She grunted, then sighed. “Okay.” She stared at her thumb. “I don’t know how to get this off.”
I blinked at her. “Soap. Hot water. A little exertion on your part.”
She sighed, then said, “Okay.”
What was wrong with her? And this woman was a nurse?
Wallace and Frank retreated into the house, leaving behind a trail of rich tobacco smoke and arrogance.
I excused myself from Evelyn and followed in their wake. Desi joined me, and our heels clicked in time against the tile. A moment later, the seven of us stood around the table of deadly sins, board game edition. The chandelier and the stained-glass windows made chromatic shadows—crimson and gold and jeweled green and blue—against the walls and hardwood floor. No one spoke—perfect silence until Evelyn crunched a round of sourdough toast.
It was cold in here, and I shivered and wanted to return to the fire pit, my hot Latin lover for the night. “I don’t like this … this … whatever it is.” I flicked my hand at the table.
“I don’t like that it’s sittin’ right in the middle of the house,” Javier added. “All judgmental and shit. It’s like bringing your grandma to a bachelor party at Caesars.”
“Phillip always did have a strange taste in art.” Wallace picked up the carved piece of a near-naked woman. “Lust.” He sat the piece back on its panel, then tapped the green eye piece. “Envy.” A man wielding a broadsword: wrath. The fat man eating: gluttony. The sleeping man: sloth. “A dollar sign,” Wallace continued, “representing greed. And the mirror is pride.”
Eddie snorted. “Today’s art lesson brought to you by—”
“People who take shit way too seriously,” Javier said.
“Like who?” I asked. “Herbalife salesmen?”
“Hipsters?”
“Wrestling fans?”
We laughed.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wallace said, “please welcome Mictlan Island’s very own comedy troupe—”
“We’re just having a laugh, dude,” Javier said. “Chillax, baby.”
“Laugh if you want,” Wallace said. “But if you look close enough … ugh, I really don’t want to, but if you do, you’ll see that this diorama reflects who we are: sinners. Take our lovely Mrs. Desi Scoggins, for instance.”
Desi threw up her hands and shouted, “Yes, take me. Anybody! Take me, please!”
We laughed.
“You’re a doll,” Wallace said, shaking his head. “Mrs. Scoggins could be…” He moved his elegant, manicured finger along the table and stopped at the picnicking couple. But then he kept that finger moving until he plucked the half-naked woman carved piece from the tabletop. “Spooky. Just like that widget on a Ouija board. My finger just stopped at ‘lust’ and I didn’t even tell it to.”
I said, “Ha,” then said to Desi, “You are a lusty so-and-so, even with clothes on.”
Desi wiggled her nose. “You know it, girlie. I’m always butt naked in my heart.” To everyone else, she said, “And I’m handing out free samples this coming Tuesday.” Then she shimmied and bit her lip.
Frank chuckled. Eddie rolled his eyes.
“Mrs. Scoggins here was married up until…” Wallace squinted at the figurine. “I know it was a difficult time for you, but when did Larry die, dear?”
Desi blinked at him, then said, “It’ll be a year in September.”
Frank touched her elbow. “Oh, how awful. Heart attack?”
“No. Well, kinda. He had a bad allergic reaction to something.” Her face flushed. Tension had tightened her twang—she almost sounded like a damn Yankee.
“Nuts,” Wallace said with a nod. “In his mouth. Not being crude, but…” He chuckled, shrugged, then said, “Am I right, dear?”
Desi tried to smile at me. “See, we were hunkered down during a storm. There was a blackout, so we couldn’t see nothing in the house. And earlier that day, I’d brought these cookies home—the girl at work had made ’em—and I hid ’em up on top of the fridge so that Larry wouldn’t see them, cuz he was allergic to nuts. But with the blackout … I don’t know how he found the tub, but he scarfed down seven cookies before realizing…” Her breath caught in her throat and her chin trembled.
I gasped. “Did you call 911?”
She shook her head. “With the storm, there weren’t no emergency services makin’ calls.”
“And he died?” Javier asked.
Desi nodded, then swiped at her eyes. Her dry eyes.
“And here you are,” Wallace said, slowly shaking his head. “Almost a year later and two hundred pounds lighter. I must say, death is the most effective diet available today.”
“It’s been nine months, to be precise, so he ain’t just died,” Desi spat. “I’m twenty-eight years old—I’m not ready to lock myself away in a creaky house with a thousand cats and never come out again. I’m too young to be a widow for the rest of my life.” She looked back at me and said, “I’m living with my mistake—I shouldn’t have brought them cookies into the house. They were just so damned delicious, and that’s just me being greedy. Every day, though, I think about Larry and I wish … I wish … I miss him. I truly miss that man.”
Eddie snorted, said, “Uh-huh, okay,” then rolled his eyes.
Frank squeezed Desi’s shoulder. “But Wallace, how does that make her a sinner? It was an innocent, and yes, imprudent error on her part, but a sinner all because her husband snuck and ate something he shouldn’t have eaten?”
The older man shrugged. “Well…” He sat the figurine back on the table. “Strange how those damn-delicious nutty cookies just … happened to be in the house right before one of the worst tropical storms in years. So … strange.” He clamped his thin lips together to suppress a smile.
Oh, snap. He’d just accused Desi of murder.
“The D.A.,” Desi said, “he couldn’t prosecute me. Wouldn’t prosecute me, since they didn’t have a case. They couldn’t prove that I tried to kill my husband, and so Phillip told ’em all to go straight to hell.”
“Tried to kill your husband?” Eddie chuckled. “Waddaya, stupid? You did kill your husband. He’s dead. In my business, that’s what we call a ‘clue.’”
Desi’s face twisted, and she shouted, “I’m innocent, you small-dicked bastard, and I didn’t come all the way here”—she turned to glare at Wallace—“to be accused of some bullshit I didn’t do. Phillip knew how much I loved Danny, and he convinced everybody in the world that I loved that man to death.” She pointed at Wallace with a trembling finger. “And if you’re gonna keep bullying me and Miriam here, I’m gonna leave this island and tell the world how you bullied the lot of us when we’re supposed to be mourning. You hear me, you mouthy old queen?”
Wallace blinked those cold lavender eyes at his newest target. “Just being honest, my dear. Sue me for slander. See you in court—you know where it is, correct? Oh, by the way, your dead husband’s name was Larry. You loved Larry to death, not Danny.”
I covered my mouth with a fist to hide a grin and stifle my laughter.
Eddie snorted. “Well, goddamn.”
A twisted smile crept across Wallace’s tanned face. “So, shall we eat?”
15
Shall we eat?
Wallace said this as though he hadn’t just demolished a young widow by accusing her of killing her husband. But then, some people get very hungry after stomping someone else’s head and heart until there’s nothing but bloody pulp left on their shoes.
Shall we eat?
I said, “Yes, let’s eat. Please.” A wonderful suggestion.
Still: poor Desi. We had just discovered that America’s sweetheart, that America’s darling, had come to Mictlan Island under a cloud of suspicion—and had just called her husband by some other man’s name. And now her face had crumpled, and she was seconds from sobbing.
“I know his name,” she whispered. “His nickname was Danny, and sometimes … sometimes … I know his name.”
“It’s okay, D
ez.” I hooked my arm through hers and whispered, “Remember why you’re here. All for Phillip. Ignore Wallace. When it’s time, we’ll snatch his wig together.”
She looked at me with pleading blue eyes. “You believe me, don’t you?”
I nodded—a lie. This bitch had killed her husband and had probably slept around on him with some dude named Danny. I knew that like I knew Wallace Zavarnella was as bald as a buzzard beneath his wig. Arm in arm, I strolled beside Desi into the dining room. “I’m sure whatever happened on that awful night was an accident. I’m sure that Larry wants you to be happy.”
She waggled her head. “He should’ve controlled himself—he wasn’t supposed to be having sweets no way. That’s why he was sneaking, not wanting me to catch him.”
I said, “Um-hmm,” then offered her an understanding smile. “You’re here now, Desi, and I’m positive that Larry’s up in heaven, wishing you were up there with him. Honestly: we all go a little mad sometimes.”
She beamed. “Not you, girlie. I don’t think you’ve ever lost control.”
I threw my head back and laughed. “Desi, sweetie, I lost it right before I came here.”
“Yeah?” Her eyes bugged. “What happened?”
“Thursday night,” I said, “these assholes started egging my house.” One part of their psych-ops plan to play with my head, to force me to go crazy. The FBI had “These Boots Are Made for Walking” and the squeals and squeaks of dying rabbits, and my bullies had … eggs.
Desi frowned and said, “Eggs? That’s so hokey.”
“Right? What is this, Happy Days? So once I thought they were gone and it was safe to go out, I went to look at the damage.”
I’d tripped over the open suitcase on my way to check for damage. Sharpness had shot from my toes and seared a path up my calf. But I kept telling myself not to cry, that it was okay, that I was okay. I’d called out to Morgan. “Do you hear that?” But she didn’t respond because she now lived full-time with Billy. I stood there, alone, holding my gun, surrounded by new furniture that my daughter would never sit on, standing in front of a television with a remote she’d never hog, frozen in between soft gray walls that she hadn’t helped paint. It’s okay, I’m okay.
“So I opened my front door,” I continue, “and I’m holding Ripley—”
“Who’s Ripley?” Desi asked.
“My twenty-two.” Phillip had suggested the gun kind of casually, very ‘Next time you’re at the store, you may wanna pick up some toothpaste, coffee, and oh, get a gun.’ So, I’d found You Gun, Girl, a store that specialized in women’s defense, and purchased a twenty-two that I named after the heroine in the Alien series. Weird—I’d never been a gun type. I’d never wanted to buy a gun or even shoot a gun, but there I was, gun in hand, ready to blow somebody’s head off.
“So I opened the door,” I said now to Desi, “and this female shouts, ‘This is for Brooke, bitch.’”
“Who’s Brooke?” Desi asked.
I fluttered my hand at her. “My daughter’s friend. Stop interrupting. So the female shouts, ‘This is for Brooke, bitch.’”
And then something hard had struck my belly.
I’d gasped and grabbed my abdomen. Wetness oozed between my fingers. Ice-cold panic shut down white-hot rage. Am I bleeding? Am I gonna die today? I slipped in something wet and slick, and stumbled off the porch. The gun flew out of my hand and landed in the brown grass. My bare feet slid in more goop on the pavement. Something hit my arm. Something else struck my head.
More eggs. “Dripping from my hair, my neck and hands. My car alarm was going off cuz they’d thrown eggs at my car, too.”
“Oh, no,” Desi said, shaking her head. “No, no, no.”
The alarm, the whispering and laughing, the sound of eggshells cracking against my property … Too much. Psych-ops were working.
“Splat splat, splat splat splat … Five eggs. Then ten eggs … and then I lost count.”
“So what did you do?” Desi asked.
“I slipped on the ground, right? And then, pow! A kick. Sparks fly from my wrist to my shoulders, up to my ears and jaw … Then I laughed and I looked up at her and I said, ‘You kick like a girl.’”
Desi giggled, then froze. “A teenager is doing this? Kicking you?”
I smiled and nodded. “Her name’s Prudence, if you can believe that.” Annoying ombre black-black and blue hair. Doc Martens boots. Nose ring. “But I’m not letting Pru get away with it, so I hopped up from the ground and I rushed her from behind. Knocked her to the ground, and her head hits the sidewalk. I pick up a rock, one of those fancy ones that line your garden, and I threw it at her boyfriend’s Range Rover. I missed the window but hit the passenger-side door.”
Desi gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. “You hit anybody?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“And then?”
I pulled Desi closer, then said, “And then I grabbed another rock and I stood over her. And then I growled something Clint Eastwood-y, like, ‘Come here again and I’ll shove this rock down your throat.’ Then I pretended that I was gonna throw the rock at her head. But I didn’t.”
I’d already prepared for this night by purchasing a video surveillance system. The moment Prudence had stepped onto my property, her fate had been sealed by three HD cameras. “And I had proof that she came to my house to harass me and to destroy my property.”
Desi gaped at me in awe. “Why did she come? Why did she do this?
“Jealousy. Pure spite. They hate me and they especially hate my daughter.”
Desi touched my shoulder and squeezed. “I’m so sorry, girlie. And what the heck kinda name is ‘Prudence’ anyway?”
“I know, right?” I shrugged. “But I’m feeling much better now.”
Thursday night, though, pain and humiliation had nearly crippled me. Yeah, I was feeling much better now, and I blinked back tears and smiled at Desi. “Don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.” It’s okay, I’m okay. My mantra as Desi and I strolled into the dining room and joined Evelyn and the men. And I would be okay, once I learned my fate after Phillip’s memorial service.
Desi’s eyes widened as she took in the dining room. “This is just … two words. Gor. Jus.”
The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out to dark woods—until all of it flashed white. A far-off soft rumble followed.
I stopped in my steps. “You guys just see that?”
No one else reacted to the weather. Only the woman from Los Angeles, where there were short-run, limited series’ worth of weather. Thunder, lightning, rain were all guest stars. Winds—we did those. Fires and earthquakes, too. But this stuff outside? The flashing? The rumbling? Breaking news territory.
Another flash of uncontrolled electricity whitewashed the sky.
“It’s just some rain on its way, girlie,” Desi said. “It’ll be over before it starts.”
She was right—relax, girl. I caught my wan reflection in a large mirror hung on the northern wall. A rectangle-framed map of the world hung on the opposite wall. Bottles of bourbon and cognac sat alongside vases of peach roses on a buffet beneath the map. A three-tiered wedding-cake-styled crystal chandelier hung over the center of the blond-wood dining room table. More vases of peach roses served as centerpieces.
“It’s like the dining room on a Disney cruise,” Desi said. “Kinda reminds me of Beauty and the Beast.”
The room was posh. Elegant, yes. But magical? Not so much. But whatever, she needed this, she needed enchantment, and so I said, “Just like it.”
Desi pressed her hand to her chest. “Reminds me of my honeymoon cruise with Larry. Oh, Larry.” She dabbed at her dry eyes again. “Oh, poor, sweet Larry.”
Uh-huh.
Place cards told us where we would be seated for the evening. There were also gorgeous wineglasses etched with our names. I was assigned to the end of the table, with Desi to my right and Evelyn to my left, lording over an intellectual vacuum that rivaled Jackass and Three’s Company
. Wallace sat at the opposite end with Frank on his left and an empty chair on his right. There’d be better conversation down that way—more important, that side was closer to the roaring fireplace and farther from the cold draft now stinging my bare legs. I shivered.
“I’m cold, too,” Desi said, rubbing her arms. “I think it’s coming off the windows.”
Eddie, standing at the windows, peered out to the dark wild. Moths the size of pteranodons had discovered the lights of Artemis and now beat against the windowpanes.
I tilted my head and listened … yeah. “You hear that? Sounds like squeaking.”
“They’re screaming,” Evelyn muttered.
“Who’s screaming?” I asked.
“The moths outside,” she said. “They’re death’s-head hawkmoths. They’re called that because they have marks shaped like skulls on their…” She bit and twisted her lips.
“On their what?” Desi asked. “Their furry little bottoms?” She giggled.
“On their thoraxes,” Evelyn mumbled as she futzed with her turquoise ring. “They know a storm’s coming.”
“Edward,” Wallace said, breaking the uncomfortable silence, “there’s no Mexican cartel bursting through the doors tonight. Just a storm. And unless you’re a god, there’s nothing you can do about that. Please. Come join us. I’m sure you have great stories to tell. Hopefully, one about a hooker, a kitchen knife, and a can of motor oil.”
“Very funny.” Eddie marched to the table, then dropped into the empty seat with his jaw tight and his eyes trained on the windows. He was a red-faced, unsmiling man, the Mean Ex-Boyfriend who didn’t cuddle, who didn’t coo, who never told you that you had lost some weight. He was the Mean Ex-Boyfriend who always threatened that if he couldn’t have you …
He met my eyes with his own hard blue ones. “You need something?”
I smiled, shook my head. “Just waiting to hear the story about the hooker.”
“Not in the mood,” he grumbled.
They All Fall Down Page 11
