by Lisa Bork
In Sickness and in Death: A Broken Vows Mystery © 2011 by Lisa Bork.
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For Adam and Chelsea
I heard the baby crying, soft whimpers punctuated by fearful wails. My feet slipped off the bed and hit the floor, carrying me across familiar ground even while my eyes remained closed, exhaustion hanging on my body like a shroud. I pushed open the door and crossed to the side of her crib. My arms reached out for her. They met empty air. I searched the mattress, my hands skittering from the center to each vacant corner. The sheets were cold. A cloud of dust tickled my nose. I sneezed. My eyes flew open.
The room stood bare, as it had for almost four months, waiting for the child who would never return. She lived with her birthmother now, only a bittersweet memory for us.
I heard Ray in the doorway behind me. “Are you all right?”
“I heard Noelle crying. She was afraid.”
Ray’s warm hands cupped my shoulders. He leaned close. “She’s happy and healthy. You’ve got to let her go.”
I stiffened. “I did.”
Ray released me. “Not really. You’ve had the dream twice this month already.”
I tried to ease the tension with a joke. “I’m making progress. That’s half as many times as last month.”
The rocking chair creaked as my husband lowered his six-foot-three, 220-pound frame into it. I turned toward him in time to see his hand rub his temple. “Darlin’, Noelle didn’t die. We took a chance on the adoption, and we lost out. We were lucky to have her as long as we did. But we have to move on.”
I slid down to the floor, too tired to support my weight. “I moved on.”
Ray buried his forehead in his hands, his dark hair falling forward and hiding his face. “Not true. When was the last time you went into the shop? Cory doesn’t even call here anymore to ask your opinion or your permission. He’s running the whole show alone.”
I shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position on the hardwood floor. “Maybe I should offer to sell out to him. Hawking used sports cars doesn’t help the world. I should find something to do that helps people.”
“First you have to help yourself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ray raised his head from his hands, his expression etched with concern and something I couldn’t quite name. “You don’t shower. You don’t get dressed. You don’t clean or grocery shop. We don’t have sex. You don’t even know your sister is making a fool of herself all over town. All you do is watch television or stare out the window. It’s not normal and it’s not healthy, Jolene.”
When Ray used my given name, for the most part he was pissed or feeling the urge. I bet on pissed this time.
I fingered my over-sized sleep shirt. It smelled of body odor, and the yellow stain on the area covering my belly button showed up even in the moonlit room. My scalp itched. My toenails were like daggers. I didn’t care. My baby was gone.
“Here’s the deal, Jolene. Tomorrow morning you are going to get out of bed, shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, and go to work, where you will remain at least half the day. Then you’re going to go to the grocery store. I made the list up already. And when I get home, you’re going to have dinner on the table. If you don’t, I’m calling Dr. Albert and asking him about treatment programs.”
“Ray!” Okay, so I’d been a little down lately. He was overreacting, wasn’t he? But the creases edging the corners of his brown eyes had deepened over the last few months, giving him the perpetual worried look of a bulldog. Was that my fault?
“I’m serious, Jolene. This shit has got to stop.” The rocking chair banged into the wall as he left the room.
Seconds later, our bedroom door slammed.
I stretched out, the floor cool against my flushed cheek.
Resentment simmered inside me. I didn’t like being told what to do. Normally I would go out of my way to do the exact opposite, but Ray meant business this time. Worse, he was right.
He wouldn’t be enrolling me in any mental health programs. No way. I’d spent too much time in the mental health community while my sister Erica received treatment for her bipolar disorder, suicidal tendencies, and a myriad of other things, including shooting a man four months ago. Not to mention I’d spent three days in the psychiatric wing at the age of twelve after finding my mother’s dead body in the family garage. I feared a return engagement. They might never let me out again.
Ray’s comment about Erica bothered me. She hadn’t been around much lately, but I hadn’t given it much thought. Then again, I hadn’t given anything much thought for the last few months. I assumed she was working and dating one of the many men who crossed her path at the restaurant bar where she waitresses. She’d held the job for over six months now, a lifetime achievement for her. It seemed like when she got her act together, my world had fallen apart.
What was I missing, hiding out here at home? Had she lost her job and failed to inform me? Was she having public sex, the final frontier for her? Would the word robbery soon be mentioned in the same breath as her name, as it had been more than once in the past? Or some worse crime?
I stretched out farther on my stomach, trying to work the kinks out of my spine. It had compressed with all the months of sitting around doing nothing but staring out the window. I might not even be five-four anymore.
Something brushed my cheek. I swatted it away. As my fingers tangled in it, I realized it was a dust bunny. I’d let more than myself go over the last few months. Our bungalow needed a thorough cleaning. So did Ray’s pipes.
I reached for the baby quilt draped on the side of the crib. I could handle Ray’s ultimatum. It was time to resurface. I wouldn’t even bother to po
int out to him that tomorrow was Monday and my sports car boutique would be closed. But first I needed a few more hours of sleep.
____
Ray banged the cabinet doors in the kitchen. When I rose onto my knees, my whole body ached. The floor hadn’t made for warm, restful sleep.
I snuck past Ray and hit the bathroom. Ten minutes later I’d nicked my legs five times while shaving and washed my hair twice. I was pleasantly surprised to find the brown locks had only a few new strands of gray to betray my thirty-eight years. I could use a haircut though. It took me twice as long to blow dry the wavy hair that fell to my shoulder blades. Then I tackled my overabundance of eyebrow and toenail.
Getting dressed proved more difficult. I hadn’t eaten much in the last four months, and my size eight clothes hung on me. I found a long black skirt with an elastic waist, slit the waistband, hacked off several inches of elastic, and safety-pinned the edges together. When I teamed the skirt with a white sweater and my favorite black dress boots, I didn’t look too bad. A touch of blush made me look less wan. Mascara made my eyes pop.
I approached the kitchen with trepidation, hoping Ray wouldn’t pick up yelling at me where he’d left off last night.
Instead, one of Ray’s famous Belgian waffles awaited me, drenched in syrup and whipped cream. He used to make them every Sunday, but I couldn’t remember the last time he had. For an all masculine male, he could be very Betty Crocker.
He looked up from the paper, his gaze raking me from head to toe. “You look gorgeous.”
I felt immediately forgiven as I slid onto the stool next to him at the breakfast bar. “Like Valerie Bertinelli?” Ray had a thing for her all through high school, with her pictures adorning his locker. My resemblance to her had attracted him.
He twirled my long hair in his fingers. “Exactly. Gorgeous.” He tipped my chin and kissed my lips. “Too bad I’m late for work.”
He stood and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from his perfectly pressed county sheriff’s department uniform. Deputy Ray Parker. God, I loved a man in uniform, especially this handsome dark-haired stud. I blushed, happy to think this for the first time in months. Then I noticed a few more gray hairs at Ray’s temples and worried I had caused them. Or had all his cases been preying on his mind while I’d sat, unwilling to listen?
He smiled at me, clearly pleased to see me up and about and ready to go. “I’m sorry, Darlin’. No strawberries for the waffles. It’s not the right season for them, anyway. Here’s the shopping list.” Ray leaned in for another kiss, lingering as he stroked his thumb over my lower lip. My nether regions tingled in response—not that I felt like doing anything about it. It was just good to know I was still capable of excitement. “Make sure to invite Cory and Erica for dinner Thursday.”
My eyes bulged. “Thursday?”
“Yeah, it’s Thanksgiving.” Ray disappeared out the kitchen door with a wave.
I looked at the list. Turkey. Stuffing bread. Canned cranberry sauce.
My armpits felt damp. I licked my lips. Not only did I have to face the world this morning, but I had to entertain in three days. Although Ray always did the turkey and the stuffing. Maybe I could manage mashed potatoes and a frozen pie. Cory and Erica would bring something. It might work out.
I ate two bites of waffle. Then two more. Then I finished the whole thing. My stomach felt bloated, but I wouldn’t need to expand the elastic in my skirt anytime soon. I loaded the dishwasher and wiped down the granite countertops before stuffing the list in my purse and heading out the door.
Driving my Lexus for the first time in weeks reminded me how much I loved the feeling of independence and control behind the wheel. Traffic was light on Main Street, since most of the shops in Wachobe didn’t open until ten. Only Asdale Auto Imports opened at nine a.m. Tuesday through Saturday as it had for the last four years under my ownership and the prior forty or so years when my dad ran his garage at this address.
I pulled into the parking lot behind the building and found Cory’s BMW parked there. Strange for a Monday.
A cold front had settled in overnight. I held the collar of my white wool coat tight to my neck as I walked along the edge of my cedar-shingled building. The shingles and the white trim could have used a touchup this past summer. I hoped the town fathers hadn’t noticed as well. They considered my building an abomination amongst their prized Victorian brick and clapboard storefronts, and my pre-owned but pristine sports cars too modern for their desired tourist town image. In fact, almost a year ago, they tried to force me to relocate to a back street, away from Main Street and the lakefront that attracted thousands of summer residents and cottage rentals. I refused. The Asdale automotive tradition would carry on at this address. If I could get my act together, it might even do so under my leadership once again.
The bell jingled, announcing my arrival. Cory appeared in the showroom, wearing his mechanic’s overalls, booties, and plastic surgical gloves smeared with grease.
“Jo. What a great surprise.” He stripped off the gloves and threw them in the wastebasket. His arms bruised my ribs as he lifted me off the floor. “I’m so glad to see you.”
One whiff of his cologne and I felt the same way. Friends like Cory were hard to come by. “I missed you, too.”
He set me down inches from the 2006 F430 Ferrari Spider that had become the bane of my existence. It rested in the middle of my showroom floor, Rosso Corsa paint gleaming under the pin lights, no longer desirable to anyone after I found a murdered man in its front seat almost a year ago now. All my inventory dollars were tied up in the car. Unable to add to my stock on the lot, my only option was to offer customers my ability to locate and broker deals for a sports car of their choice. With the popularity of the Internet and cars readily available for sale online, not many customers took me up on my offer. Without Cory’s steady maintenance income, I would be out of business.
I searched his face. “It’s Monday. Why are you working?”
He avoided my gaze. “I’m a little behind.”
That wasn’t like Cory. He always finished his work on time or earlier. I opened my mouth to ask why then thought for a moment. Obviously, it was my fault. He’d been doing his work and mine for months. “I’m so sorry, Cory. I should have been here.”
Cory waved his hand as if to say “don’t worry about it.” He led me into my office and pushed me into my chair. “Good news.”
“You sold the Ferrari.”
He tipped his head to the side. “Ah, no. But we have two new customers, and one of them needs your expertise.”
My throat swelled shut. What expertise? Everything I touched turned into tragedy. “Tell me about the other customer first.”
He dropped into the chair beside the desk, looking like I’d punctured his tires. “Okay. Brennan Rowe bought a turbo-charged Mazda Protégé. He hopes to race it this spring, and he wants me to be the crew chief and mechanic for his team.” He leapt to his feet. “It’s in the garage now. Want to see it?”
Race car support would be a new niche for our business, but not one I wanted to pursue. Too much time at the track. Too many last-minute hassles. Too much tweaking of sensitive engines, brakes, and transmissions. Too hard to hold down expenses. Still, Brennan Rowe reeked of money, especially after the successful construction and lease of his much-contended office building, and he was a lucrative customer with a significant car collection. If Cory had agreed to provide race support, I’d go along with it for now. “Maybe later. Tell me about my new customer first.”
Cory stuck his hands in his pockets and swayed on the balls of his feet. Small but wiry at five-one, he always had a lot of energy. Maybe that was why his auburn hair curled poodle-tight. “She’s different.”
A woman. That was different. Most of my customers were men looking for the power, luxury, status, and speed a fine automobile provided. “How so?”
Cory’s girly eyelashes blinked four times in rapid succession. “She read an article on the Internet about the c
ars that turn men’s heads; cars that make men think a woman’s hot. You know, a Mercedes 300SL roadster, a Porsche 911, cars like that. She decided to buy one of the cars on the list. She wants to get this guy’s attention, and he likes sports cars.”
“So which one of the ten did she pick?”
Cory scrunched his eyes as if fearing my response. “The Caterham Seven.”
I wished I was home in bed with the covers over my head. “You’re kidding me. Aren’t they only available in England?”
“They have dealerships in the U.S. now.”
“They’re kit cars, aren’t they?”
“You can buy them and build them. I offered to do that for her, but getting a kit car registered and insured is a hassle. We decided that purchasing a used DeDion model would be the best way to go. It’s got the newer Ford Zetec engine, improved suspension, and meets most emission standards.”
“Does she know it’s an open car, best driven wearing a helmet? Does she think getting soaked in rainstorms and picking bugs out of her teeth will attract this guy?”
Cory sank into the chair again. “Jo, she’s not an attractive woman. She’s big-boned with hair dyed the color of the Ferrari. Crooked teeth. It’s not pretty. But she knows this guy loves the Caterham Seven. He saw it in some Japanese animated cartoons and got all hot for it.”
“If she’s that big, will she even fit in the car? It’s designed for racing.” Wouldn’t the town muckety mucks be delighted to have Wachobe turn into the new road racing street course? I didn’t think they’d send me roses in appreciation.
“Yeah, but it’s built for living. She’ll fit. I can make her fit, if you can find the car.”
I stifled a sigh. “All right. I’ll start in the Sunbelt, where people can drive a car like that year-round.” Unlike here in New York’s Finger Lakes region, where maybe a handful of days over a couple of summer months would be suitable.
“Great.” Cory fumbled through a stack of note pads on my desk. “Here’s her brother’s number. She’s staying with him until Christmas. I told her we’d call once we located a car for her.”
