Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures

by Merry Jones

  “Grab her thigh,” Jen said.

  “No, wait. I think we should take her arm.”

  “Her arm? I’ve got her thigh. You get her arm.”

  “Careful,” I managed, but I doubt they heard me.

  My legs were splayed around the brick wall between balconies. My left foot rested tentatively on the railing of ours; my right on the neighbor’s. My left arm hugged the wall; my right grasped the edge of the next-door railing. Behind my t-shirt and panty-clad backside, I felt the warmth of dawn and the calm of the ocean. And the pull of open air that extended six stories down.

  Another pelican whooshed by. I glimpsed huge wings, a long beak. I wobbled, dug my fingers into the cement between bricks, closed my eyes again. And saw the face of Madam Therese.

  “Take Susan’s hand, dammit.”

  “She doesn’t hear us. She’s pulling an Elle.”

  “Now? Are you kidding?”

  “Elle,” Susan shouted.

  “I can’t take your hand. I can’t let go.” Even talking seemed to throw me off balance.

  The three of them held onto my left thigh and leg. I glanced down, disobeying my own advice, and saw a man kneeling beside the dead woman, taking her hand. He looked like Charlie. That was crazy. From up here, I had no idea what he looked like. He could have been anyone. Hotel staff gathered. Security officers. A lifeguard looked up, saw me. Pointed. People gaped up at me.

  They looked very tiny.

  Slowly, I tilted my head up, moving my gaze back to the sixth floor. The muscles in my legs twitched. I couldn’t stay straddled much longer.

  “What’s her name?” I heard a man, a Mexican accent.

  “Elle.”

  “Come on, Elle.” He wore dark pants and a white short-sleeved shirt, and his beefy arms slipped under mine, around my shoulders. And lifted. I resisted, unwilling to release the railing. But he kept tugging, dragging me up and over, laying me down onto solid tiles of our balcony where I lay still, shivering, catching my breath. Hugging the floor.

  Susan, Becky, and Jen hovered around me. The man knelt, put a hand on my forehead, my wrist. He spoke with Susan. She called him Roberto. A maid stood at the balcony door, bug-eyed. Becky brought a glass of orange juice. When I could stand, Roberto helped me through the sliding doors into our suite. Jen began pelting me with questions. What had I been doing out there? Was I crazy? Why had I been climbing on the balcony? Susan snapped at her, telling her to let me be. Roberto was on a cell phone or maybe a hand radio. Something. Speaking urgent Spanish.

  I sank onto the living room sofa, shivering, watching. Roberto, it turned out, was a security guard. He greeted the police, introduced Sergeant José Perez and Juan Alonso, the hotel’s general manager. Susan sat on one side of me. Becky covered me with a blanket and sat on the other. Jen sat on the floor at my legs like a guard dog. And then the questions began.

  “What were you doing out there?” Sergeant Perez sat forward with the weight on his toes, as if about to take off in a sprint.

  I explained that I hadn’t been able to sleep. Actually, Becky had been snoring like a chainsaw, but I didn’t think that was relevant, didn’t mention it. At about five thirty, I’d given up and gone out on our balcony to wait for the sunrise, and I’d heard voices from the balcony adjacent to ours.

  Sergeant Perez interrupted. “They were speaking English?”

  Had they been? “I don’t remember.”

  “Well, could you understand what they were saying? Do you speak Spanish?” He was brusque.

  “Sergeant, please.” Susan intervened. “She doesn’t remember. Let her tell us what happened.”

  “Excuse me, señora.” Perez thrust his chest out. “A woman is dead. Your friend is, at the very least, a witness—”

  “At the very least? What are you implying?” Susan’s back straightened.

  Oh Lord. Did he think I’d been involved in the woman’s death? Again, I saw Madam Therese. So far, her predictions had come true: Becky and I had both traveled. We’d gone to Mexico with Susan and Jen. We were near the water, as she’d said we’d be. And Becky had met a guy: Chichi, one of the activity directors at the hotel. They’d been virtually inseparable since we’d arrived—Becky hadn’t come back to the room until after two a.m. If Madam Therese had been right about all that, maybe she’d also been right about my death cloud and the bloodstains in my aura. I thought of Charlie. Saw him wave.

  Susan was nudging me on one side, Becky on the other. Everyone was staring at me. Damn. I’d missed something.

  “No, she’s fine.” Susan insisted. “She does this. She wanders off sometimes.”

  In fact, my mind did wander off sometimes. My friends called it “pulling an Elle.” A shrink had called it a dissociative disorder, usually triggered by stress. Which, right then, I had plenty of.

  “She’s fine. Elle?” Susan’s elbow hit my rib. “Elle, go on.”

  “Maybe she’s refusing to answer the questions. Maybe she’d prefer to come to the station.” The sergeant stood on his toes.

  Roberto raised his hands. “Por favor, José. We all want the same thing: To hear what happened. Why don’t we listen and then ask questions afterward?”

  Sergeant Perez replied harshly in Spanish, no doubt asserting his rank and authority. Roberto backed off, having made his point. The sergeant sat again, still on tiptoe.

  “Go on, Elle.” Susan’s hand covered mine.

  Where had I stopped? Never mind. I just began again. “I heard a man and a woman talking. They sounded romantic—soft giggling and cooing. After a few minutes, I heard the sliding door open and close. I thought they’d gone inside. Everything was quiet.” I looked from face to face. Everyone watched me. Waiting.

  “And then?” Susan prodded.

  “And then a while later, the sliding door opened again. Someone was moving stuff around. It sounded like the deck furniture. There were scraping sounds and thunks. Grunts. I was embarrassed. I thought the couple had come back outside and were, you know.”

  Sergeant Perez stared at me. “I know?”

  Apparently he didn’t. “I thought they were having rough sex.”

  Sergeant Perez cleared his throat. His gaze faltered. “Did you hear voices this time?”

  “A woman said, ‘Por favor,’ and then there were just grunts. Oh, also a yip. Like this.” I made a yip. It sounded shrill.

  The sergeant blinked. “That’s all?”

  I nodded, yes, but I wasn’t sure. I thought the sliding doors might have slammed shut again. That would be important, wouldn’t it? It would mean someone else besides the woman had been there. But I couldn’t remember. Didn’t mention it.

  “What happened next?”

  Next? “I got up off the lounge chair to see what the ruckus was about.” I’d expected to see kinky sex. A woman with a whip. A man in bondage. I felt my face get hot admitting that I’d snooped. “I stood at the wall between the balconies, leaned over the railing and peeked around. And under a pinkish-gold glow of dawn, I saw a woman, dangling from the railing.”

  “You saw no one else?” Sergeant Perez frowned.

  “No.”

  “So you can’t be sure who caused those bangs and scrapes you claim you heard.”

  “She claims she heard?” Susan pounced, indignant.

  “Señora, yes. All we have is your friend’s word that there were sounds. I want to establish if she knew who caused them. Maybe it was the dead woman herself. Or maybe someone else—perhaps a murderer.”

  A murderer who might have slammed the sliding doors as he fled. I tried to remember. Couldn’t.

  Susan sputtered.

  Becky gave my arm a squeeze. “Go on, Elle.”

  I shivered under the blanket. The inside of my bones felt cold. Go on, Elle. “I tried to help her.”

  I hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t thought it through. My intention had been to leap from our balcony to hers and pull her back up. Good plan, except I hadn’t made it. Hadn’t gotten all the way acros
s. Instead, I’d climbed onto our railing, straddled the brick wall, and, as I’d taken hold of her railing with my right hand, I’d realized I lacked the height and momentum to swing all the way across. In fact, I’d been stuck halfway, balanced precariously with one foot on each railing. Unable to get to her. Unable to get anywhere.

  I didn’t tell them all that. Or about how her violet eyes made contact with mine. How neither of us spoke. How we assessed the situation in silence, measuring the distance between our hands, eyeing my right arm and her left. Calculating the risks. All I told them was, “She took a hand off the railing to reach for me.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to avoid the image. But there she was again, reaching. And in an eye blink, swimming through air. Again, I shuddered, felt the thud. Pictured her, face down on the concrete beside the enormous kidney-shaped pool. I thought of her hand, wondered if her lifeline had stopped abruptly in the middle of her palm. Becky put her arm around my shoulder.

  “Did you know this woman?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “How could she?” Jen bristled. “We only arrived yesterday morning.”

  Sergeant Perez raised his eyebrows as if surprised the guard dog could speak. “Sí. And what brings you here? Vacation?”

  “I’m having some work done,” Jen smoothed her ash-blonde ponytail. “I brought my friends along—Elle doesn’t know anyone here. None of us do.”

  “And yet, your friend says she risked her life. She did this for a stranger?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. For a stranger.” Susan was on her feet, scolding. “And you’re badgering Mrs. Harrison when you should be rewarding her for being a hero and trying to save a life.”

  The sergeant stood. “As I’ve said, señora. A woman is dead. It’s a serious matter. The death could not have been an accident. It was either murder or suicide. The information I already have makes me doubtful it was suicide.” He paused, eyeing each of us one by one.

  I wanted to dodge his eyes but didn’t dare. I needed to act normal. Wouldn’t normal mean meeting his eyes? I wasn’t sure. What was normal in this circumstance? The circumstance of not having saved a woman, of having let her drop six stories onto cement? Of bringing a bloodstained aura and a dark cloud of death with me to Mexico? Was her death my fault? Was I responsible? Would a person in my position meet the policeman’s eyes?

  Again, Charlie appeared, sitting dead on my sofa, and I heard Madam Therese’s raspy voice whisper: “The dead are drawn to you. But you already know that.”

  I saw the woman’s violet eyes, her flailing arms.

  The sergeant was talking. I’d wandered again, missed part of what he’d said.

  “—Phoenix, Arizona. According to hotel records Señora Madison was a guest of the clinic. Her procedures would have been completed this week, as she was due to check out today. So, she was here for plastic surgery. Maybe like you, señora?” He tilted his head at Jen. “The General Manager Juan Alonso tells me that she had a face and neck lift. And he thinks also some work on her lips, is that right, Juan?”

  Juan Alonso stood tall, nodded assent.

  “She told Juan Alonso and others that she felt like new. More beautiful and happy than ever.”

  Again, Juan Alonso nodded, said something in Spanish, perhaps her exact words?

  “So. It seems that Claudia Madison was not a woman about to kill herself.”

  Nobody said anything.

  “We also know that Señora Madison was paying for her operation and her stay here with cash—cash that she kept in her suite. If the location of this money were known, that would provide a motive.”

  “Well, none of us knew her or anything about her.” Susan’s voice was flat.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” He watched me.

  “Okay, Sergeant Perez.” Susan’s hands were on her hips. “That’s enough. You’d better go before I contact the American consul. I’m a criminal defense attorney, and I know our rights as American citizens. Mrs. Harrison has given you her statement. If you bother her further or make any more insinuations about her role in this matter, I promise you, there will be severe consequences.”

  “Relax, señora—I have all the information I need. For now. I will be in touch. In the meantime, please surrender your passports to the hotel manager.”

  “What?” Susan demanded. “That’s preposterous—”

  “No. It’s protocol. Just a formality.” He stood at the door with his police officers and Roberto the security guard. They watched while the hotel manager collected our passports, whispering apologies and gracias. Before leaving, Sergeant Perez turned and looked at me. “Be assured, Señora Harrison, we will never be far away. Enjoy your vacation.”

  With that, Sergeant Perez nodded, and led his entourage away.

  Only the maid remained, asking if she could clean the bedrooms. Jen said, “Fine,” just as Becky said, “Not now. Come back later.”

  The maid stood with her cart in the open doorway, confused.

  “WTF, Becky.” As was her habit, Jen spoke in curse code. WTF meant “what the fuck,” not as tough to crack as other of her codes. Then again, it wasn’t really necessary to translate them. If Jen used initials, she was swearing. “Let her get it done.”

  Becky shrugged, okay, but the maid didn’t come in. She was talking to someone in the hallway, nodding, sí, saying something that sounded like “policia,” and pointing into the suite. A man stepped around her cart, through the door.

  Susan was on the phone, ordering room service. She looked up, motioned him to wait.

  He was tanned, sandy-haired, lean. About my height. Elegant, even in khakis. He obeyed Susan, backing up a step, but Becky asked, “Can we help you?”

  The man stepped forward. “Sorry for disturbing you. I am Dr. Du Bois. Dr. Alain Du Bois.”

  Jen hopped to her feet, her long blonde ponytail bobbing. She extended her hand, shook his. “Oh, Dr. Du Bois! Please. Come in.” She introduced herself, offered him a seat. “I wasn’t expecting you to stop by.” She turned to us, beaming. “Everyone, this is my plastic surgeon, the magician who’s going to transform my body.”

  Yes, of course. We’d all heard of Dr. Alain Du Bois. We’d seen his brochures, read the testimonials. Viewed his patients’ before and after photos. Jen had been raving about Alain Du Bois nonstop. He was the reason that we’d traveled here from Philadelphia, the reason that we were in this five-star resort hotel twelve miles from Puerto Vallarta, where his patients recuperated after surgery.

  Jen had done her research, checked out the references and testimonials. She’d calculated that, even with three additional airfares and a larger hotel suite, the cost of having a boob job, nose job, and tummy tuck at Du Bois’s medical center would still cost less than having those same procedures anywhere in the United States. So, as a Christmas present to herself, she’d scheduled the surgeries and, with just over a week’s notice, she’d insisted that Becky and Susan take time off work so that we could go along with her for an all-expenses-paid week of togetherness, sun, and fun.

  We had argued about it at a girls’ night dinner at Porcini. “You don’t need plastic surgery,” Susan had been curt. “It’s a stupid idea. If you have to do something, get a belly button ring.”

  “I have one.”

  “Then color your hair. Be a redhead.”

  “You’re already gorgeous, Jen.” Becky had insisted. “What’s there to improve?”

  “You’re sweet, Becky.”

  “What does Norm think?” I’d asked.

  “Norm doesn’t know.” Jen had sipped Chablis. “It’s going to be a surprise.”

  “A surprise?” Susan had put down her fork in the middle of a pasta twirl. “You do realize that changing your body isn’t like changing your draperies.”

  “Actually, no, I hadn’t realized that, Susan. Thank you for pointing it out.” Jen had stabbed her filet.

  “It must cost a lot,” Becky had mused. “Wouldn’t it be better to spend the money on s
omething worthwhile? Like cancer research or protecting wildlife?”

  “OMG, Becky.” Jen had rolled her eyes. “Norm can afford to pay for this and for saving the whales, as well.”

  None of us knew what Norm did or how he could afford so much. We knew only that he owned things, that Jen had a multimillion-dollar house, plenty of jewelry, a new BMW on a regular schedule, and scads of designer shoes.

  “Still, Jen,” Susan put her fork down. “Surgery seems drastic. Are you willing to go that far just to soothe your own vanity?”

  “FU, Susan. You’re such hypocrites. Every woman has at least one body part that she despises.”

  “Where did you get that astounding statistic? The brochure for plastic surgery?”

  “No, Susan. It’s a known fact. Admit it: each of you would change something if you could.”

  “I don’t think I would.” Becky shook her head. “I wouldn’t have the guts.”

  “You don’t need to change anything, Becky.” Susan swallowed ravioli.

  “What about the risk?” I’d asked. “Every surgery has risks—”

  “Okay—FTS.”

  I scrambled to translate. Fuck this shit?

  Jen put down her utensils and folded her hands. “You guys can effing do what you want. I’m going with or without you. I’m nipping old age in the bud.”

  Old age? We were in our thirties. We’d stared at her in silence.

  “Fine, bitches. Let your hair go gray. Let your necks crinkle and your butts flatten and your boobs sag. I’m off to Mexico and the fabulous Dr. Alain Du Bois. And, no matter how much BS grief you give me, you know you’re all coming with me.” Jen had ended the discussion.

  A week later, as Jen had dictated, we were in our hotel suite in Mexico. And so was the distinguished Dr. Du Bois.

  Jen batted her to-die-for eyelashes at him. “I guess you’re here to discuss the procedures?”

  Dr. Du Bois hesitated. “Procedures?”

  Jen stood still, her smile transforming into a pout.

  “No need, my dear. I’m fully prepared for you. No, I’ve come for another reason.” He paused. “I got a call from the police. About the woman next door, Claudia Madison. She was also my patient.”