pockets, surprised to feel the crackling of paper in one of them. She pulled out a small folded note. Her curiosity piqued, she opened it. In blue ink, the name Delia and a phone number was scrawled in the cursive penmanship of a woman.
Who is Delia? She frowned at the note. Was she a client, an informant, a friend? A lover? As fast as the thought about this female possibly being Evan’s lover popped into her head, she pushed it right out again. She’d always had complete trust in him. They had been absolutely happy, until the horrible night he was killed. He’d never given her any reason to suspect he had ever been unfaithful to her. I’m just being silly.
Her cell phone beeped a reminder and she realized she had spent far too long wallowing in Evan’s clothes. Now she really needed to hurry and get dressed for the lunch date with her girlfriends. They were celebrating five years from the day they all first met and began what had grown into a close circle of friends. If she was late, they’d never let her hear the end of it.
She grabbed a pair of white slacks that she knew would show off her slim figure and added a silk turquoise blouse that everyone said set off her dazzling greenish-blue eyes and her head of tousled honey-blonde curls. Emily stepped into her trendy Espadrilles, grabbed her oversized leather purse, and flew out the door.
The girls had chosen the Blue Moon Café—the current hotspot in Paradise Valley—because of the nouveau-gourmet menu and outdoor patio with a breathtaking view of the river. Emily pulled her white Volvo sedan into the crowded parking lot. As she approached the front door, she spotted her party seated under a large blue umbrella at a table on the patio. It was a good choice. They could enjoy the breezy spring air and the sound of the rushing water flowing by while they toasted their anniversary.
Emily made her way through the bustling restaurant, lively with laughter and conversation, and as she stepped out onto the sunny patio, the girls were chatting away. “Hello, ladies.” She eased the empty chair out and tucked herself into the group.
“Emily, you’re late,” Camille Hawthorne pointed out. Camille was like a mother hen to the girls, being a bit older than the others, having a daughter in high school and a son in college. Her looks would not give her age away, though, and she wore her fiery red hair in a cropped and spiky style. But her husband, Jonathan, a sales executive for a local corporation, was the only one who could get away with calling her Red.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I got a little distracted and lost track of the time,” Emily apologized as she scooted her chair closer to the table.
“We were just concerned, Em. You’re never late,” Isabel Martinez added, tossing her long dark curls over her shoulder. As an FBI financial analyst, Isabel was matter-of-fact and to the point. Usually dressed in a business suit, she appeared relaxed in her jeans and designer t-shirt.
“Well, all y’all know, I’m the one who’s always late,” Maggie Sullivan admitted in her fading Texas accent, twirling a strand of long blonde hair around her finger. Truthfully, Maggie had a bad habit of being late for almost everything, except for appointments with her clients. As a fitness trainer, she was obsessive when it came to two things—her looks and her business. Emily always thought she resembled a blonde Barbie doll.
“You said it, not me,” Isabel replied to Maggie, while looking over the menu.
“Is everything all right?” Camille leaned over and asked Emily in her caring, maternal way.
“Yes, I’m fine.” Emily placed her napkin in her lap. “I was standing in my closet trying to decide what to wear and—”
“Yes, I’ve been known to stand there for half an hour trying to figure out what to put on,” Camille interrupted.
“Well, it wasn’t just that.” Emily’s gaze lowered briefly. “I couldn’t make up my mind so my eyes wandered over to Evan’s clothes hanging there, calling to me. I just had this overwhelming desire to be close to him.”
“Oh, I see. Well, that’s understandable.” Camille grabbed hold of Emily’s hand, giving it a light squeeze.
“It probably sounds silly,” Emily turned to Camille, “but I smelled one of his sweatshirts and it brought a rush of memories back. So I put it on. The lingering scent of his clothes—it’s like he’s still there