I hear some clomping boots; must be Josie.
“What’re we drinking?” she yells as she rounds the corner.
“Mimosas. OJ’s in the fridge.”
“Nice.”
Josie grabs Evvy’s mug, which she’s dangling on the end of her finger as a signal for a refill.
“So what’s the big announcement, ZaZa?”
ZaZa is Josie’s bizarre little pet name for me. Makes me sounds like a side dish at an Italian deli. “Wait till Anne gets here. God, I hope she brings some of those gooey sticky bun thingies.”
“I actually dream about those,” Josie replies pensively.
“Me too,” Evvy smiles. “I wake up in a cold sweat clutching the covers…I think some sort of orgasm might be involved.”
Josie chimes in. “That’s called a nocturnal emission,”
Evvy rolls her eyes. “Only when it’s a guy, silly booboo.”
“What’s it called when it’s a girl?” I ask.
“A really good dream,” she cackles.
I let out a snort and notice Anne waltzing into the kitchen shaking her head in disgust.
“Come on, Annie, nothing starts off a morning like a little dirty talk,” Evvy taunts.
Rushing over to ogle the Corningware dish cradled in her arms, I exclaim, “Oh, yeah, that’s the good stuff.”
She’s brought the warm, gooeyriffic sticky buns. I love my friends. Even though they were dead wrong about Bernie.
Anne sniffs my drink and frowns. “How on earth you people can drink this early in the morning is beyond me.”
Josie yelps. “Okay, lets get on with it, you know I’m not good at the patience thing.”
Okay, here goes. This is the part where I get to rub it in all their pretty little faces. Wheeeee!
I pull my shoulders back and primly set down the eavesdropping monitor on the coffee table as exhibit A. “So, I’ve been playing amateur sleuth, listening to this stupid overpriced baby monitor for two whole days now, and nothing but foot business as usual. My husband is not cheating on me, thank-you-very-much. HAHA, HAHA, HA, HAHAHA!” I stick my tongue out for good measure and dance a little white girl jig.
So much for taking the high road.
Oh, well.
I stuff half a sticky bun in my mouth in triumph.“These are great.”
“Thanks. It’s the nutmeg.”
Evvy holds up her mug. “Well, congratulations, darling. I guess we’re all a bunch of poops. A toast to your victory.”
Josie reaches for the device. “I bet I could’ve gotten you one of these on eBay for half the price. How’s this thing work anyway?” She cranks it up full blast, and for a moment there is only static followed by smooching noises that crackle through the receiver.
The girls turn to me in shock. We all stare at each other for a pregnant beat until I regain my senses, grab my car keys in a frenzy, and bolt out the door.
Super crap.
17
Fully comprehending the term “shaking like a tree”, I pull my car onto the lawn of Bernie’s office building. I burst through the door and plow right past Jennifer—the young, brunette Barbie lookalike receptionist—and move briskly towards the inner office.
“Liza, he’s in with a patient!” She calls out after me.
“I bet he is, playing doctor, no doubt!”
I check the first room. Nothing. As I look down the narrow hallway towards the second examination room, my heart pulses in my throat. The corridor looks long, tilted, and sinister as I make my way down. Taking a quick breath I open the door full swing and brace myself.
“Liza… what a surprise.”
Ummmm…The scene is not quite what I expected.
Old Lady Nichols is stretched out on the exam table as Bernie clips a gruesome corn from her baby toe. She puckers her lips (that have been smudged generously in hot pink lipstick) and makes smooching noises at her miniature Doberman pincher.
She notices me in the doorway and smiles. Some of the neon lipstick seems to have made its way onto her four front teeth.
“Hello, Liza. Have you met my Pookins? He’s the newest member of our little family and my pride and joy. Aren’t you, baby Pooky?” She makes more smacking noises.
Wow. I’m an idiot.
“Uh…I’m sorry, I just forgot to kiss Bernie good-bye this morning. He’s my little Pookins, you know.”
I awkwardly kiss Bernie on his bald head and beeline out of there before he can ask any questions. Jennifer tries to do the stop and chat but I breeze past her with a, “Nice seeing you again, lalala.” I think the “lalala” was overkill but I had to fill in the gap with something. Jen’s a chatty gal; I couldn’t give her an inch.
As I reach the car, I’m relieved and annoyed at the same time. I mean, what kind of wife am I? Doubting my husband’s fidelity just because my friends have a hunch he’s cheating? This is all their fault! Steaming, I flip open my cell.
Come on Evvy, pick up. “Hi, it’s me. Yeah. He was in there with Mrs. Nichols...no, she’s not hot! She’s eighty!! I can’t believe how paranoid you guys are making me. I am so done playing this game. Good-bye!” I hang up in a huff but I can’t slam the phone down for effect because it’s a cell (which kind of takes all the drama out of it).
As I swing open the creaky car door I feel like the suckiest wife in the history of the world. I want to pour Bernie fifty glasses of pineapple juice. I want to dress up in heels and some sexy lingerie number that has tassels and all sorts of other tacky dangling stuff. I want to do wifely things for my hubby. I vow at that moment to wear lipstick every day and possibly throw out my Doc Martins in honor of my faithful husband.
Today is the first day of the rest of my marriage. As I give myself a mental pinkie swear to seal the deal, I spot something on the windshield of the car. Probably advertising for a dry cleaners or dating service or something. I hate driving with those things flapping around.
It’s a hazard really.
I reach for it from the front seat—which makes me a borderline contortionist—then pull it from under the rubber blade of the wiper. It’s on thick, expensive paper one would normally expect for a wedding invitation and has been folded in half and sealed with a wax insignia in a deep eggplant color. Somebody’s got a flair for drama. I break the brittle seal and peak inside at the short note.
“Be careful who you befriend. Dangerous bedfellows can be hazardous to one’s health.”
What? Bedfellows??
I get a tingle up my spine. This is weird. I should go home and change, then head over and show the note to that Jack guy…maybe he’ll know what to do. And I won’t flirt with him at all this time, I pinky swear it.
18
The force isn’t with me today. I had to park four blocks away from Eye Spy by Cambridge and Temple. As I walk by the spot where Frizzy and the other guy lurked a few days ago, I get another chill up my spine.
My spinal cord’s racking up overtime these days.
Darn, he’s out to lunch. It’s kind of adorable that he actually puts up an old fashioned, hand painted “out to lunch” sign. What an odd bird.
Uh, oh! What’s with the smashed window?! Oh, crap, I smell smoke…yeah, okay; something is definitely on fire in there!!
I scan the area for something to break the rest of the glass away and remember seeing a guy sweeping the sidewalk two doors down. I offer him twenty bucks for his broom, which he takes without missing a beat. As if this sort of thing happens every day (some frantic woman needing a broom so badly that she’s willing to pay fifty percent over retail). I grab the red wooden handle, close my eyes, and swing with all my might until I hear glass shatter. Looks like I managed to break a hole large enough for me to attempt to climb through.
Here goes.
Ouch. Okay, that’s going to leave a scar. I’m running on pure adrenaline now. Wounded or not, I’m putting out this fire!
The flame is a little bigger than a puddle. Lacking any obvious alternatives, I decide on the
broom as my fire extinguisher of choice and spring into action.
Hey, hey, hey! I’m doing this!
I realize as I extinguish the last of the flames that I didn’t panic at all, which makes me really proud…but now I’m starting not to feel so good…my legs feel rubbery. Wow, this cut is really bleeding. A lot. Feel…kind of…woozy…
19
”Liza, can you hear me?”
“Uh…what?” I hear myself barely mumble.
I must’ve passed out. Guess adrenaline could only take me so far. I see Jack’s blurry, concerned face hovering over me.
Boy, is he cute…mmmm…sleepy.
20
I wake to the sound of someone screaming in agony. Where the heck am I? Sea foam green walls, beeping monitors, and unflattering fluorescent lights.
I’m betting a hospital.
My head pounds and left leg pulsates with pain. My mouth feels dry as a bone, so I grope around for the remote with the nurse-summoning button on it. I remember this from my two-day stint when I had my tonsils out.
Suddenly I’ve got a hankering for some vanilla ice cream in a flimsy plastic bowl.
The nurse instantly appears at the door, popping her head in cheerfully. How’s that for service? She’s in her mid- forties and has a June Cleaver air about her.
“Well, look who’s awake!” She talks at me like I’m a three-year-old who’s just gotten through a night in her “big girl panties” without wetting the bed (which incidentally I have).
My mouth doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. “Uhh…yeah, I’m really thirsty.”
I hope she understood that.
“Okay, I’ll get you some water, dear,” she says with a wink and exits.
Some guy in a white lab coat and pocket protector chock full of pens enters, and I’m taking a shot in the dark here and assuming he’s my doctor. He’s no George Clooney, let me tell you. He’s bald except for two fuzzy tufts of hair on either side of his head and has an enormous Adam’s apple.
“Hello, Mrs. Radley, I’m Dr. Anderson. You knocked your noggin pretty good when you fell this morning. And that cut on your leg took twelve stitches, but should heal nicely, minimal scarring.”
I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down, and nod mutely.
The door swings open as Jack arrives, sheepishly clutching a bouquet of sunflowers.
“Oh, Mr. Radley, I was just discussing your wife’s injuries with her.”
Parella perks up, responding before my cottonmouth can formulate coherent words. “Yes, my wifey dear. Boy, am I glad my wife is safe, ’cause I wouldn’t know what I would do without my wife, Liza,” he says in an awkward, stilted fashion and unfurls a dopey grin.
The doctor eyes him quizzically as the nurse arrives with a small pink plastic jug of water. She pours me a cup of the lukewarm stuff (that smells faintly of sulfur) and the doctor carries on.
Bob, bob, bob.
“Alright then, Nurse Clemens here will get your discharge papers ready. Try and get some rest for the next few days, Mrs. Radley. Godspeed.”
“ Yes, doctor, I will see to it that my precious wife gets plenty of rest,” Jack smiles stiffly.
Dr. Bob and Nurse Cleaver exit and Parella continues grinning like a maniac.
“Alone at last with my wife.”
“Enjoying yourself?”
“Immensely.”
He plops the sunflowers into my water jug, which immediately tips over from the weight, toppling to the floor with a splash. He mops up the water with a nearby towel stamped “Mass General” in bright blue print (just in case one forgot who the threadbare rag belongs to).
“Those are my favorite,” I nod towards the sunflowers, now scattered across the linoleum floor.
“Me too. My Nana used to have a field full of ’em behind her house. They still remind me of homemade meatballs.”
He lifts up the bed sheet to examine my wound. “How’s the gam?”
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” I snort.
“I forgot my camera. Does it hurt a lot?”
I shrug. “Nah…just a flesh wound.”
I’m such a liar.
“That was pretty impressive what you did for me. You saved my shop, Mrs Radley.”
“Yeah, I guess I did,” I reply, nonchalant. I’ve never done anything heroic before. It’s a pretty cool feeling. Oh, no, Jack’s gazing at me all doe-eyed. “And I didn’t do it for you, okay? That building is a historic landmark.”
“So you were just protecting a piece of Boston architectural history, aye?”
“Aye.”
Parella shrugs. “You know you could’ve just called the fire department like a normal person.”
“Yeah, I know. What’s weird is that I didn’t even think about that at the time.”
“Spoken like a true hero, Liza Radley.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He pulls a brown bottle from his messenger bag.
“Oh great, I really could use a drink,” I say, perking up.
“ It’s empty.”
“Why would you carry around an empty bottle? You’re an odd duck.”
“Duck? Yeah, I’m the odd one. This was on the floor of the shop when I came in. And this note was inside.” He hands me a small piece of rolled linen-colored heavy stock paper, similar to the kind used for the note on my windshield.
“A message in a bottle, how intriguing. Though I have a feeling this one wasn’t written by a Kevin Costner-type pining over his dead wife.”
“Not quite.”
As I open it my spine tingles on overdrive. The same image that adorned the wax on the seal of my note has been painstakingly etched onto the top of the page in black scribe’s ink. As I look closer it appears to be some sort of family crest that consists of two swords clashed together to form an X and some smaller images that I can’t quite make out.
The note says, “Don’t tamper with brotherly love. Consider this your third warning or I’ll be forced to resort to gunplay again.”
“Brotherly love? Weird. So the gumball shooter strikes again. Looks like the gang bangers weren’t the culprits after all, which means I have yet another violent psycho after me. That’s just great.”
“I wonder what he means by third warning?”
“Oh, yeah, that’s why I was at the shop, because I got a note too. It’s written in the same fancy writing, and on the same fancy paper with the matching seal. But we don’t know that it’s a he.”
“Guess you’re right. You still have it?”
“I hope so. Pull my pants down,” I say, nodding in the direction of a nearby hook where my clothes hang limp.
Jack throws me an amused look.
“Infant. Go ahead, enjoy it ’cause it’ll be a cold day in heaven before you’ll ever hear those words from my lips again.”
“I’ll bet you that’s not true at all,” he says with a lopsided grin.
“What do you want to bet?” I rebut, arching my brows defiantly.
“A meatball sub.”
“I’ll see your meatball sub and raise you a bag of chips.”
“Deal.”
“And it’s a cold day in hell, not heaven,” he scoffs.
I roll my eyes dramatically. “Whatever. The point is it would have to be way below freezing with a serious wind chill factor.”
He rifles through my jeans and pulls out a hair clip, two quarters, a petrified looking vitamin covered in lint, and finally the crumpled note. He reads it to himself shaking his head and then drops the pants on a chair nearby.
“Bedfellows? Presumptuous,” he states incredulously. “Definitely the same frilly writing. If it’s a guy, he’s a real fruitcake.”
“Or an Ivy League type that took calligraphy as an elective.”
“Now you’re thinkin’ like a detective,” he replies, his eyes wide and twinkling with admiration. “You make heads or tails of that brotherly love line?”
“Nope.”
Nurse Cleaver arrives with my di
scharge papers. I scribble my signature and hop out of bed with a little more enthusiasm than my injured leg can handle.
Ouch, that smarts.
On cue she hands me the much-needed pain meds in a small disposable cup and a prescription for more of the same.
She gives me a perky wink.
“I think you’ll be needing those.”
I swiftly down them without any water, grimace from the chalky residue, and reply, “Yeah, and thanks, you weren’t like Nurse Ratched at all.”
I mean this as a compliment, of course, but I don’t think she takes it that way. She throws me a bewildered smile and scurries out the door.
As I limp to my clothes, I realize that the back of my hospital gown is flapping open and on cue Jack lets out a loud whistle. I grab at the gown and my last shred of dignity, shoot him a dirty look, and point towards the door. He totters out as I grab my jeans off the chair. They have a nasty, bloody gash through the calf. Seeing my crusty, dried blood makes me queasy. I struggle to pull them on, wincing and hobbling. My plaid cotton button-down shows no battle signs as I slide into it and just barely manage the buttons. I missed a couple.
Who knew buttons were such a challenge. Sheesh.
I think I may have drooled down the front of it a little too. Guess I should’ve waited on those pills till I got home. Speaking of home, how the hell am I going to explain this to Bernie? It’s probably going on midnight!
21
Hmmmm. Jack’s chatting up a young, pretty nurse as I hobble into the hallway. She's eyeing him like he’s the last red velvet cupcake behind the glass case at Sprinkles. She’s probably a D-cup and her voluptuous frame looks like it was poured into her fitted white uniform like cake batter. If nursing doesn’t work out I’m sure she’d have a lucrative career in porn.
Eye Spy (Liza Radley Housewife Detective Chronicles) Page 4
