by Darcia Helle
“So how can I help you, Mr. McCormick?” Lucianna asked.
Ian dragged his gaze away from the stack of file folders. “Please call me Ian.”
“I’m Lucianna. Although I’m often reminded that ‘Lu’ is more fitting for my profession. Either one works for me.” She smiled and leaned in closer. “You’re obviously nervous. I hope my being a woman isn’t a problem for you. I’m very good at my job.”
“No. I mean, I’m sure you are,” Ian stammered. He ran his hand over his eyes, more for an excuse to break eye contact than anything else. She was just too sexy. And he was about to make a complete ass of himself. “This whole thing is crazy,” he said. “My situation. Being here is probably a total waste of your time.”
Her eyebrows lifted but she said nothing, just watched him. Ian squirmed, like a child in the principal’s office, waiting to be chastised. A quick escape was sounding good when Lucianna said, “Why don’t you tell me what brought you here. It might not be as crazy as you think. Besides, you’re here already. And I have an hour put aside. So if you don’t talk to me, I’ll be forced to do paperwork, which I truly despise.”
He looked up and realized that she was smiling. That beautiful smile that struck him somewhere deep.
Ian opened his mouth and let the words spill out before he changed his mind. “It’s my mother. She saw something. Or something was done to her. I don’t know. But, whatever it was, it traumatized her. She rambles on about being watched and she can’t remember anything.”
Ian suddenly realized that he was speaking far too fast, rambling in his own way. He stopped, took a deep breath. Lucianna remained quiet. He could feel the intensity of her eyes, even though his own gaze remained fixed on the folders.
His voice was calmer when he spoke again. “Her doctor… psychiatrist… says she’s repressing the memory of whatever happened because it was too traumatic. He claims that other memories somehow act as a trigger, so she represses them as well. Sometimes she’s almost normal. Other times she chants and rocks back and forth, babbling stuff that makes no sense.”
His fingers ached from gripping the arms of the chair so tight. He let go, flexed his fingers, blew out a heavy breath. He heard the defeat in his voice as he said, “To put it bluntly, my mother has lost her mind.”
Finally he looked up, met Lucianna’s eyes. He was grateful to see that she wasn’t smirking. He said, “I need you to find out what happened to her. Otherwise I can’t help her. And she might just stay this way forever.”
***
Lucianna was sitting with her elbows on her desk, her fingers laced, and her chin resting on top of her hands. She’d watched Ian closely as he told his story. She had no doubt that he loved his mother and was desperate to help her. That was evident in his eyes, his body language, and his voice.
His sensitivity contrasted sharply with his rugged looks, his raw sexuality. With that thought she averted her eyes and leaned back in her chair. She definitely needed to get her hormones under control.
“I’ll need as much background information as possible,” Lucianna said. “Such as your mother’s typical routine prior to the incident. A list of her friends, your family. And I’d like to meet her. Would that be possible?”
“You mean you’ll do this?” Ian asked. “You’ll help me?”
Lucianna laughed. “You sound stunned, Mr. McCormick.”
“Ian. And I guess I am.”
“I’ll help you Ian.”
Chapter 8
Alison pulled the door open. She gave Ian a frazzled smile as she stepped aside to allow him into the house. Her blonde hair had been pulled up into a sloppy ponytail. Loose strands fell around her face. A streak of dirt ran across her left cheek. The white jersey that had been so crisp just two hours ago was now covered with mud splatters resembling a game of connect the dots.
Ian suppressed a chuckle as he moved past her into the foyer. “Kids up to no good?”
Alison rolled her eyes. “They decided to have a mud ball fight out back. And naturally they included Archie.”
“Oh no.” Ian couldn’t help but laugh. Archie was their 80-pound golden retriever. “I’m sorry I missed the show.”
“Sure, laugh it up.”
Alison stood with her hands on her hips, trying to look stern. At only five-feet tall and 100 pounds at most, petite in stature and carefree by nature, looking stern was no easy feat for Alison. But now, covered in mud, she missed stern entirely, landing somewhere closer to sulky adolescent.
Alison sighed and almost smiled. “Someday you’ll have kids of your own to torture you endlessly. Then I’ll get my revenge.”
“I sure hope so,” Ian replied. He had a sudden vision of Lucianna. Considering the context, having kids and all, the unexpected invasion of Lucianna into his thoughts was disturbing. He quickly changed the subject. “Is Rob back yet?” he asked.
“He’s in the basement. Hiding.”
“Ah. The master of conflict avoidance.”
Ian took a step into the living room, then stopped short and burst into laughter. Each boy stood in an opposite corner. Both were stripped down to their Spiderman underwear. Their hair, normally light brown, was now black and caked with mud. Their faces were splattered with dried mud, as were their arms and legs. And their hands were completely covered, the mud now cracking like sand in a parched desert.
Both boys wore expressions of utter defeat. Nick dared a quick glance up at Ian. He pursed his lips and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Gutsy little guy. Alex, on the other hand, didn’t raise his eyes from the floor. He wasn’t about to risk further punishment.
Alison came up beside Ian and said, “I had to wait to bathe them. I was afraid I’d drown them in the damn tub.”
“Yeah, I see your point.”
“Rob needs to bathe Archie. You two dare walk out that door before he bathes that dog and you’ll both be cleaning mud out of your trucks for the next century.”
“Doesn’t Archie hate baths?”
“Yes. What’s your point?”
“Can’t I just stand in the corner instead?”
Alison shook her head and flashed Ian a wicked grin. “Absolutely not. Bathe the dog or endure my wrath.” She turned toward the boys and clapped her hands sharply. “Alexander and Nicholas, march straight to the bathroom. Do not touch a thing.”
Ian suppressed a chuckle as they walked past, practically on tiptoes, each taking great effort to keep the dirt from falling onto the floor. As Ian turned toward the basement, he said, “Good luck, Ali.”
“Yeah, you too,” she called in reply.
Rob was seated at his desk, his back to Ian. He held a pencil in his hand and was shuffling through papers. Definitely the motions of a man working hard to appear busy.
Ian rounded the desk and plopped into the chair beside it. Rob dropped the pencil and started to rise. He said, “You can tell me all about your meeting on the way to Home Depot.”
“We have to give Archie a bath first,” Ian said. He sounded like a petulant teenager being forced to clean his room before he could go out. Odd how that tone could just creep right back in after all these years.
Rob groaned, dropped back into his chair. Ian said, “I don’t know what you’re grumbling about. I’m stuck with clean-up duty and I don’t even live here.”
“How bad is it?” Rob asked.
“I haven’t seen the dog. The kids look like mud creatures from some weird science fiction movie.” Ian leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk and rested his chin on his hands. “You didn’t even go up there to see what the commotion was about, did you?”
“I heard Archie barking like hell,” Rob admitted. “I was going to check things out. Was halfway up the stairs when I heard Alison screaming at the kids and the dog, heard the words mess and mud, and decided to take refuge back down here.”
“Such a brave guy. Always willing to jump right into the battle when needed.”
“Some day you’ll figure out the art in b
eing a successful father is to know when to retreat.”
“Words of wisdom that I shall treasure forever.”
Rob tossed his pencil at Ian. “Screw you.”
Ian batted his eyes. “You only wish that you could.”
“Let’s go hose down Archie before I inadvertently visualize that statement.”
As they gathered the towels and soap, Rob said, “So tell me about this mystery receptionist. Was she as sexy as the voice implied?”
“The receptionist,” Ian said, “is a man. And probably not sexy by either of our standards.”
“A man? So you didn’t get to meet the owner of the sexy voice?”
“Oh, I met her. Just not in the capacity in which I expected.”
Rob stopped in front of the sliding doors, looked out at the mountain of mud that was once his dog, and sighed. “Shit.”
“Yup.”
“Okay, stop talking in riddles already. What happened?”
Ian pulled the slider open, quickly sidestepping Archie as the dog bounded over for a greeting. He said, “That sexy voice belongs to Lucianna Martel, owner of Martel Investigations. And my new private investigator.”
Dried mud rained on the deck as Archie happily raced back and forth between the two men. Rob ran a hand over his eyes and muttered, “No wonder my mother laughed when we told her we were having twin boys.”
They walked out to the back lawn. Rob said, “So? Does she live up to that voice?”
“And then some. She’s got this long dark hair and the sexiest green eyes. And the way her jeans clung to her just right, I -”
Rob started to laugh. Ian said, “What’s funny?”
“You’ve got it bad, my boy,” Rob replied.
“Hey, I’d have to be dead not to notice.”
“She married?”
“I don’t know,” Ian muttered.
“You must have noticed if she was wearing a wedding ring.”
“She wasn’t. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“When do you see her again?” Rob asked.
“She’s coming over tonight to meet my mother.”
“Sort of like a reverse of the high school dating protocol.”
“Christ,” Ian muttered. “Let’s get this dog washed before I decide to leave you on your own with him.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“You don’t think so?”
Rob shook his head. “You’re afraid of Alison. She’s too good with revenge.”
“Hey, it ain’t my dog.”
“You want to tell her that?”
“Shut up and hand me the hose.”
Chapter 9
Lucianna stepped out of her black Pontiac Solstice and, with briefcase in hand, dragged herself up the walk to her condo. The sun escaped from behind the clouds, its rays zapping her with a jolt of electric energy. Maybe thirty minutes on her deck would revitalize her. Mondays sucked.
The air smelled of burning flesh. She wrinkled her nose at the scent known to spark hunger. For her, it sparked nausea. Being vegetarian in a world of carnivores also sucked.
As always, Dylan greeted her at the door. She could never hold on to her foul Monday mood when she saw him. He meowed, then stared at her, waiting to be picked up and greeted properly.
Lucianna tossed her briefcase to the side of the living room and scooped Dylan up in her arms. She cuddled him close, scratched beneath his chin, and asked about his day. He didn’t reply. Go figure.
“I’ve got a meeting tonight,” she told Dylan. He meowed, as if protesting her future departure. “I know. Monday’s our night to rot on the couch.” She put the cat on the floor and gave him a final scratch under the chin. “I’ll make it up to you,” she said. “Extra treats at bedtime.” He rubbed against her leg and purred. She took that as forgiveness.
In the kitchen, Lucianna popped open a can of tuna and egg dinner for Dylan. It smelled almost as bad as the barbecue next door. Dylan, however, was elated, purring and munching at the same time.
She then turned her attention to her own dinner. She’d planned on a stir-fry, some brown rice or maybe pasta to go with it. Now she stood looking at the bin of vegetables in her refrigerator, thinking about washing them, chopping them, and the subsequent mess she’d have to clean. She waited, watching the vegetables, thinking maybe they’d jump out onto the counter and take care of the process themselves. No such luck.
Why was it they could send people stomping around the moon, yet they couldn’t make an automatic kitchen? The Jetsons had the right idea. Push a button and out comes your meal. That sort of technology made much more sense to her than running around in space.
She shut the refrigerator, grabbed a banana and a box of crackers, and filled the kettle with water for tea. Ten minutes later she was on the couch, Dylan snuggled beside her. She’d taken some papers from her briefcase and was studying her notes between bites of banana.
Corinne McCormick was 48 years old. Had been working as a stylist at Mirror Image for 15 years. Had lived alone, prior to Ian moving back in. Divorced 20 years ago. Sane one day. Crazy the next.
Not much to go on there. This certainly wasn’t her typical case. In fact, she couldn’t remember anything even vaguely similar. How did a person go about tracing the cause of insanity?
Okay, the woman wasn’t insane. At least not according to her son. Maybe temporarily incapacitated was a better way of phrasing it.
Ian clearly loved his mother and was devastated by all of this. Had that clouded her judgment? Made her too easily believe his assessment of his mother’s mental health? Maybe she should get permission to talk to Corinne’s psychiatrist, get his take on the situation.
Her thoughts drifted to Ian. Not too many men would sacrifice so much of their life in order to take care of their mother. He certainly didn’t look the part of a sensitive family man. Those ripples on his stomach had been more than evident beneath his thin T-shirt. And his face had that sort of chiseled effect that reminded her of a Greek god.
She groaned, looked down at Dylan and said, “What is wrong with me?” Dylan had no reply.
A glance at the clock told her that her 30-minute retreat onto the back deck was no longer an option. At least not if she planned on showering before leaving to meet Corinne. Normally she’d put off the shower in favor of a bit of the fading sunshine. But tonight she’d be seeing Ian. And somehow that made a difference.
Lucianna did not care to examine her reasoning behind this. Instead she packed her papers back into her briefcase, gave Dylan a kiss on his furry head, and bounded up the stairs.
***
“I’m telling you, she doesn’t know anything.”
“And I’m telling you she must.”
The two men sat in the front seat of the Chevy Impala. They were parked in an alley that ran between a liquor store and a rundown bar. One of those places where you could find the same people slumped on the barstools at 10 in the morning and 10 at night.
It was now 6 in the evening. A prostitute lingered on the corner, probably no more than 25 but looking at least 40. Two young men stood on the sidewalk, talking loud, marking their territory. They wore the standard uniform of the area: baggy pants that somehow managed to defy gravity by not slipping immediately to the ground, oversized designer T-shirts, and sneakers that cost more than their lives were worth. Their look, their words, their attitude – all of it was indistinguishable from the other street thugs.
Both men had their windows up but the smell of garbage still managed to seep into the car. “The sweet scent of human decay,” muttered the passenger.
The driver moved his gaze away from the prostitute. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“She knows something. She has to.”
“Yeah, well if she did, there’s not much chance of us finding out what it was.”
“Fucking mess,” the driver said.
“Sure as hell is.”
“We had no way of knowing.”
<
br /> “If you’d listened to me -”
“We had no choice,” snapped the driver. “So let it go. We need to tie this together or we lose. That means we stop dwelling on the fuckups and find a way to get the answers we need.”
“There has to be another way.”
“Yeah? So when you figure it out, clue me in, will ya?”
The passenger sighed, ran his hand through his dark curls. “I don’t like this.”
“You think I do?”
“What do you want to do?”
The driver grabbed his Camels from the dashboard. He pulled one out, flicked his cheap red Bic, and inhaled deeply. Through a stream of smoke, he replied, “Talk to her again. It’s not like we’re loaded with options.”
“Yeah.”
“Might get lucky.”
“Doubt it.”
“Any other suggestions?”
“No.” The passenger cracked his window, seeking air before his lungs collapsed. The smell of garbage flowed in. So much for breathing. “You still want to keep an eye out?”
“For now.”
“Okay.”
“You know the end will justify the means.”
The passenger nodded, although he wasn’t sure he believed that anymore.
Chapter 10
Ian emerged from a quick shower, then succeeded in shaving without cutting himself. Ridiculous to be this jittery. He rationalized his feelings by telling himself that he was worried about how his mother was going to react. Whether or not she would cooperate. If she would be lucid or if her behavior would be like something out of an episode of The Twilight Zone.
Valid concerns. But he was a terrible liar, even when lying to himself. He was on edge because Lucianna Martel was coming to his house. Plain and simple.
Ian pulled on one of the few pair of jeans he hadn’t ruined at work, along with a plain white T-shirt that was fairly new and free of stains. Then he slipped into his loafers, not bothering with socks. He glanced at the clock for the third time in the past five minutes. Just over 20 minutes before she was due to arrive. He’d better check on his mother.
