Indelible Beats
An Abishag’s Second Mystery
∞
Michelle Knowlden
Indelible Beats: An Abishag’s Second Mystery
Copyright 2014 Michelle Knowlden
Kindle Edition
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My heartfelt thanks go to:
Mari Lou at Elders Editorial Services (http://home.earthlink.net/~mlelders/)
My Beta Readers: Kris Klopfenstein, Rebecca Lang, LJ Sherlock, and Kristy Tate
OC Fictionaires: for support over too many years to mention and especially for the encouragement and comments for this novella.
Cover Artist: Bethany Barnette ([email protected])
Just Because: Jackie, Jean, Ken and Debra
DEDICATION
To my family with love
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Bainbridge Dictionary definition of Abishag
An Excerpt from Riddle in Bones: An Abishag’s Third Mystery
About the Author
Bainbridge Dictionary, Seventeenth Edition, published November 2012,
Abishag (also Abishag the Shunammite)
last wife of King David, mentioned five times in 1 Kings
from 1 Kings 1-3: Now King David was old and advanced in years. And although they covered him with clothes, he could not get warm. Therefore his servants said to him, “Let a young woman be sought for my lord the king, and let her wait on the king and be in his service. Let her lie in your arms, that my lord the king may be warm.” So they sought for a beautiful young woman throughout all the territory of Israel, and found Abishag the Shunammite, and brought her to the king. The young woman was very beautiful, and she was of service to the king and attended to him, but the king knew her not.
Abishag (also Abishag wife, bed-warmer wife)
In 1997, the state of Arizona legalized the practice of providing Abishag wives for comatose men that adhered to strict guidelines, contracts for the patient, patient’s family and service provider, and scale of payment for said services.
In 2002 the US Congress, recognizing the need to standardize the practice of using Abishag wives as part of hospice care, limited providers to certified agencies and Abishag wives to licensed personnel. While an Abishag wife signs a marriage certificate with the patient’s power of attorney, it is the agency contract that defines her role, income during the patient’s last days, and severance pay upon the patient’s death. The terms of the contract have been updated by the Supreme court thirty-eight times between 2002 and 2011.
In 2004, after the landmark case of Shulman v Miami Abishag Agency where it was argued that the emotional maturity required for Abishag services exceeded the current legal definition of adulthood, age restrictions were established: no females under the age of 18 shall be licensed as Abishag wives, and females between the ages of 18 and 21 are required to provide a parent’s signed consent for each contract.
CHAPTER ONE
“Marrying old, dead men.” Sleek in his black Pasolini suit, his close-cropped red hair gleaming in the candlelight, Donovan raised an eyebrow. “At least that part of your life is over.”
“Old, dying men,” I said. I toyed with my wine glass. Technically, at twenty, I couldn’t legally drink, but Donovan wanted to celebrate, and I suspected his favorite Italian sidewalk café never carded his dates.
“Whatever.” He shrugged. Usually he’d correct me, but tonight he only radiated satisfaction. “You’re done being an Abishag wife, done with warming the beds of geezers in comas. You know why, Leslie Greene?”
Crumbling breadsticks into the remains of my scampi, I smiled, shook my head and let him answer his own question.
“I couldn’t possibly be dating an Abishag because I’ve been promoted to principal counsel at the Abishag Agency.”
I squealed and hugged him, rocking the table and upsetting my untouched wine. In the flurry of waiters mopping the table and Donovan rolling his eyes, complaining about his “clumsy girlfriend” and adding to the bill for their “trouble,” he never noticed that I said nothing about not being an Abishag again.
* * *
Because an Abishag usually marries her comatose husband (or, more precisely, signs the paperwork with the husband’s power of attorney) in the legal offices of the Abishag Agency—more often than not on the weekends—Donovan worked Saturday mornings and took off Tuesday afternoons. Not coincidentally, my past four appointments with Florence Harcourt, Abishag director, had been Tuesdays at 3 p.m. I was ready to take on a new assignment, a new husband.
I even felt a bit of confidence. My first marriage, to 83-year-old stroke patient Thomas Crowder, had lasted 21 days. I’d made his final weeks comfortable and as companionable as possible for a guy in a coma. Plus, with help from my university housemates, I’d uncovered a family secret and solved a murder.
Except for mathematics, I failed at everything, so I looked back at the summer with pride. The family had even given me a nice bonus on top of the Abishag fee. The money had paid down my first two years of school debt and covered most of the current fall semester. I even, briefly, had a small savings account.
Going out with Donovan proved expensive even with him paying for meals. As a married woman I’d worn pretty much what I wear for school—except for a pair of strappy sandals I’d bought for the “wedding” and a new flannel nightgown, but Donovan expected me to dress a certain way. He supervised my shopping, insisting on high-end boutiques. Soon I had a sharp wardrobe and a bank account approaching zero.
That was one reason I’d opted to be an Abishag again. I had looked for a conventional job, but I have no references since previous employers consider me either useless or a catastrophe. I didn’t have enough to cover my part of the January rent, and I couldn’t get financial help from my parents who thought I should live at home and commute 100 miles daily to school.
My interviews with Florence had an urgency to them, but I had challenging requirements. I needed to marry someone during my winter break from school, and my husband had to die before school started again in mid-January. I didn’t want to risk Donovan finding out about me again being an Abishag, and I couldn’t risk Florence finding out that I was dating one of her lawyers. (Rule No. 14 in the Handbook for Abishag Wives: “An Abishag wife does not date.”)
Yes, my life tended to be complicated.
On
this particular Tuesday, Florence settled me at her conference table with a cup of tea, a plate of biscotti and a large photo album between us. My previous appointments hadn’t gone well, and she wore a determined look.
My capital with Florence seemed spent. Because Thomas’s daughter had written me such a glowing reference—and because there had been a positive statement in the local newspaper about a killer brought to justice in part by an Abishag wife—Florence doted on me when I first returned for a new assignment. But last week she accused me of being persnickety.
“I had two calls yesterday, Leslie, that should suit you perfectly. One, a lovely man, a retired MD, is in end-stage cancer. He’s been under hospice care since Wednesday at his family home in Pasadena.”
I checked his photo, one taken about forty years earlier when he’d been middle-aged. I did a quick calculation and figured he’d be 91 in May, although the odds of him lasting till May were slim. I turned the page and found a recent photo of him in a hospital bed, his body ravaged by cancer. My heart squeezed at the sight of his skinny arms and drawn face. I skipped over his name, not wanting to get attached too quickly and saw the address line. No, the distance between Westwood and Pasadena still put me at risk of Donovan discovering the truth.
Reaching for my teacup, I looked up and caught Florence watching me narrowly. I raised an eyebrow, a little urbane mannerism I’d picked up from Donovan.
“And the other?”
She covered her disappointment and flipped the page. “Not a medical doctor but a theologian, past president of a prestigious seminary.”
I blinked. Although the original Abishag had been the biblical King David’s last wife and the young woman who’d warmed his bed till his death, most religious people found the practice abhorrent, saying it made a mockery of real marriages.
Seeing my surprise, Florence smiled. “This theologian has written seminal papers about supplying Abishag wives for the infirm, considering it charity in its purest form. He provided for one in his own trust, should he need one.” She lowered her voice. “He has family money.”
Translated: plenty of funds for an Abishag. I looked at his “after” picture. For someone under hospice care and obviously comatose, he looked hearty.
“What’s wrong with him?” I tried not to sound too suspicious.
“He never woke after heart surgery. His doctors say his organs are failing, and he could pass before Christmas.” She smiled fondly at the picture. “He looks a little like Pierce Brosnan, don’t you think?”
“A little,” I said doubtfully. I was no expert, but he didn’t look like he’d die before Christmas.
“His home is around the corner too, this side of the Pacific Palisades, if you’d like to visit. I know you wanted to see Thomas Crowder before you married him.”
Another strike against the theologian. If I wanted to hide this assignment from Donovan, I had to find a husband far from his geographic comfort zone.
Avoiding Florence’s expectant gaze, I took a biscotti. Although I’d always been thin, Donovan thought a bonier look would suit me better and had told me to cut all carbs. I nibbled an edge. Delicious.
A tap at the door and Florence’s assistant entered the room. “The file for Jordan Ippel, Miss Harcourt.”
“Ippel?” Florence frowned.
“La Jolla, ma’am. You spoke to his attorney yesterday.”
Florence’s face cleared. “Right. Fax this to the San Diego office. Not in our jurisdiction.”
“I could go to La Jolla,” I said. Donovan would never visit me there. He didn’t even like crossing the Orange County line to my parents’ house.
Florence cocked her head. “But you know nothing of Jordan Ippel, Leslie.”
“Oh, right.” I tugged the file from her and opened it. No “before” picture but a clear photo of him in his hospice bed connected to a mass of wires and tubes. His hair was dark (definitely dyed—who dyed comatose peoples’ hair?) and longish. He had that sunken look of someone who’d been ill a long time, pale as someone already dead. In fact, with his long, gaunt form, black satin pajamas and bony, white hands, he looked like a book illustration of Dracula.
Florence said: “Resembles Leonard Nimoy, don’t you think?”
My housemate Stanley lines the hallways with “Star Trek” posters so I know what Leonard Nimoy as Mister Spock looks like. I still thought he looked more like a vampire. “He’s an artist?”
“A famous one too.” Distaste tinged Florence’s voice. “I understand he had talent in his thirties but then joined the paint splatter movement. Perhaps I’m a fuddy-duddy, but I think one should be able to look at a painting and know immediately what it is meant to be.”
I don’t get art. My half of my West Los Angeles bedroom has posters of visual math bought when I was in my fractal phase—and had more money.
“His family?” I asked delicately. The file was remarkably spare. At 69, he was young to need an Abishag wife. Most of the men the agency served were in their 80s or older.
“None. A series of wives and female companions, but his last girlfriend disappeared when he was hospitalized. No children. His lawyer has power of attorney.”
His face was growing on me. “What happened to him?”
“Turn the page, dear. Drug overdose.” Her distaste grew more pronounced. “You are not seriously considering him, are you, Leslie?”
“He looks…” I hesitated, unsure what word described what I felt. “How much longer does he have?”
“He had a DNR, but initially the doctors weren’t aware of the extent of his brain damage. He will be taken off the machines when the Abishag wife arrives. He might last a few hours but no more than a week.”
I rubbed the edge of the photo. The way his head leaned on the pillow made it seem as if he was pleading with me.
“Leslie.” I jumped at Florence’s sharp tone. “Choosing Jordan Ippel would be a mistake.”
A mistake? I didn’t usually get a warning before I made a mistake—and I’ve made plenty. “Why?”
“Dear, your first husband was a pillar of the community, an industry giant and a family man.”
He’d also been a thief and kidnapper. Only a few people knew that, and an Abishag was always discreet.
“A poor selection now could limit your choices for future husbands.”
“He looks lonely.” Till I spoke, I hadn’t known my feelings about his photo.
Florence frowned. “Are you making an emotional decision, Leslie?”
His geography interested me most. “No, ma’am, but I don’t think he should die alone.”
Her hands relaxed as she shifted strategies. “If you’re serious about him, you’ll need your parents’ approval. I’ll call them.”
She thought that would stop me from marrying Jordan Ippel. I was 20, but recent legislation required a parent’s consent for Abishag candidates younger than 21. In the past five months, my mother used my connection with my first husband to further my dad’s interests, so I’m certain Florence believed Mother would never agree to someone who might embarrass my father’s corporate and political aspirations.
That’s when I decided to marry Jordan Ippel. If I’d never be an Abishag again, then I’d choose a husband who needed me, not one my parents wanted.
Besides, I thought I knew my mother better than Florence did.
CHAPTER TWO
A week later, all of my housemates shot off to their winter holiday destinations except for Stanley, who had tickets for a comic book convention, and Douglas Kovic and Kathmandu, whose families were scattered around the globe. Over Monday night pizza, I told the three that I’d married a nearly dead artist that afternoon.
Dog cussed, Kat studied me thoughtfully, and Stanley never looked up from picking mushrooms off his pizza and adjusting the volume of his iPod.
“Who?” Kat asked. She had many interests, including art.
“Jordan Ippel.”
“Really? I thought his oak vein period derivative, but h
is gilt tremor work has a delicate purity.”
“Kat.” Dog covered her hand, and my heart skipped a beat. No two people could be more different: dependable, handsome, three-years-older Dog was in medical school while brilliant Kat flitted from major to major on campus and has been known to hang about with shady characters off-campus. Their feelings for each other went deep. When Kat married Dog in our freshman year, it broke his female housemates’ hearts and peeved his roommate who had to move in with Stanley. Their fitting nicknames—Dog and Kat—were icing on the cake.
Dog looked from me to Kat and back to me. “Him being Jordan Ippel isn’t important.” When Kat opened her mouth to speak, he cut her off by raising a finger. “What’s important is why Les is marrying geezers again.”
She nodded. “Dog’s right, Les. It doesn’t matter that Jordan Ippel’s works are exhibited in dozens of art museums. It doesn’t matter that the paint strokes in Indelible Beats are studied in every university modern art course around the globe. What matters is that when you move into his house, you let me move in too.”
Dog gave his wife a withering look, and she smiled impishly.
“It’s okay, Dog,” I said. “I’m doing this ’cause his photo made me sad. I don’t want him to die alone.”
He shook his head. “That won’t fly, Les. Why’d you go back to the agency in the first place?”
Drat. I should have prepared my story better. Stalling, I filched mushrooms from Stanley’s plate, ignored the carbs calling my name from inside the pizza box, and tried to not think about all of the opportunities here for Donovan to be disapproving.
Kat, who may be a little psychic, said, “It’s that rat, Donovan, right? The one who makes you dress like an East Coast fashionista and treats you like you’re four years old.”
Indelible Beats: An Abishag's Second Mystery (Abishag Mysteries Book 2) Page 1
