by Cassie Page
On the way back to the house, the Marimba chords of Olivia’s iPhone sitting on the dashboard rang out. She almost drove off Highway 101 when she saw that it was Mrs. Harmon. Previously, the grand dame communicated only on monogrammed, 20-pound stationary that she stuck into Olivia’s mail slot. She hit the speakerphone and said a cautious, “Hello.”
Mrs. Harmon didn’t mince words. “Ms. Granville, I am entitled by law to the quiet enjoyment of my premises. All week I have had to put up with police cars, reporters and I don’t know what else. Oh yes, and that woman who is staying with you taking over the back yard in her ridiculous outfits.”
Olivia tried to interrupt but Mrs. Harmon plowed on. “If you don’t remove those impediments to my comfort, I shall have to resort to legal means.”
The nerve of that woman. Doesn’t she realize she is under suspicion for murder. Under her breath, Olivia said, if I were you I’d lay low, girlie. And then cooed, “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, Mrs. Harmon.”
She didn’t climb to the top of the partnership ladder in record time without learning how to mollify quarrelsome clients. “I’m sure you understand that when it comes to the movements of the police department, my hands are tied. And as far as the press is concerned, as long as they don’t step on my property, they are legally allowed to congregate in their cars and on the sidewalk. And as far as Tuesday is concerned, I’m sure if you met her . . . ”
Mrs. Harmon interrupted to bark, “If you don’t handle this situation you will hear from my lawyer,” and hung up.
When she got home and relayed the story, Tuesday said, “Do you think she stole those balls from a from a wrecking crane?”
Olivia shook her head in disgust. “That’s all I need, a tenant dispute. I’m starved. Let’s have some lunch.”
“But you just came home from a lunch date?”
So while Olivia raided the refrigerator for leftovers, she told Tuesday about her meeting with Elgin, ending with, “And the worst of it, I never got any of that fabulous tuna salad.
Tuesday ruminated. “Ollie Mollie, that’s not a bad idea. Looking at that agreement. It might get you off the hook with Richards. This could exonerate you. Problems solved.” She swept her palms together in an all cleaned up gesture.
“Oh,” said Olivia, making a sandwich of cheese and greens, “and then what will we do with it? Rush over to Richards’ office and say, na na, look what I’ve got? And then he’d pull out his handcuffs and say, na na look what I’ve got. That’s breaking and entering. First jail cell to your right.”
Tuesday held up her phone. “We don’t have to steal it. An exact reproduction would do.”
“And then what, post it on Facebook?”
“First things first. Let’s get a copy of the document and then we’ll figure out what to do with it.”
“Absolutely not. Last word on the subject or I’m throwing your herb tea in the compost pile.”
“Yeah, well I hate that stuff in the first place,” she joked. “Where’s the Veuve Cliquot?” Then opened a bottle of vitamin water.
“You know, Tues. I didn’t really know what I was going to do if Elgin forked over any incriminating information about Sabrina. But now my nose is twitching. It’s time for me to take matters into my own hands. It’s Wednesday and I have a boatload of work to do to arrange my sale for Saturday. If we don’t figure out who did this and nail the culprit, my sale is toast, and I’ll be on that plane with you back to Los Angeles.”
“I’m with you girlfriend. What do you have in mind?”
Olivia the list maker reached for the notepad on the counter. Then she combed through her purse for her favorite Mont Blanc pen. She had to unload her keys, her phone, her travel makeup kit, her hairbrush, her retro packet of Sen Sen, her Chinese silk tissue holder, her mini-sewing kit, her golf ball, her roll of masking tape, her card of thumbtacks, her empty prescription bottle and an envelope of Herbs de Provence seeds with lavender. At the bottom she found her pen, then started repacking her purse.
Tuesday grabbed the Herbs and held them up with a question mark on her face. Olivia said, “For my herb garden. When I have time to plant one.”
Tuesday sniffed the packet. “Are these from that trip to Provence where we visited that medieval garden and you came home wanting everything to look like an illuminated manuscript?”
“The very one.” Olivia held out her hand for the seeds.
“Holy Mrs. Greenjeans! These are so old they’ve turned to powder.” She started to toss them in the trash under the sink.
“Don’t! I keep them for good luck.” Olivia grabbed them out of her hand and added them to the hoard on the counter. She shook her purse into the trash container under her sink to rid it of dust and started repacking her collection of bits and pieces, stopping with a puzzled look. “Wait. Where’s my flashlight?”
“Huh?”
“You know, the flashlight I used to get in last night. Didn’t I put it back in my purse?” The memory of breaking into her own home came back to her. “No, you know what I did? I put my purse, my keys and the flashlight on that little pine table by the door to take off my shoes. I picked up everything but the flashlight. Hold on a sec while I get it.”
Olivia ran down the stairs and trotted through the maze of furniture in the showroom towards the front door. A moment later she screamed, “TUESDAY! It’s gone. My flashlight is gone.”
Chapter Twenty-Three: Tummy Trouble
Was it rotten fish? Was Hugo’s responsible for the vise-like cramp sending electric shocks through Olivia’s mid-section? She looked at the clock. Six a.m. Too early to check on Tuesday to see if she were afflicted with food poisoning, too. But then it had been two days since the halibut at Hugo’s. She crawled out of bed and tiptoed into the hallway past the guest room to pull the heating pad out from under the carefully stacked towels.
“The towels,” she said to herself, mentally slapping her forehead. She had to get the towels from the dryer. Mrs. Harmon will have a fit if she needs to use the laundry and finds Olivia’s towels in the dryer. But they would have to wait, she explained to herself, doubling over with a stab of pain. Back in bed, the heating pad warmed quickly, but the spreading fingers of heat only increased the intense pain in her belly. Within an hour she was gasping with each breath and Tuesday came knocking.
“What is it? I heard you moaning. What’s wrong?”
Tuesday made her some chamomile tea. When she brought it into the bedroom, Olivia said, “How are you feeling? We ate the same thing.”
Tuesday thumped her belly. “Fine.”
The tea helped and Tuesday left her to rest and soon Olivia fell back asleep. Two hours later she woke unable to stand up straight from the cramping. She crept into the kitchen where she found Tuesday poring over an herbal text. When Olivia said she hadn’t recovered, Tuesday asked it there was a natural foods store in Darling.
“I think I need some real medicine, Tues. Something’s wrong. I just don’t know a doctor here.”
Olivia checked the contact list on her phone and punched in the number for Champagne and Cobwebs, the stitchery shop across the street. “Kitty, this is Olivia. Listen, I hate to bother you but do you know the name of a doctor? I have stomach grumpies and think I need to be seen.”
Tuesday listened intently to Olivia’s end of the conversation. “Oh, yes. I’ve heard of him. No, that’s all right. Is he an internist or Family Physician? Oh, I see. Okay. No, don’t trouble yourself. I can look up his number. Thanks, Kitty. No I have a friend with me, I’ll be fine. Thanks a lot. Yes, you too.”
Olivia put the phone down and took another sip of tea. “The stars are against me on this one, Tues. She recommends Dr. Chandler, Greta Blackman’s physician. We saw him at the police department. She said otherwise I’d have to go into San Rafael to an Urgent Care Center. He’s one of those private physicians who only accepts cash, no insurance.”
Olivia was describing the growing practice of doctors who avoided insurance c
ompany bureaucracy and let patients file their own insurance claims. In return for the inconvenience, it was easier to get an appointment and they made themselves more available to their patients..
“You’re looking green, Olivia. See if he has an opening. There’s no way you can ride that bumpy road into San Rafael.”
“Coming from someone who hates doctors, Tuesday, that’s an endorsement. I must look pretty awful.”
A few minutes later Olivia had an appointment with Dr. Chandler at 11:30. She fingered Detective Richards’ card, then picked up her phone and dialed his number. He picked up on the second ring and Olivia asked if anyone suspicious had turned up. He wasn’t in a chatty mood. He gave her a curt, no, how are you? When she mentioned her food poisoning, he recommended Dr. Chandler, as well, and said he had to go.
Olivia relayed this to Tuesday, commenting with a sneer. “His brunette bombshell is probably waiting.”
Tuesday answered, “Tell me again how much you don’t care about that guy?”
Olivia finished registering at the reception desk and joined Tuesday on a down cushioned sofa opposite a wall of tropical fish.
“Honestly, Olivia, can’t doctors think of anything more original than tropical fish in their waiting rooms?”
The receptionist overheard and offered, “They did a study and found that fish are very calming. Dr. Chandler is an amateur ichthyologist.”
Tuesday whispered out of the corner of her mouth, “She’s got more makeup on than all the Kardashians put together,” then pointed to a two-inch thick encyclopedia of exotic tropical fish on the table next to her. “I guess he is,” she said for the benefit of the receptionist.
“O,” she added, drawing her attention to a three-inch bright blue creature swimming by. “I could use eye shadow that color.”
Again the receptionist showed off her knowledge. “Blue German Ram. Not as rare as it once was. A cichlid from Venezuela.”
Tuesday mouthed, “Chiclets? Like in gum?”
The girl at the desk patted her extension-rich hair and was about to expound on South American species, but Tuesday leaned over and gave her a thousand watt smile. “Thanks, hon, but TMI.” The girl gave her an equally fake smile right back.
But it was a separate tank that caught Olivia’s attention and took her mind off her cramping belly for a moment. The receptionist couldn’t help herself.
“That’s the tank for the Scribbled Mappa. They can get rowdy with the other fish.” She mouthed chomping and swallowing. “If you get my drift. So they get their separate tank.”
Ever the designer, Olivia noted the few fish in a big tank.
“Yeah, they like a lot of real estate or they eat one another. At $400 a pop, it’s cheaper to get them their own designer digs.” She put up her hand to pause the lecture and listen to her headset. She unplugged herself and got up. “They’re ready for you in the back. Come this way.”
Tuesday jokingly picked up the encyclopedia and said, “I’ll wait here and bone up on my, what are they?”
The assistant repeated, “Scribbled Mappas.”
After a nursing assistant noted her vital signs in a brand new chart, Olivia sat on an examining table clutching a lilac paper gown around her shoulders that she was told to don with the opening in the front. While she waited for the doctor, she pondered whether she should remind him that she had seen him and Mrs. Blackman in the police department. Before she could formulate an answer, the door opened and Dr. Chandler entered wearing a black lab jacket that, if it weren’t for his name embroidered over the pocket, could have passed for a summer weight sport coat. As befitting the doctor to the billionaires, Olivia guessed he had them made on Savile Row.
Chandler quickly picked up her chart and scanned his assistant’s notes, eliminating the need to shake hands. He sat on a surprisingly ordinary rolling stool and said, “So, we meet again. Not that we were formally introduced at the police station.”
Olivia got to the point as well. “Dr. Chandler, I know this is awkward, considering the, um, circumstances, but I have been in scary pain and you were the only doctor available in DV. I couldn’t stand the thought of having to drive into San Rafael. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to slight your expertise, but given your relationship with Mrs. Blackman, it would have been better for both of us for me to see someone else. But . . . ”
The doctor interrupted her. “Miss Granville, you signed a privacy statement so you understand that I take patient confidentiality very seriously. Obviously, I will not discuss any of my other patients with you, nor will I reveal to anyone else that I am treating you. Why don’t we forget about the unfortunate incident at the police station and tell me what I can do for you.”
Olivia described her symptoms and Dr. Chandler questioned her about her medical history. She told him she’d had several similar episodes in the past couple of years, but never this severe.
After examining her and sending her through the roof when he palpated her left abdomen, he said he thought she had IBS.
She gave him a blank stare.
“Irritable bowel syndrome. I would guess the recent stress brought it on. I have my own lab here and I’ll run some tests. Your belly is tender but I don’t detect any swelling or hard masses. That’s a good sign. If everything is normal, which I suspect will be the case, I’ll give you some medication. Even if you recover in an hour, I want to see you back here in a week. Your symptoms could mask a number of problems, some severe, such as a bowel obstruction. I don’t see that yet, but if your pain gets worse, call me immediately. Even if it’s in the middle of the night. Just call my office number and the answering service will find me.”
He directed Olivia down the hall where a technician drew blood and offered her a glass of orange juice. She pointed to a juicer and large basket of oranges. “I squeeze it myself.”
Olivia refused. “I don’t think I can eat or drink anything right now.”
Then the tech sent her to the front desk where the assistant tallied up her bill. Olivia looked at it and joked to Tuesday, “Glad I didn’t take the juice.”
The assistant said, “Oh, we don’t charge for that.”
On the way home Tuesday complained about the receptionist who wouldn’t shut up about fish while Olivia was being examined. “If I had to listen to one more fact about puffer fish I would have jumped into the tank myself.”
Olivia was about to say I didn’t know they were kept as pets, but her phone rang, a blocked number. Should she risk listening to a crank call or let it go into voice mail. What else could go wrong? She’d live dangerously. “Hello?”
A female sobbed into her ear. “Hello? Hello? I can’t understand you. Who is this?”
The only part of the blubbering she could understand was Carrie. “Carrie, oh my god, what’s happened. Slow down so I can understand you.”
Carrie gave her a sad tale of losing her mother’s earrings. Her mother didn’t mind if she wore her jewelry as long as she asked first. But her mother had left the house early and Carrie didn’t think it would be a big deal. Turned out they had real diamonds in them.
“Do you think Tuesday could help me find them? You know, because she’s like a psychic and all? I mean, like she was so right about Cody and a new guy coming into my life.”
“Carrie, have you met someone?”
“No, I’m just saying. Now I just have to find those earrings.”
“Okay, I can’t speak for Tuesday. Come over to the house and you can ask her yourself.”
Tuesday opened the door for Carrie. Olivia had locked up the shop and gone to bed with a pain pill as soon as they got home from Dr. Chandler’s. When she heard Carrie and Tuesday coming back up the stairs, she came out to the kitchen to greet Carrie, who had arrived with The Salted Caramel’s signature pink box full of macaroons and the heart shaped pastry Tuesday loved. She handed it to Olivia.
“You know, like, to say thank you.”
She had a second paper sack from The Salted Caramel and set it besi
de her purse, explaining that it was a special delivery. Olivia put the pastries on the counter, explained she was unwell and excused herself, suggesting Tuesday take Carrie down to the showroom for some privacy. As they headed for the stairs Tuesday asked, “Do you have something that will swing like a pendulum? Something that you use often that will have your energy on it.”
Carrie dug into the bottom of her backpack and pulled out a Minnie Mouse Disney key chain. Tuesday looked back at Olivia as they descended the stairs and gave her a whatever eye roll. “Perfect, Carrie. That will do.”
Olivia’s pill had started to work and after fifteen minutes, she was drowsy but pain free. She made a pot of tea and took it down stairs with a tray of mugs and plate of pastries.
Tuesday and Carrie were standing in the middle of the show room floor. She tiptoed to a corner and quietly set the tray on the floor so could pull three side chairs around a small table. She poured tea into one of the mugs and blew on it to cool it while the psychic and client finished up.
Carrie’s face sagged, telescoping the results as they joined her. “It says the earrings are right here.”
“What?”
While Carrie helped herself to a pastry and Olivia quickly stuck a napkin on her lap, Tuesday explained. “The pendulum said they weren’t in her room or her car, so we narrowed it down to them being close to her. Then she asked if they were on her person. Got a no answer. Naturally. I said, ask if they were near her and the answer was yes. But she turned her backpack and pockets inside out.”
She shrugged apologetically to Carrie. “We’re dealing with the realm of mystery. Perhaps the answer will become clear after you’ve had a chance to sit with the session for a while.”
Olivia glared at her, then Carrie said, “Listen you guys. Thanks for trying, but I gotta hustle. Let me get the pastries for Mrs. Harmon and I’ll be outta here.”
Olivia blinked. “Mrs. Harmon?”
“Yeah. I drop off some pastries every once in a while. The Cooks used to do it. You know, like when they lived here? They really liked Mrs. Harmon and asked if I would do it if I happened to be in the neighborhood. I’ve been neglecting her so I figured since I was, like, how much more in the neighborhood can I get?”
