I point at the wig. “Is this one for me?”
She positions herself behind me and plops the thing on my head. “Yep, and it’s human hair.”
“Ick. Whose hair?”
“You’re missing the point. Human hair is the best kind of wig. Looks real because it is.”
She studies my face in the mirror, then picks up a styling brush and begins tinkering with my new hair. “Close your eyes. I want to surprise you.”
Obediently, I follow her order. I’m pretty sure I’ll be surprised. I feel her tugging, fluffing and rearranging. At one point, she slides a pair of glasses on my face.
“Okay. Open.”
I open my eyes and stare into the face of a blue-eyed stranger wearing dark-framed glasses. My new hair, parted on the side is straight and silky and just touches the top of my shoulders. One wavy strand drapes across my left eye. I push it back.
Kendra slaps my hand away. “No. You’re ruining the look.”
“But I can only see out of one eye.”
She frowns. “Oh, yeah, the soul-reading thing.”
“Which is kind of the point.”
She pulls it back over my eye. “Okay, just push it back when you need to. Otherwise, leave it there.”
An eye roll would be wasted since she can only see my right one, so instead, I mutter, “Yeah, yeah, you’re the boss.”
She fusses over me some more, adding eye shadow, eyeliner, blush and lipstick. Finally, I realize she’s having way too much fun. When she comes at me with the mascara wand, I slap her hand away. “For God’s sake, Kendra. I’m not going to the prom. Enough is enough.”
She takes a step back to appraise her handiwork. “You’ll do. Let’s go see if the boys recognize the new you.”
Craig gives me a standing O. Little Aaron scowls at me as if a tacky blond stranger has invaded his living space. The baby stops bouncing. Billy’s eyes widen in appreciation. “Whoa,” he says. “You look like a super hot librarian. I like hot librarians.”
Sounds like he knows a few.
He springs off the couch and makes a beeline for me. Kendra fends him off. “Hands off, cowboy. Mess her up and I’ll mess you up.”
He glances at time on his cell phone. “Gotta go.”
He slips around Kendra, grabs my hand and kisses it. “Later. I hope.”
“Later,” I repeat.
On our drive to the catering company, I quiz Kendra about Officer Candace, even though I’m reluctant to admit the green-eyed monster is alive and well and living in my heart. Probably my soul as well.
She glances at me through slitted eyes and spits the word. “Her?”
“Apparently she’s Billy’s cop buddy.”
“She’d like to be more than his buddy. She’s one predatory bitch.”
“So, did they have a fling or what?”
Kendra nods. “Oh, yeah. She had her claws in him real good. Billy was home on leave, between deployments. I could tell he was trying to figure out how to end it. When he went back to Afghanistan, it died a natural death. At least as far as he’s concerned, it is.”
“What about her?”
“Honestly, Mel, a woman like Candy Talbot doesn’t like to lose. As long as she has breath in her body, she’ll try to get him back.”
“Great,” I mumble. “And she’s working my case, the bloody mess in Number Twelve.”
We ride in silence for a few blocks while I try, unsuccessfully, to forget about Candy Talbot and her designs on Billy.
“Earth to Mel,” Kendra calls. She slings her purse into my lap. “You said Aida couldn’t call unless the Rockwells are gone. I got her a pre-paid cell phone. Now, she can call or text when she needs to. I programmed our numbers in. She’ll have to hide it from the Evil Ones, of course.”
I open her purse, locate the phone and charger and slide them into my pants pocket. “Good idea. Hope I can figure out a way to get it to her.” I’m still a little shaky about being on the Rockwell premises.
We arrive at the catering company whose logo is: “2 Busy 2 Cook? Call Carl.” Carl himself greets us at the door.
Kendra says, “I’m Linda. This is Annie. We’re the servers Craig Harris recommended.”
Earlier, we’d agreed using our real names was not in our best interests.
Carl gives us the once-over. Kendra passes with flying colors. I don’t.
“Sweetheart,” he says, in a kindly fashion. “You’re very attractive, but, trust me, people don’t want long blond hair in their food. Do you think you can tie it back or something?”
I can tell by Kendra’s expression she’s bummed. Secretly, I couldn’t be happier. “No problem,” I say.
Kendra and I find the ladies room. She pulls my blond tresses back and weaves them into a single braid, cussing like a sailor through the entire procedure. I keep my mouth shut.
Once I pass inspection, we help load trays of food and cases of liquor into Carl’s van. It’s now six thirty. We need to be at the Rockwells before seven to set up for their party. The entire wait staff is sitting in the van. Carl is fuming, fussing and pacing back and forth across the parking lot.
“What’s happening?” I whisper to the tiny, grandmotherly-looking woman sitting next to me. I wonder why she’s not at home watching re-runs of Gray’s Anatomy.
“He’s waiting for Frankie, the bartender,” she says in a raspy smoker’s voice. “He’s so goddamn unreliable I don’t know why Carl puts up with him.”
Five minutes later, Carl marches over to the van, flings the door open and points a finger at me. “You. Annie is it?”
I nod and freeze in my seat.
“I hear you work at Nick’s Place. You know how to mix drinks, right?”
“I, um…”
Kendra jabs a pointy elbow into my ribs and hisses, “Yes, you do.”
I’m dying to ask why but figure there must be a reason Kendra is being so insistent. I do have a vague idea how mixology works, so I won’t be totally lying. Still, I don’t trust my voice so I nod again.
“Alrighty, then,” Carl says. “You’re my new bartender. It’s a good job. The Rockwells bought all this liquor, plus I have extra. All you have to do is keep pouring.”
He hops into the driver’s seat, fires up the van and away we go.
I turn to Kendra and whisper, “Are you crazy? What if they ask for something exotic, like sex on the beach? What do I do then?”
She grins at me. “I actually know how to make that one. Don’t worry, I’ll help.”
“But why? I need to be free to snoop around. Now, I’ll be stuck making drinks.”
“Because,” she says, “if you get everyone drunk fast, tongues will be loosened. You’re in a position to make the drinks really strong. Get it?”
Now with my hair pulled back, she can see my eyes. I roll them so hard I’m surprised they don’t pop out of my head. “This could be a real disaster.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Carl parks the van next to the Rockwell’s front door. Aida opens the door and we lug everything into the house. A portable bar has been set up in the family room next to a counter with a sink and small fridge. When I file past Aida, I wink. I called her yesterday and told her I’d be at the party, but she wouldn’t recognize me. When she sees the wink, her eyes widen in surprise. The corners of her mouth lift in a brief smile of recognition. Ethan and Nina Rockwell are nowhere in sight. Neither is Destiny. Last minute party primping?
Carl leads me to my station and hands me a two-pronged wine cork opener. “You know how to use one of these?”
My heart leaps with joy. “Do I ever?”
Early on, Nick schooled me in the use of this device and I was, quite possibly, the fastest wine cork remover on the planet.
“Open three bottles of red and let them breathe. Wait until someone orders white before you uncork it.” He shakes his head. “Not my idea. Orders from the boss. Nina Rockwell.”
I get busy, opening wine bottles, filling the ice bucket,
slicing lemons and limes, opening jars of green olives and cocktail onions and placing them in containers. This part is easy. Not sure what will happen when I actually have to mix a drink.
Shortly before seven thirty, the Rockwells make their appearance. The Mister is casually elegant in pressed jeans and form-fitting black silk tee topped with a sport coat. Nina Rockwell follows him into the kitchen, clickety-clacking in four-inch heels. Her dress has a fitted black bodice with spaghetti straps and a loosely draped skirt patterned in shades of forest green and black. It ends just above her bony knees. I hold back a shiver of apprehension. Her aura screams, “I’m an ice-cold bitch and don’t you forget it.” She barks an order at Aida who wastes no time trudging up the stairs.
After the Rockwells inspect the food and leave the kitchen, Carl claps his hands to get our attention. “All right, here’s the plan. The guests will be guided into the formal living area where you people,” he points at the four person wait staff (including Kendra), “will circulate with the food. As you can see, the bar is in the family room, which means people will migrate into this area. If the weather stays nice, the Rockwells will open up the doors and allow the party to spill onto the outdoor area. At precisely eight-thirty p.m. baby Addison will make her appearance. The Rockwells will say a few words and champagne will be poured for the toast. Any questions?”
Silence. My silence is fueled by burning resentment. A champagne toast for the Rockwell’s newest acquisition, baby Addison? I want to scream, “Hell, no.”
Carl points to a hallway leading away from the kitchen. “Should you need to use the, um, facilities, there is a bathroom you may use next to the laundry room. Be sure to wash your hands.”
When the doorbell chimes announcing the first guests, I’m nervously re-arranging liquor bottles while trying to channel Nick and his ability to mix drinks. After Nina greets another set of guests, she makes a beeline for the bar and snaps her fingers in my direction. “Don’t just stand there like a dummy. Fill some wine glasses. Half white. Half red. Then, get someone to take them to my guests. They’ll have to come in here for mixed drinks.”
I suppress the urge to flip her off and respond meekly. “Yes, Ma’am.”
To my great relief, she doesn’t give me a second glance. She spins on her pricey heels and calls over her shoulder. “Make it snappy.”
I get busy with the cork remover and soon have the tray filled. Six red. Six white. Not sure if I should leave my post, I summon Carl who’s filling a silver tray with chilled shrimp impaled on toothpicks. “Mrs. Rockwell wants the wine in the living room. Stat.”
Carl walks over to the hallway, cups his hands around his mouth and calls, “Gladys. Get your ass out of the bathroom. Please. We need help.”
He glances over at me. “Great little worker but she has bladder issues.”
I hold up a hand and murmur. “TMI.”
Gladys appears, grabs the tray and totters away in her orthopedic sneakers.
The doorbell keeps ringing. People pour in. The noise level goes up and I get my first customer, a silver-haired gentleman with sharp brown eyes and the profile of a hawk. Naturally Kendra is nowhere to be found, despite her promise to help.
“Gin martini, honey.” He has a raspy smoker’s voice. He glances at the condiments. “Extra olives.”
The word gin, is a huge clue, but what else goes in a martini? I remember Nick asking, “How dry?” Not certain what it means, but I give it a whirl. “How dry, sir?”
“Just a tiny splash of vermouth,” he says.
Thank God. Now I know at least two ingredients. I reach for a glass. My fingers close around a short, and squat one which, probably holds eight ounces.
“On the rocks, please,” he says.
I scoop some ice into the glass, put in a dollop of vermouth, fill it up with Beefeaters Gin and top it with six green olives.
His hawk face lights up like he’s just spotted a wounded rodent. “Wow. That’s quite a martini. Where’s your tip jar, darlin’?”
“No tip jar. It’s on the house.”
“That’s ridiculous.” He reaches past me, grabs a sixteen-ounce beer mug and stuffs in a ten-dollar bill. “Here you go, sweetheart. I’ll be back.”
More groups of people arrive and the noise level increases exponentially with the heavy slugs of alcohol I’m delivering. I’m doing okay, making whiskey sours, Scotch straight up and margaritas on the rocks, the margarita mix thoughtfully provided by Carl. All of the men place money into the tip jar. The women do not.
A short, plump man with a bad comb over sidles up to me. “Judge Mahoney says you make a hell of a martini.”
“Sure thing. You want one of my specials?”
He leans on the bar and looks me up and down. “Sure do.”
I almost succumb to the ick factor, but manage a fake smile. “Coming right up.”
While I’m mixing his drink, a fortyish couple greets my new customer. The man pats him on the shoulder. “Hey, Doc, how ya doing?”
“Hello, Jared,” the woman says. I hear a trace of sadness in her voice.
My mind gets busy along with my hands. Hmm. Doc. Jared. Could I be serving a giant martini to none other than Dr. Jared Breen from the fertility clinic? I’m all ears.
Jared pulls the woman in for a quick hug. “So sorry it didn’t work out, Abby. Come see me next week. I have another idea that might help. Okay, sweetheart?”
She brightens a little. “I’ll do it.” She takes her husband’s hand and leads him outside to the expansive patio, now filled with people enjoying the view and soft summer breeze.
I deliver the martini. “Here you go, sir.”
Then, I take a good long look into his soul, trying to remember what Steve taught me. It’s hard not to drop my gaze, but the need to know is a huge motivator.
While I gaze into his pale blue eyes, I chirp, “Oh, are you the Dr. Breen?”
His smoky gray soul looks like it’s spewing ash from a volcano. No flash indicating a lie. He gives me a smarmy grin. “Why, yes I am. What can I do for you, dear?”
“What kind of a doctor are you? Are you taking new patients?”
“My specialty is women’s health.”
His eyes flick away but not before I see the white-hot lie flash across his soul. Does that mean impregnating women without their knowledge is his real occupation?
He takes a sip of his martini and smacks his lips. “Excellent drink, my dear. Now, let me amend my statement. Basically, I run a fertility clinic where I try to help childless couples achieve their dream of parenthood.”
Whoa, had my expression tipped him to the fact I thought he was lying? Note to self: be careful, Mel. This guy’s no fool.
“The last thing I need is a fertility clinic.”
He leans even closer and glances down at my lower quadrant, zeroing in on the sweet spot. I hold my ground. “Don’t be so sure,” he says. “I pay top dollar for fresh eggs.” He adds a wink and a leer. “I’ll bet yours are extremely fresh.”
I bat my eyelashes and manage a flirtatious giggle. “Oh, really? You can tell that by looking at me?”
Dr. Breen hands me his card. “If you want to check it out, call this number and make an appointment.”
Nina Rockwell swoops down on us as I tuck the card into my apron pocket. “It’s almost eight thirty, Jared. I’m rounding everyone up for the champagne toast.” Without waiting for a reply, she dashes outside and begins to herd her guests inside.
Carl summons the wait staff. They fill champagne flutes and arrange them on trays. I’ve just stepped away from my station to help them when Eddie shows up. He growls, “Gimme a MGD.”
I panic just a smidge, wondering if he’ll recognize me. I didn’t expect to see Eddie here. Not trusting my voice, I nod and hand him a beer with my eyes cast downward. Just go away, Eddie. Your daughter’s about to make her debut as Addison Rockwell, you asshole.
But, no, Eddie decides to hit on me instead. “I’m Eddie. What’s your name?”
Startled, I begin to babble. “It’s Annie. Short for Annabelle. I was named for my grandmother.” Shut the hell up, Mel.
Eddie gives me a seductive wink. “You don’t look like a Annabelle. You look more like a Bambi or Cookie. Guess I’m trying to say, you look hot.”
“Thank you, sir.” I brush by him. “I need to help serve the champagne.”
He grabs my arm. I freeze. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“I doubt it. I just moved here from Fargo, North Dakota.”
“Huh,” he releases me. “Annabelle from Fargo. Almost sounds like a made-up story.”
I really need to work on my lying skills. I bustle away, calling, “Bye, bye, now. See you around.”
The guests gather in the cavernous living room. The champagne has been distributed. I join the wait staff in the foyer, ready with more champagne should it be required. At precisely eight thirty, Aida descends the stairs with Destiny in her arms. Aida looks beautiful in white pants and a blue shirt the same color as her eyes. Her shiny blond hair is tied back with a blue ribbon. Apparently, the Rockwells sprung for new clothes so Aida wouldn’t embarrass them. She makes the turn into the living room, hands the baby off to Ethan Rockwell and steps back into the foyer with the rest of us peons where she slips in between Kendra and me. We make eye contact and she whispers, “You come upstairs to nursery. I have much to tell you.”
I whisper back, “Don’t think I’m allowed up there.”
She slips a baby pacifier into my hand. “You tell Missus you find it. Want to take it to baby. Missus is busy with guests. Plus, she doesn’t like baby screeching. Plus, she’s a little bit drunk. Will be okay. Trust me.”
I nod and tuck the pacifier into my apron pocket next to Jared Breen’s business card.
From my vantage point in the foyer, I see Destiny in her new father’s arms. Her dress is made from the same material as Nina Rockwell’s. Yes, that’s right. Mother-daughter dresses. I stifle my gag reflex. Destiny’s dress has cute little puffy sleeves and a full skirt. She’s wearing lacy white anklets and tiny black patent leather Mary Jane shoes. Her wispy blond hair has been coaxed into a Kewpie doll curl on top of her head.
Affliction Page 16
