Plain Jane

by Fern Michaels

  “We ate, we talked, and then I took him out to the well to meet my ghosts. That’s why he came in the first place, you know. He has an interest in the paranormal.”

  “A serious interest, or is he just curious?”

  “A serious interest.”

  “I see. And then . . .” she prompted again.

  “He had to go, but he asked if he could come back tomorrow, and he invited me to the movie next Thursday,” Jane said all in one breath.

  “That’s it?” Trixie asked, obviously disappointed.

  Jane bit into her Pop-Tart and shrugged. For some strange reason she didn’t want to tell Trixie that Mike kissed her. Her practical self told her it was because the kiss really hadn’t been anything more than a peck. And her professional self told her it was because it was special.

  Trixie waved an arm. “Phooey. You’re no fun at all.”

  Jane hid a smile behind her Pop-Tart. “Where’s Fred?”

  “In the bathroom. Where else?” Trixie rolled her eyes and Jane marveled at the half-inch-long false eyelashes her godmother glued on every morning. Once, a few years back, a colleague had said that her eyelashes looked like a herd of tarantulas on the march. It was true. They did. “He takes forever in the morning,” Trixie went on. “He spends most of his time grooming his hair, combing his mustache, and blow-drying his beard.”

  Jane looked around the sterile-looking kitchen. State of the art. The best of the best. Everything was white or black, pretty much the way Trixie viewed everything in her life; it was or it wasn’t. Black or white. She supposed it wasn’t a bad thing.

  “How do you think he’ll be in bed, Janie?” Trixie asked without blinking an eye.

  Jane laughed. Typical. So typical of her godmother. No mincing of words, not even a warm-up. “I think I have a way to go before that happens. If it happens. Let’s face it, Trix, the guy can have just about any woman he wants. Why would he want me? I’m overweight. I have curly hair, too curly, and I’m no fashion plate and—”

  “Stop that right this minute,” Trixie scolded, wagging her finger. “You sound like you’re describing a horse at auction. You put too much emphasis on looks. It’s what’s in here,” she said, putting her hand against her heart, “that counts. You’re kind, sweet, lovable, and you care about people. Stop putting yourself down. If your beauty-queen mother wasn’t already dead, I’d kill her myself for making you think you were a Plain Jane. I never did like that woman. She was a royal pain in the ass. The only one who didn’t seem to know or see her for what she was was your father, God rest his soul. There was no finer man in these parts than your father.”

  Jane licked melted icing off her fingers. “Oh, he knew. We used to have long talks about Mom. He always tried to build me up after Mother ripped me apart. By the way, that old poem isn’t true—sticks and stones will break your bones but words will never hurt you. They do hurt.” She picked her plate up and took it over to the sink. “I just hate it when I go off on these tangents.”

  “Like I said,” Trixie said to Jane’s back, “your mother was a pain in the ass.” Reaching behind her, she pulled a pile of stuff off the counter. “Want to see our new book? We just got our author copies yesterday. Fred was going to drop off one for you. And before you ask, yes, we signed it.” She held the book. “What do you think? Is the cover gory enough?”

  Jane studied the glossy book jacket with a critical eye. The author’s name was emblazoned across a black background. The coloring of the lettering matched the blood running off a corpse hanging from a tree. The title, in smaller letters, read Hang Loose.

  “Ah . . . Trixie, you don’t bleed when you’re hanged.”

  “You do if you pump a full round into someone first. We told the art department to hang him up, to make him a red herring. I love it! Fred thinks there’s a little too much blood.”

  “Nah. Your readers would be disappointed without it. Do you have an extra copy I can give Mike? He’s a real fan of yours, read every one of your books.”

  “Sure.” Trixie reached for another copy.

  “Don’t sign it. I don’t want him getting suspicious.” She stared at the book in her hand. “I couldn’t write a book if my life depended on it. My hat’s off to you, Trixie. Are you ever going to break your silence and come out?”’

  “Never. They’d run me and Fred out of town on a rail. Anonymity works for us.”

  “What do the cops think you do? They must be suspicious since you hang with them so much.”

  “I tell them I write television cop scripts no one wants to buy. They can’t wait to share information with me. I guess everyone wants that fifteen minutes of fame. I did promise to dedicate the movie to the entire force if I was ever successful in selling a script.”

  “You are so devious, Trixie. What are you going to do if someone catches on?”

  “If they haven’t figured it out in fifty years, I don’t think I have too much to worry about. If they do, I’ll admit it and ’fess up.”

  Fred waddled into the kitchen, his shock of white hair tamed for the moment. “Janie girl, what are you doing up and out at the crack of dawn?”

  “Couldn’t sleep. I had this really weird dream.” She shook her head at the remembered images. “I figured I might as well get up and go for a run. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m putting on weight, again.” She hugged her affable godparent. “You smell good, Fred.”

  “I like to smell sweet for Trixie,” Fred said, laughing. His whole body shook. Jane had always thought he looked like Santa Claus with his white hair and white fluffy beard. His wire-rimmed glasses were the finishing touch. All he needed was a red suit and a black pair of shiny boots.

  “Coffee’s hot. Want some breakfast, honey?” Trixie asked.

  “I’ll take anything but a Pop-Tart. We’ve had them every day this week,” Fred grumbled, snapping his suspenders for emphasis.

  “How about some frozen pancakes? I can zap them in the microwave or pop them in the toaster. You can put some of that good jelly on them and roll them up like crepes.” Trixie hopped off her chair and scooted for the fridge. “By the way, Fred,” she added offhandedly, “you’re two chapters behind me. Are you going to catch up today?”

  “I will if you don’t keep going astray. I thought we had Stuart’s character all settled. I don’t think he would say ‘lick me’ to anyone. Where did you hear something like that? I’m taking it out, sugar.”

  “Don’t you sugar me, Fred McGuire. You leave that phrase in there. That’s what people say today. I figured I had a choice of ‘fuck you’ or ‘lick me.’ I went with ‘lick me’ because it fit Stuart. If you don’t believe me, ask Janie,” Trixie said, hands on her hips, her eyes sparking.

  Jane put her hands up in front of her. “I don’t know anything about fiction writing but whatever is indicative of the character is what you always say, Fred. I think I would go with the ‘lick me’ as opposed to the other phrase.”

  “He’s getting old, Janie,” Trixie said with a wink. “He doesn’t know the half of what’s going on in the world. When you sit around a police station all day, you hear all kinds of stuff. A writer has to stay up on what’s going on.” When Fred scowled, she gave him a come-hither look. “C’mere, Freddie, and give Trixie a big kiss,” she said, puckering up.

  Fred obliged.

  Jane had seen them act like this a thousand times before, bantering back and forth. Anyone who didn’t know them might think they were fighting, but the truth was they never fought. Never. They loved each other too much.

  The minute Fred finished his breakfast, he carried his plate to the sink, washed it, dried it, and put it away. Jane knew that he thought dishwashers were a big waste of time and water.

  “I’ve got to get to work,” he said, “or she’ll get so far ahead of me I’ll never hear the end of it. See you tonight, Janie. Don’t spit on any wooden nickels.”

  Jane smiled. “Trust me, Fred, I won’t.”

  Trixie stopped him before he
could get to the door. “This is my day to go to the police station, Fred. So, if you need me, call the station, and they’ll page me. I have to drop Janie off at home first. Oh, and be sure to print out a hard copy so I can read it when I get home. And chill some wine, sweetie and we can play house this evening.”

  Fred waddled out of the kitchen, his girth shaking like the proverbial bowl of jelly.

  “I just love that man. We’ll be married fifty-five years in two months. And everyone we knew back then said it wouldn’t last,” Trixie cackled.

  3

  Trixie shifted into fifth gear as she risked a sideways glance at Jane, who was holding on to the Jesus Christ strap as if her life depended on it. Trixie knew she tended to speed, but so did Jane. Driving fast was just one of the many things they had in common. No, it wasn’t her driving that was causing Jane’s anxious expression. Something was seriously bothering her beloved godchild. “Wanna talk about it, kiddo?”

  Jane shot her a sideways glance. Trixie always knew when something was wrong. Always. It was positively uncanny. “Not really,” she said, her feelings uncertain. “Well, maybe. No, I need to . . .”

  “Is it that same old stuff ? I wish you’d stared it in the face back then and dealt with it,” she said, throwing her hands up in a gesture of frustration. A split second later she grabbed the wheel to swerve around a slow-moving pickup truck. “Asshole!” she shouted, one skinny arm shooting out the window to offer up her middle finger in a single-digit salute. “I’m sorry, honey, what were you saying?”

  “It was nothing,” she said, waving her hand to dismiss the subject. Trixie was assuming that she had been thinking about Connie Bryan. Jane did think about Connie, almost daily, but that wasn’t what was on her mind today. It was Brian Ramsey who occupied her thoughts. “I just have a lot going on right now. I feel a little overwhelmed. You know how that goes.”

  Trixie kept her eyes on the road. “It might be good for you to talk about it. Isn’t that what you tell your patients, to talk about what’s troubling them?” Once she was out of traffic, she pressed the pedal to the metal and flew through the streets to the edge of town.

  “Yes, that’s what I tell them,” Jane said, relieved to see her house coming into view. “But in this case, I’m governed by patient confidentiality.”

  Trixie screeched the four-by-four to a stop in front of Jane’s house.

  “Home sweet home,” Jane said, looking out the passenger window at her domain. “Oh, listen.” She leaned to the right to listen to the birds. She loved their early-morning litany. One of these days she was going to get a book on how to attract birds to the garden so there would be even more than there already were. “Thanks for bringing me home, Trix.” She grabbed the plastic grocery bag with the two T. F. Dingle books in it and opened the car door.

  “Oh, wait a minute,” Trixie said as she reached into the backpack she carried like a purse. “Here’s that disk you wanted. It’s one of those bootleg copies, so keep it safe. Trust me when I tell you, you can find out everything about anyone with this. I have a copy, so don’t worry about returning it.”

  “Great. Thanks. I’ll see you tonight.” Jane turned to go up the steps.

  “Janie?” Trixie called from inside the car. “Do you still have that paper bag?”

  Jane swiveled around slowly and nodded.

  “Janie, you know what? You need to shit or get off the pot, i.e., do something about it or get rid of it. That’s my advice for the day. See you tonight, sweetie.” Before Jane could respond, Trixie roared off in a cloud of dust and spurting gravel.

  Ignoring Trixie’s advice, Jane turned and stared at her house with a clinical eye. The peeling paint and crooked shutters made her wince. She’d had every intention of renovating the outside herself, but it was a monster undertaking, too big for her to tackle with her busy schedule. She made a mental note to add calling carpenters and painters to her “to do” list right after she called about a temporary receptionist.

  One of these days the house would look as she’d envisioned it when she bought it. The first thing she would do when it was all finished would be to buy a dozen Boston ferns and hang them on long white chains from the porch rafters. Then she’d buy three or four Charleston rockers and white wicker tables to set tall, frosty glasses of lemonade on, and little pots of English ivy. She would spend every Sunday afternoon on her veranda, rocking, sipping her drink, and reading Fred and Trixie’s books. The only sound would be that of the oscillating fans whirring softly overhead.

  Olive started barking as soon as Jane started up the steps. It wasn’t a typical glad-you’re-home bark; it was an agitated bark. Warned that something was wrong, Jane glanced around. Then she saw it. A snake had coiled up next to the banister to sun itself on the warm wooden veranda. “It’s okay, Ollie. It’s just a king snake, and we both know it won’t hurt us. They kill all the rodents you miss.” She stepped back nevertheless and contemplated what to do about the snake. Nothing, she decided after considering her options, all of which required her doing something to make it move. “Don’t bother me,” she said to the snake. “You go ahead and stay right where you are. I’ll just go around to the back door.”

  Thirty minutes later, a coffee mug in hand, Jane slipped into the fragrant steaming bathwater. She rested her neck against a folded towel, closed her eyes, and did her best to shift into what she called her neutral zone. By definition it meant to give herself up to the pleasures of the moment. It usually worked. But not today.

  She hated the way she’d been feeling these last few weeks. It was all because of Brian Ramsey and her inability to get a handle on him. What made things even worse was that she’d felt the need to bring in outside help.

  Not for the first time she wondered what she was doing and thought maybe she didn’t belong in psychiatry. She’d always known she’d gone into it for the wrong reason—because of Connie Bryan. She’d convinced herself that helping someone else would make up for not being able to help Connie.

  Her thoughts went back to that night. Her first mistake had been to let Connie bind her to a promise of silence. She should have realized that Connie wasn’t herself, that she was in no mental condition to make intelligent decisions. A true friend would have seen to it that Connie went for help or that help was brought to her. Her second mistake was in keeping her promise even after Connie committed suicide. No, it wouldn’t have helped Connie, but it might have helped those who loved her understand why she did what she did.

  Beached whale.

  Miss Piggy.

  Fat tub of lard.

  Was it her own humiliation that had kept her quiet?

  Jane squeezed her eyes shut. She had always been afraid to answer that question. “And I’m not going to answer it now,” she said to Olive, who was spread out like a frog on the floor next to the tub. Olive opened one eye to look at Jane. “Go back to sleep. I’m just talking to myself again.”

  Years after Connie’s death, Jane had wondered what kind of person Todd Prentice was that he would call off his engagement to Connie because she’d been raped. After meeting Todd at an alumni fund-raiser, she understood Connie’s reasoning a little better. Todd had been there with his wife, his “trophy” wife was the way Jane had come to think of her. Jane remembered her dress—backless, strapless, and halfway up her ass. A scant quarter yard of material at best. What was her name? Melody? Melanie? Melanie. Melanie Petitjean of Petitjean Pharmaceuticals, according to the listing for the Alumni Association’s Board of Directors, of which Todd was a member. Jane knew the company well, even owned some stock in it.

  She scooted farther down into the hot water. It had been two or three years since the fund-raiser, and she still didn’t know what to make of Todd coming up to her and introducing himself. They hadn’t known each other in college. Never even met. She lathered her shoulders and neck. “Help me out with this, Ollie. Talk to me. You woof if I say something that strikes a chord, okay?”

  “Woof!”

 
“Okay,” Jane said, satisfied that Olive was paying attention. “I’m a shrink and a pretty good one so—”

  “Woof!”

  “Thank you, but you interrupted.” The fact that the bathwater wasn’t hot anymore was of no consequence. Jane was thinking, clearly for once. And objectively. There was something about standing beneath a shower or lying back in a bathtub that freed the mind. Trixie always said her best ideas came to her in the shower. “Okay now, where was I? Oh, yeah. I should be able to figure this out.” Olive’s ears perked. “I’ve already ruled out that Todd was just a really friendly guy because he didn’t bother to introduce himself to Rose, who was standing right next to me. He wasn’t interviewing me for the alumni newsletter. And although he gave me his business card, he never called me later, so he wasn’t trying to sell me anything. And, with a wife who looked like his, he wouldn’t have been trying to hit on me.” She sighed, thinking she’d covered all this ground before. “What if,” she said, using the phrase Trixie and Fred used to come up with plot twists for their books, “he already knew who I was, wanted to meet me, and see if he could establish a rapport because he was looking for a psychiatrist?” Olive cocked her head to the side. “No, huh? What then? You tell me since you’re so smart.” Olive was silent.

  She closed her eyes. “This is making me crazy. I need to come to terms with it. I’ve been carrying around this guilt for twelve years. It’s ruining my life. I wish you could talk, Olive. I need some feedback here.”

  “Woof woof!”

  Jane nodded as if she understood. “You’re right. If I was the patient, I would tell myself to call Todd up, make an appointment to see him, ask him why he introduced himself to me, and tell him what happened that night.”

  Olive bounded to her feet when thunder cracked overhead. Jane hopped out of the tub and pulled the drain plug. She hated and feared thunderstorms as much as Olive did. “Hit the light switch, Olive!” Water gurgled down the drain as Jane wrapped herself in her ratty flannel robe. She ran for the bed, jumped in, and covered both her and Olive’s heads.