“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
I take a moment to relish the concept.
“Did David tell you I called?” Gina asks, interrupting my reverie.
“No, he didn’t,” I say, mildly surprised that she has.
“I was afraid he might not, but I didn’t know how else to reach you. There’s no phone number listed for you.”
“I don’t have a phone at the moment,” I tell her. It’s a lie, bit it’s easier than admitting that I still don’t know the number of my cell phone.
“Really? It doesn’t bother you, not being able to call anyone?” She looks appalled and I imagine the thought of being disconnected from the rest of the world is tantamount to torture for someone like Gina.
“Not yet,” I say with a smile.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that I’ve been concerned about you ever since I saw you the other day. Wondering if you’re doing okay with all the…changes in your life. It must be a very difficult time for you.”
“I’ve had a few rough patches,” I admit. “But I’m doing okay, Gina. Thanks for your concern.”
“Hey, we girls have to stick together, you know. Keep the men from getting out of line.” She gives me a warm smile, her eyes twinkling. “Though if this new look of yours is any indication, I’d say you’re doing just fine.”
“Thanks.” My neck is starting to ache beneath the massive weight of my head.
“Don’t mention it. And listen, if you ever want to talk, or just go out to lunch or something, don’t hesitate to call me. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” A subtle shift of her gaze to the left gives me a second’s warning before yet another hand clamps down on my shoulder.
“Well, if it isn’t Mattie Winston!”
I turn and smile at Mick Dunn and his wife, Marjorie.
“Hello, Mick, Marjorie,” Gina says, her voice noticeably cooler than it was a moment ago. She turns back to me. “Remember what I said, Mattie. Call anytime.” With that, she slides away into the crowd, leaving me with Mick and Marjorie.
“It’s good to see the both of you,” I tell them, watching Marjorie glare after Gina. “How’s the bone business, Mick?”
“The usual. A break here, a break there. Just steady enough that I never get a break.” He laughs at his own joke and I manage a chuckle, even though I’ve heard that same line from him dozens of times before. “You really look great, Mattie! Ditching David seems to suit you,” he says with a wink.
Marjorie’s glare quickly shifts from Gina to me. Mick is a notorious flirt, a trait that has landed him in the beds of at least three other women I know about and who-knows-how-many that I don’t. He has oodles of charm and is strikingly handsome with his sparkling blue eyes and cinnamon-colored hair. Because of his shameless womanizing, I want to dislike him. But I can’t. He has a self-deprecating style that is not only irresistibly charming, it has the bonus effect of irritating the crap out of his wife, Marjorie, someone I’ve discovered I can dislike with ease.
Marjorie Dunn is one of the coldest, most snobbish women I’ve ever met. Her platinum-blond hair and steely blue eyes work to accentuate that icy impression. I have to give her one thing though; she looks pretty good for a woman of fifty-three. That is due in part to some help from Cary Snyder’s scalpel. Marjorie has had a boob job, the tummy and thigh-sucker routine, and a nose job, presumably to make it easier for her to look down it at everyone else. Those are the surgeries I know about, and I suspect some other procedures have been done in Cary’s office, because Marjorie’s face has that tight, drawn look to it, giving her an expression of perpetual surprise. Her skin is stretched so taut over her cheekbones, she looks as if one good sneeze will split her face wide open.
I wonder if it is Mick’s infidelities that drive Marjorie to surgically improve herself, or if it is simple vanity. Most of what I know about her leads me to believe she is far more interested in Mick’s social position and earning capacity than his fidelity—or lack thereof. I figure that is why she stays with him even though she has to know about his many dalliances. What I don’t understand is why Mick, who has a warm personality and an obvious zest for life, stays with a frigid little killjoy like Marjorie.
She finally acknowledges my greeting with a nod and the slightest hint of tedium in her voice. “Mattie. How nice to see you.” I am instantly dismissed as she turns to Mick. “Darling,” she says, her tone robbing the word of any hint of endearment, “you really should take advantage of the evening to talk with Ms. Molinaro about the nursing problems you mentioned. It’s the perfect time, you know. What with the liquor flowing freely and the good PR this event will bring for the hospital, I’d wager her mood will be better than usual.”
“You’re right, of course,” Mick says, his eyes roaming the room. Judging from the expression of anticipation I see on his face, I don’t think it’s Molinaro he’s looking for.
“Let’s try to find her before the dinner,” Marjorie suggests, deftly steering Mick away and leaving me standing alone.
I watch them go and consider tagging along, thinking this could lead to some of the evening’s best entertainment. Marjorie is a manipulative woman who hates to lose and Molinaro is as stubborn and mean as they come. I figure the two of them for even odds in a bitch-slap session but in the end I chicken out, fearful they might combine their considerable talents and use them on me.
Chapter 18
I flag Izzy down and meet him in a corner, where we compare notes.
“Find out anything?” I ask him.
“A little. Seems everyone is pretty shocked by the fact that Karen was killed, although so far not too many people seem to know about the fake identity thing.”
I’m surprised by that. Normally, anything that newsworthy would move through the hospital grapevine like shit through a colon after a lower GI prep.
“I have no idea if anyone else was sleeping with the woman,” Izzy continues. “I haven’t quite figured out how to ask that question without being offensive. But Garrett did mention something about a medical supply company that Karen had some connection to and an ownership scheme that would allow the docs to refer to the place, share in the profits, and not get knocked for a conflict of interest.”
“Sidney mentioned something about a medical supply company, too,” I tell him. “Though he said he doesn’t know much about it because he wasn’t involved.” And then a light-bulb goes on in my brain. “And there’s something else. Something I forgot about.” I tell him about my visit to David’s office and the business card I found inside the tobacco pouch. “Maybe I should check the place out,” I suggest. “Poke around and see what turns up.”
“Can’t hurt,” Izzy says.
A waiter comes by carrying a plate of hors d’oeuvres—little weenies wrapped in phyllo dough. That damned Stewart woman is everywhere these days, but while I harbor some philosophical differences with the woman, it isn’t enough to overcome my incessant appetite. I grab a cocktail napkin and pile several of the hors d’oeuvres on top of it. As I pop one in my mouth, several others roll off my napkin onto the floor.
Izzy clucks his disapproval. “You are such a klutz.”
“I am not.”
“You are too. You’re always dropping stuff, bumping into things, and stumbling about.”
“I only stumble when I have to wear heels because I’m not used to them,” I snap back. “And for your information, I didn’t drop those wieners by accident. I was tossing them down so that bottom feeders like you won’t go hungry.”
“Very funny,” Izzy says. “Short humor. Now I know I struck a nerve.”
I bend down to pick up the wieners and feel something shift along my backside. Thinking it’s the waistband of my panty hose slipping down the last few inches and that they will be pooled around my ankles soon if I don’t act, I abandon the wiener grab, wrap the ones I already have in my napkin and shove them
at Izzy. “I need to hit the ladies’ room,” I tell him. “Be right back.”
Several steps later I hear Izzy call to me in a hoarse whisper. I ignore him, wanting to get to the ladies’ room before my panty hose turn into knee-highs, but he calls again, louder this time. Irritated, I turn to look back at him and realize that most of the other heads in the room are doing the same. Then, as Izzy gestures for me to stop and wait, the heads all turn toward me.
I don’t know what Izzy is up to but I’m not about to be deterred from my mission. I wave at him and continue toward the rest room. Seconds later I hear the first snigger and some sixth sense, some internal antenna, tells me I am the cause. Paranoid, I glance over my shoulder and see Izzy waving frantically now, moving toward me as fast as his stubby legs can carry him. Along the periphery of my vision I sense several people watching me with bemused expressions on their faces, but when I turn to look at them, they quickly turn away.
An instant later I become aware of a cool breeze on my cheeks—and not the ones on my face. I reach back tentatively with one hand and gasp when I realize that the seam in the back of my dress has pulled itself apart. I turn and slowly back into the nearest wall while everyone in the room giggles and pretends not to see what I’m doing.
Izzy finally catches up to me, breathless and red-faced from his exertion. “Your dress,” he mutters. He squeezes his lips together hard.
“If you laugh, Izzy, so help me, I’ll pummel you.”
“I’m sorry.” His mouth twitches and spasms as I stick my hand between me and the wall and examine the damage. At least eight inches of seam is open, maybe more. The waistband of my panty hose is halfway down my cheeks, cutting across them so that they bulge through the seam opening like a four-pack.
“Damn Olga and that stupid bow,” I mutter.
“What bow?”
“There was a bow on the back of this dress and I made Olga take it off. I don’t think she sewed things back up as well as she should have.” I keep glancing around the room, seeing heads huddle, hearing whispers and giggles. I have a bad feeling I’m going to be the joke du jour come Monday and silently wish for a bolt of lightning to pop out of the sky and strike me dead. Then I nearly jump out of my skin when all the windows in the room light up bright for a second and a rumble of thunder shakes the building. Of all the times for God to finally start listening to me.
“Get me out of here, Izzy,” I say, my voice low and thick. “Get behind me, stay close, and follow me out to the car.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, working to suppress a giggle. I want to pop him one but I need him to get me out of the room first and away from all these laughing, watching eyes. Thank goodness the rip is down low in the dress. Otherwise, Izzy wouldn’t be tall enough to cover the damage.
He moves in and stands as close to me as possible, close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath through the sleeve of my dress. “Ready,” he announces.
I turn slowly, Izzy following my every move as if we are practicing some sophisticated dance step. We walk out of the room together, moving our legs in synch, Izzy sticking so close to my backside he looks like a tumor on my ass.
When we reach the parking lot, I see that my hope for a lightning strike is becoming more viable with each passing minute. Streaks of it flit across the sky off in the distance and thunder booms all around us. It isn’t raining here yet, but the air has that thick, ozone smell to it that says a deluge is on its way.
I hurry toward Izzy’s car, no longer worried about him keeping up. I am still a good ten feet away when the sky opens up and releases sheets of icy cold rain that slake down my back into the dress. Belatedly I realize that I’ve left behind my shawl, which would have covered up my gaping seam nicely. Ah, the wisdom of hindsight, so to speak.
By the time I squeeze myself into the front seat of Izzy’s car, I feel and figure I look like a drowned rat. Izzy climbs in, glances over at me, and snorts a laugh.
I give him my best glare. “A little heat would be nice,” I say through clenched teeth. “And don’t you dare say one word about the dress, or the rain, or anything else. Just take me home. And don’t tell Dom about this either. Understand?”
“I understand.” It’s a token answer. We both know he’ll tell Dom the entire story the minute he gets home. But for now, I need my delusions.
Izzy starts the car, pulls out, and, moments later, cold air is blowing in my face. The heater in the car takes forever to warm up and Izzy is convinced that running the blower on high helps to speed the process along. I start to complain but suddenly a horribly loud sound, like rocks hitting the car, make speech nearly impossible.
“Hail,” Izzy yells over the noise. “Damn it. It will ruin my car.”
I am less concerned about Izzy’s car than I am the hail. Wisconsin is no stranger to killer tornadoes and, all too often, hail is the precursor. I stretch my neck out as far as I can and peer through the windshield at the dark sky. A streak of lightning flashes, blinding me, but my ears still work and I can hear the wind howling outside the car, screeching and screaming that it wants in.
“Izzy?” I holler. “Do you hear that wind?”
Izzy nods but he doesn’t try to speak. He white-knuckles the steering wheel, his speed down to a crawl as the hail continues to pummel us. I don’t know how he can see where the road is because no matter how hard I look, I can’t see it at all. Finally, he makes a turn, eases the car over to one side, and stops.
“I can’t see well enough to drive in this,” he says. “Let’s wait here a bit.”
I nod, thinking it’s a good idea, but then another flash of lightning streaks down from the sky and I see where Izzy has parked. Panic fills my throat.
“Izzy?”
“What?”
“You just pulled into Whispering Pines.”
“So?”
“So what is Whispering Pines, Izzy? I’ll tell you what it is,” I say quickly, not giving him time to breathe, much less answer. “It’s a freaking trailer park. You pulled into a trailer park in the middle of a thunderstorm. A thunderstorm that could easily be spawning a tornado as we speak.”
I stare at him, waiting for him to shift the car back into gear and hightail it out of there. Instead he stares back at me, a look of confusion on his face.
“For heaven’s sake, Izzy. Don’t you get it? This is a trailer park! You might as well hang a sign outside that says, TORNADOS WELCOME HERE. Everyone knows that trailer parks are the first to go in any tornado. Hell, they’re tornado magnets.”
He stares at me, his mouth hanging open. “You know, sometimes I think you are truly nuts,” he says.
“Fine, be a skeptic,” I tell him. “But think back on all the news footage you’ve ever seen of tornado damage. What’s the one thing you always see? A trashed trailer park. Every time. Think about it.”
He squints his eyes and gives me a look that says he is about to consign me to the nearest loony bin. But then he assumes a faraway expression and I know he is replaying those news reports in his mind. Another bolt of lightning zips across the sky and he looks out the window at the neat rows of trailers.
“Oh my God,” he says finally. He reaches down and quickly shifts the car into gear. Then he creeps back out onto the main street and tries to stay on it as best he can. The hail stops almost as quickly as it started but driving rain and sleet come in its place, some of the drops splashing hard and thick, like overripe cherry tomatoes.
By the time we make it back to the house, the storm is still blowing furiously and the darkened windows everywhere tell us that the power is out. Since the automatic door opener won’t work, Izzy parks just in front of the garage.
Dispensing with any niceties, I say, “See you tomorrow,” pry myself out of the car, and run for the cottage. I can’t move very fast as my feet are numb from both cold and a lack of circulation and the thick nylon in the panty portion of my support hose is like an iron band around my thighs, hobbling me. A flash of lightning momen
tarily blinds me, making me trip on the front steps. Cursing, I rub my bashed shinbone a moment before I struggle back to my feet and limp my way to the door.
Once inside, I kick off my shoes, hike up my dress and peel off the hose, tossing them aside. I give the light switch a cursory try, but nothing happens. Feeling my way through the darkness, I head for the kitchen. I think of Rubbish in the split second before he decides to rub against my feet and I do an awkward little side hop to keep from stepping on him. I lose my balance and fall again, coming down hard on my left hip and elbow. Wincing with pain, I feel a warm wetness run down my arm that I am pretty sure is blood. I sit up, issuing forth with every cuss word I know. I call to Rubbish and as soon as I feel him at my feet again, I scoop him up and hold him close to my chest.
With the cat safely tucked away, I get off the floor and make it to the kitchen without further incident. I find a candle and some wood matches in a drawer and give myself a meager ring of light. Now that I can see, I put Rubbish back down and carry the candle toward the bathroom, setting it on a table just outside the door. I dig a towel out of the closet beside the toilet and plop down on the edge of the tub to dry off.
Beyond the flicker of the candle’s light, I can see the window in the upper part of my front door as well as the two windows on either side of it. All of them are covered with thin, gauzy curtains and as I’m looking toward the window on the left, another brilliant bolt of lightning turns the night into day. And just outside the window, a shadow in the shape of a person appears.
At first I think it’s just my imagination, but then I see that Rubbish is standing in the middle of the room staring at the front door with his back arched and his fur standing at rigid attention. The chill I feel in my marrow is from more than just the icy rain.
I know the shadow isn’t Izzy or Dom—it is much too tall—but judging from the broadness of the shoulders and the overall physique, I am pretty certain it’s a man. And I reason that anyone who is out in this sort of weather is either too stupid to live or up to no good. Images of Karen Owenby’s dead body flash through my mind. The inquiries I’ve made into her life—and death—flash through as well. Have I gotten close to the truth without knowing it? Close enough to make someone think of me as a threat?
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