, and she could punch in Keefe’s number on her cell phone.
He appeared now as composed as ever, dressed as impeccably as ever, though she knew he wasn’t. Maci had observed a little tick in Keefe’s right cheek when he was under stress and that tick was present as he made his way toward her.
Maci had been told to take a seat in the outer lobby and that the chief would be with her shortly. So far, shortly had not come, giving her plenty of time to observe the police station. This afternoon there was a lot of activity. Phones rang while officers and other personnel scurried about. Although she had received several curious glances, no one had bothered to speak to her or ask if she wanted or needed anything.
She couldn’t believe she was here. The horrendous circumstances made the situation even more demoralizing.
When the press learned of this…
“Maci, what the hell is going on?”
She turned her attention back to Keefe. She had never heard him say anything that resembled a curse word. But then she’d never seen him this flustered. His features were pinched and he was out of breath.
Despite the fact that Seymour could be overbearing at times, he and Keefe seemed to have a genuine friendship. While Keefe handled mostly taxes, he had at one time practiced some family and criminal law. So he wasn’t completely out of the loop when it came to helping Seymour. Maci never doubted Keefe had Seymour’s best interest at heart. If he wasn’t the one for the job, he would find someone who was.
“Seymour’s been arrested,” Maci said, hearing the tremor in her voice. She hadn’t bothered to tell Keefe what was going on beforehand. She had simply told him that Seymour needed him and to meet them at the police station. She’d hung up with Keefe still asking questions.
Keefe’s face now drained of its remaining color. “That’s preposterous.”
“It’s a fact,” she countered flatly.
“Are you all right, my dear?” Keefe cleared his throat, then peered down at her, concern mirrored in his eyes. “Of course, you’re not. Forget I asked that.”
“I’m fine,” she said, which was a lie. She was anything but fine. She was sick all over. She clutched at her stomach.
Homicide?
Her wealthy, charismatic husband accused of such an abominable deed was not possible. Only it was possible, or she wouldn’t be sitting in an obscure corner of this godforsaken place.
“You just stay put while I get this mattered straightened out,” Keefe said without further ado. “Then we’ll all be on our way home.”
“Thanks, Keefe,” Maci said, fighting back tears. How could this be happening to her well-ordered world?
Hopefully Keefe could indeed make this nightmare go away.
Moments later Keefe returned, his face as grim as hers. Her heart faltered. Perhaps gaining her husband’s immediate release wasn’t going to be as easy as Keefe had thought.
“The chief wants to see us both.”
Maci stood on unsteady legs, yet when she walked into the rather austere room, she held her head high and her shoulders back. She intended to conduct herself with dignity, and she expected the same from the tall, thin-faced man who was looking at her through narrowed eyes.
Chief Ted Satterwhite introduced himself, then beckoned for both of them to sit in the leather chairs in front of his desk. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked in a deep, hoarse voice indicative of bad sinus drainage.
Both Maci and Keefe politely declined, then Maci asked, “Where is my husband?”
Satterwhite pulled out a big handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped it across his nose before answering, “Waiting to be questioned by the detectives. He’s been read his rights, and has requested that his lawyer be present.”
“Is that necessary?” Maci asked, thankful he didn’t outright blow his nose. She tried to keep her disgust from showing.
“That’s procedure, ma’am.” He pushed back from his desk and crossed a leg over his knee. “That’s how we do things in this department. By the book.”
“I’d like him to go before the judge this afternoon,” Keefe said in a huffy tone as though he resented being talked down to.
“All in good time, Mr. Ryan.”
“Chief—”
“The judge will hear the doctor’s case in the morning.”
“That’s unacceptable,” Keefe declared with a flare of his hand.
Maci groaned, especially when she saw the chief’s features tighten.
“Acceptable or not, that’s the way it is.” Satterwhite’s tone had gone from cool to cold.
His face suffused with unnatural color, Keefe opened his mouth as if to argue, but ultimately ground his jaws together. Maci felt him look at her.
Ignoring Keefe, she faced the chief. “May I please see my husband?”
Satterwhite took his time unfurling his gangly frame to full height. Bastard, Maci thought. He was in his element, lording his control over them. Maci fought the urge to lash out at him, to ask him if he knew who he was toying with.
After all, everyone knew the Ramsey name carried weight in this town. While that hadn’t always been the case, it was now. Her husband was no longer thought of as the downtrodden boy who had defied the odds and made good, but rather as a renowned surgeon. He’d built a stellar reputation in the medical community throughout the entire state of Louisiana. And here in his hometown of Dayton he’d used his wealth and power to the greater good.
Seymour wouldn’t tolerate this method of treatment. But that was before he’d been accused of causing his patient’s death, Maci reminded herself. A negligent homicide charge could relegate him to the bottom of the scum barrel in a heartbeat.
“That can be arranged,” Satterwhite said at last, coming from behind his desk. “Follow me.”
When they walked into the room where Seymour was held, Detective Johnson acknowledged their presence, then left. The chief followed shortly, leaving Maci and Keefe alone with Seymour.
For a moment, a thick, heavy silence prevailed.
“Are you all right?” Maci asked in an unsteady voice.
“I will be, when I get the hell out of here.” Seymour’s eyes darted to Keefe. “I’m assuming you can do that.”
Keefe blew out a long breath. “I can’t until morning.”
Seymour swore.
“Keefe’s doing all he can, Seymour,” Maci pointed out in a calm, soothing tone, hoping to defuse the volatile situation.
“Then it’s not good enough,” Seymour shot back.
Another awkward silence fell over the room. Maci bit down on her lower lip and looked at Seymour. He appeared tired and drawn, yet restless and hyper. Control was what fed him, what made him the man he was, and now that he wasn’t in control, Maci knew he’d be jittery.
Or was he simply acting like a common street junkie who was in the throes of coming off a drug high?
Maci’s stomach hated the path her mind had taken, but she couldn’t avoid the hard cold facts, not when they were being rubbed in her face.
Her husband was a drug addict, and according to the law he was accused of homicide.
“Satterwhite is not someone we…you want to tangle with right now,” Keefe said. “You have to know that.”
“I refuse to stay in this stinking hole overnight.”
Maci crossed to her husband and touched him on the arm. “Don’t do this to yourself. Spending one night—”
He shook off her hand. “I’m not some common criminal, and I resent the hell out of being treated like one.”
“They are accusing you of homicide, Seymour,” Keefe said in a low, even tone. “What do you have to say about that?”
“Dodson’s death was not my fault.”
Maci eyes widened.
Seymour’s smile was humorless. “See, my own wife doesn’t believe me.”
“That’s not true,” Maci snapped, feeling her face flush. “If you tell me you’re not responsible—” Her voice faltered, and she cleared her throat.
Seymour stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he focused on Keefe. “What are the exact charges against me?”
“I haven’t had time to read the report,” the attorney responded. “I only know what Maci told me.”
Seymour hit the palm of his hand on the tabletop. “Go talk to that prick Satterwhite then read the report. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. That redneck’s got it in for me, and he doesn’t care who knows it.”
“I sensed the same thing, Keefe,” Maci said, easing down into a straight-backed chair at the table.
“I’ll be right back.” Keefe’s tone was clipped.
Once he had left the room, Maci stared at her husband, noticing the strain weighing heavily on him. “I’m so sorry about this.” Her thoughts jumped to Jonah and she ached to hold him tightly right now.
“Tell me you believe me.”
“I want to, Seymour,” she said, feeling her eyes mist with tears, “but remember I’ve seen you high and it’s not a pretty sight.”
“Okay, so I was using when I operated on Grant, but I had full control of my faculties, for god’s sake. I would never do anything that asinine. You have to know that.”
“I do, but—”
Keefe interrupted her when he reentered the room.
“The charges stand as Maci described them,” Keefe said, tossing the folder down on the table, then sitting down. His gaze settled on Seymour. “Suppose you sit down and tell me your side.”
Seymour didn’t sit. He just began talking. “There’s really no side. The man bled to death through no fault of mine.”
“So you’re taking no blame at all?” Keefe’s tone was incredulous.
Seymour’s hard gaze didn’t waver. “None whatsoever.”
“Are you denying you were on drugs at the time?”
“No. Like I was telling Maci, I admit I had taken some pills, but I knew exactly what I was doing with that knife.”
“Passing out and slurring your words in front of the family doesn’t support that, Seymour,” Keefe said with low-key honesty, “especially since they know exactly the level of drugs ingested.”
“I agree with Keefe,” Maci said, her gaze also un-flinching on her husband, watching closely for some glimmer of remorse or something that would indicate he was the least bit sorry.
Nothing.
She flinched. When had Seymour become so calloused to the loss of human life? Had she been so caught up in her own life and that of Jonah that she’d failed to notice yet another dark side of her husband?
Maci couldn’t believe this was the same man she had married, who seemed to adore both her and Jonah, who lavished them with time and attention. Something was terribly wrong somewhere.
“How long have you had this nasty little habit?” Keefe asked.
“Since I had the accident that tore up my back.”
Maci sucked in her breath. That accident, which had been a car wreck, had happened several years before she married him. Surely, he’d hadn’t been addicted for that long.
“You mean you were hooked before you married me?” Maci barely choked the nasty words out of her mouth.
“Hooked is hardly the right word, my dear,” Seymour said with disdain. “Was I using drugs to help my back? Yes, and I still am. But I’m in control of the situation, not the other way around.”
Maci didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t say anything. She felt like she’d been hit in the stomach with a brick. Apparently so did Keefe as his face seemed to have taken on a greenish tint.
“Make no mistake, Keefe,” Seymour said with conviction, “I’m not going down for this.”
“If that’s the case, then I’m certainly not your man. I suggest you find the best criminal attorney possible and hire him.”
“I agree.”
Keefe’s gaze didn’t waver. “Do you have someone in mind?”
“Yep.”
“Tell me who to call,” Keefe responded, “and it’s a done deal.”
“My oldest son.”
Maci stared at Seymour in shocked silence.
“Holt?” Keefe asked, clearly taken aback.
“That’s right,” Seymour said. “You told me I needed the best, and he’s the best.”
“But, Seymour, that doesn’t make any sense,” Maci pointed out, her mind reeling. “You haven’t seen your son in years.”
And she had never seen him. Not before she married Seymour or after. In fact, it was hard to remember that Jonah wasn’t Seymour’s only child. She had no idea what Holt Ramsey looked like. No pictures of him appeared anywhere in the house.
She knew very little about what had caused the estrangement between father and elder son, but she suspected a lot. Seymour had refused to discuss the issue with her, which she could understand. Suicide was a tragic and touchy subject.
What she did know was that Holt was a single attorney who rarely practiced his profession, choosing rather to spend his time on his sailboat. She had gleaned this information from the housekeeper who had been in the family when Seymour was married to his first wife. Annie had also told her that Holt blamed his father for his mother’s suicide. Since the housekeeper doted on the elder son, she still bemoaned the breach between her favorite men.
“Maci’s got a point,” Keefe said in a strained voice. “With all the bad blood between you and Holt, what makes you think he’ll help you out now?”
“He’ll come, all right.” A strange glint appeared in Seymour’s eyes. “If nothing else, he’ll use it as an opportunity to exact his pound of flesh.”
Four
He had no one to blame but himself. In the future, he would check his caller ID before he answered. Damn Marianne for giving out his number. He’d have to remember to speak to her about that.
Swallowing a frustrated sigh, Holt Ramsey stared at the sky and counted to ten while Keefe droned on, trying to make his case. The second after he had said hello, Keefe had rushed into the reason for the call and he hadn’t stopped yet. He hadn’t so much as taken a breath.
“Keefe, give it a rest,” Holt interrupted, his patience having long evaporated.
“Trust me, I’m aware of the situation between you and your father,” Keefe continued as though Holt hadn’t spoken.
“Hey, hold it,” Holt said, no longer willing to let Keefe steamroll over him. “Time out. Look you’re wasting your time. You’ve done your job. You’ve related Seymour’s tale of woe to me. All you have to do is tell him I’m not interested. Voilà! You’re off the hook.”
“Holt, please, hear me out,” Keefe pleaded. “Since you have a reputation for being one of the best criminal lawyers around, you’re the logical choice. More than that, your father needs you.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I know—”
“You don’t know jack, Keefe.”
Holt heard Keefe’s gasp, but he didn’t care. “I’ve heard all I need to hear, and I don’t know how to say it any plainer. I don’t care what Seymour needs or doesn’t need.”
“How can you say that?”
“Easy.”
“He’s your father, for god’s sake,” Keefe stressed. “Have you no shame?”
Holt gritted his teeth and swore silently. “It’s only because I respect you that I’m even still on the line. But I’d advise you not to push your luck.”
“Under the circumstances,” Keefe hammered on, “I don’t see how you can take such a hard-nosed attitude.”
Holt heard the pleading note in Keefe’s voice, but he ignored it.
“There’s nothing else I can say to make you change your mind?” Keefe’s harsh sigh filtered through the line.
“Is that a question, Keefe?”
“Yes.”
“Not a thing. Tell my father he made his own bed and that I’m going to take delight in watching him wallow in it.”
Keefe slammed down the receiver.
Holt in turn flipped the lid shut on his cell. Frustration and anger churned inside him and he knew it was time to make use of his gym. His favorite stress reliever was his punching bag. Hitting it repeatedly would definitely do the trick.
A smirk altered Holt’s tight features. It would certainly be better than heading for the jail, jerking up his old man and punching the crap out of him.