The First Ghost
Page 25
“Of course not.”
“It’s something I can do, Mother. I’ve made different choices from you.”
“Have you really?” Her mouth was set in a thin, hard line. “I worry. Receiving your ‘gift’ seems to have unsettled you. Losing your job and your apartment. Getting a dog. On the bright side, there’s your doctor.”
“He isn’t my doctor.”
“Well, not yet. But he will be. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. This one is a keeper. I realize the last thing you want is advice from your mother, but I like Ethan.”
I digested that for a moment. “When did you know Walter was the one?”
She didn’t react and I wasn’t sure if she’d heard me. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “He was handsome and charming and...nice. I was at a point in my life where that was enough. He wasn’t bothered by my having kids. In fact, he doted on you two. Being with him was comfortable.” She sighed. “It’s a good thing people pair up when they’re young and attractive. I love Walter, but I’m not sure I would pick him out of a crowd now. Lord knows, I’ve got a few miles on me, as well. But the most wonderful thing about Walter is that he thinks I’m wonderful. If that makes any sense.”
I decided it did.
And that Mother probably thought I was thinking about Ethan.
* * * *
The emergency room was just like I remembered: cold linoleum, cracked vinyl chairs, overzealous fluorescent lighting, ghosts roaming the halls. “Look at them all,” Mother whispered.
“Shh.”
Careful not to acknowledge the hovering spirits, I approached the front desk to check in. It was an imposing U-shaped monstrosity in blue. The harried nurse handed me a clipboard before she even glanced up. When she did, her mouth fell open.
“Oh my God. Aren’t you Ethan’s girlfriend?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Her fingers were already on the intercom button. “Dr. Feller to check-in. Dr. Feller to check-in.” She stood. “Are you okay? Of course you aren’t. Look at your face.”
I hadn’t seen it yet, but I was betting from everyone’s reactions that I was quite attractive.
“Portia! Oh my God, what happened?” Ethan was justifiably freaked out. “Don’t we have an empty spot?” he asked the nurse.
“I think three checked out. We were–”
Oblivious to the dirty looks and gasps from the folks who had probably been waiting for hours, Ethan steered me by my elbow to a cubby and pulled the green curtain around us. Mother winked at me as he snapped it shut.
I tried to explain what had happened without scaring him to death, but it’s pretty hard to smooth over something like my boss tried to kill me.
He gently probed my side before pronouncing I did indeed need stitches. “You’ll heal a lot faster and with less scarring. I don’t like Dermabond for something like this, over the ribs. And you’ll need an X-ray on your nose.” He gently touched it.
“Ow!”
“I don’t think it’s broken. If it is, nothing seems displaced, which is good. I think it’s just soft tissue trauma, but you look like a prize fighter.” He shone a light in my eyes to check for concussion. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me what was going on. I’ve worked with some unstable people before, but none of them have ever tried to kill me.”
“It’s a first for me too. I had no idea things would get so out of control.”
“Two people in your office were murdered. How could you not tell me something like that?” He shook his head. “I thought we were honest with one another.”
“I barely knew you. We were just starting out. Ow!” The numbing shot stung enough that I might have preferred to get the stitches without it. He left for a moment and returned with a little tray of suturing instruments.
“Maybe you should stay at my place for a little while. What if this guy gets out of jail? Are the police taking this seriously?”
I pictured the look on Fierro’s face. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”
“I’m serious, Portia. You aren’t safe.”
“I don’t need a guardian angel. And I have a mother, thank you.”
He stopped and straightened up. “I’m sorry. I’m a little freaked out. This is out of my depth here.” He kissed me softly. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
“It’s nice to be worried about. I guess it would be bad if you weren’t upset.”
“You’re going to be very sore. I’ll give you a prescription for something a little stronger than ibuprofen if you promise not to borrow the hearse.”
I raised two fingers. “Scout’s honor. When do you have an evening off?”
He pursed his lips. “Monday?”
“You owe me a date on Monday. I’ll give you the opportunity to spoil me.”
“How could I say no to that?” He bent down and probed my side. “I’m glad you quit that place.”
* * * *
Harry bounced around the kitchen, humming to himself. He rummaged in the back of the fridge, emerging triumphantly with two Cokes he had secreted behind a leftover pot roast. He slammed something in the microwave and punched the buttons.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Popcorn.” Staccato from the microwave confirmed this. “It’s movie night at the Mahaffey house. I’ve got the original four.”
“You mean...”
“Night of the Living Dead, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Nosferatu and Dog Soldiers.” Harry considered these the finest horror movies ever made, each with its own theme: zombies, aliens, vampires and werewolves.
“I thought Violet didn’t like horror movies.”
“She doesn’t. But Violet is at an art show in Topeka with her friends. It’s just you and me tonight. Twin powers activate.”
Mother hadn’t wanted to go out with Walter, but he had insisted she stop being a helicopter and I had to agree that she was hovering. The sooner I could move out, the better. Living with Harry was becoming more and more appealing, but I was about to disappoint him.
The microwave dinged, and he pulled the bag out by its corner, dropping it and shaking his fingers as the steam burned him.
“That’s a lot of popcorn for one person,” I commented as he dumped the steaming bag of fluffy kernels in a large stainless steel bowl.
His hand paused with the large shaker of sea salt. “You have a date? I thought Dr. Wonderful was working.”
“He is. It isn’t a date. I’m going somewhere with Fierro.”
He raised both eyebrows. “So you do have a date. It’s about time you and your cop–”
“It isn’t a date, Harry. We’re going to church.”
He set down the salt shaker. “Are you kidding?”
“No. No, I’m not.” I crossed my arms and leaned back against the counter. “We’re trying this nondenominational church, and they have a Saturday evening service.”
“What’s wrong with Mass on Sunday? It would thrill Mother beyond belief if you went with her.”
“I haven’t been in forever.”
“Me, either. So?”
“So it feels funny. But with all I’ve had in my life lately, I want to give church another try. Fierro and I are trying it out together, like the buddy system.”
“I still think it’s a date.”
“It’s not a date. It’s church. Church can’t be a date.”
“Anything can be a date.”
“You’re so wrong in the head.”
Harry followed me out of the kitchen with his popcorn. Billy raised his head and started to get up from his pallet on the couch. I stopped to rub his soft ears. “You had better stay with Harry, Bub. This church is open-minded, but not quite that far.” I studied my reflection in the mirror and hoped I had done a credible job hiding the bruising. Maybe it would be dim in there, and no one would notice.
Billy grunted as if he understood and settled back down.
“Just you and me, dog,” Harry said.
Billy lowered his head, let out a long sigh a
nd closed his eyes. He snored softly. He looked like Frankendog with his shaved side and stitches running along. We had matching wounds, although mine was a lot smaller.
“Snubbed by the dog,” Harry said.
I went to answer the doorbell. Fierro looked good in the new jacket I had insisted he buy, much better than the bulky, heavy jackets that hid his shape, which was a nice one.
“The tailor did a good job.” I stepped back to let him in. “It fits you.”
He tugged at the sleeves. “It feels good. I like it.”
“Next thing is a full suit. You need at least two good ones.”
“Hey, Harry.” Fierro looked over my shoulder. “How’s the hero dog?”
“Sleeping like a baby. How’s it hanging, Detective? I take it Portia decided you can’t dress yourself.” They shook hands and slapped shoulders.
“Aw, she’s got pretty good taste.”
Harry looked over at me. “That remains to be seen.”
My ears burned. “We need to be going. I don’t want to be late. I hate walking in after things have started.” I eased into my jacket–lifting my arms still hurt with the stitches in my side–scooped up my purse and patted Billy’s head one last time. He didn’t even pause in his snoring.
“I’m ready if you are.” Fierro held out his hand.
Even though I’d get grief from my brother later, I put my hand in his. “Me too.”
* * * *
It was late afternoon and I was exhausted from working two funerals back to back. Fortunately the train wasn’t crowded. I boarded without too much trouble and sat alone in a car. No demons. No Hephzibah.
I leaned my head back against the seat, closing my eyes. I’d promised to meet Fierro that evening to talk about Starla’s situation. We still had her murder to resolve. At least that was the reason we both claimed. I really just wanted to see him.
Someone cleared his throat. “Have you seen my mother?” He twisted his hat.
I had despaired of seeing him again. “Mr. Lester?”
“Yes. Have you seen my mother?”
I smiled. “I know where she is. I can help you get there.”
“I would appreciate that. I’ve been looking for...for quite some time.” He frowned. “I’ve forgotten how long. I’ve forgotten a good many things.”
“It’s okay,” I told him. “I can help. I’m a Mahaffey. It’s what I do.”
Marguerite Butler
Marguerite Butler believes that life is simply better with a little mystery and romance added to it. If it weren't for her pesky day job as a lawyer, she would spend her entire day spicing up life with her stories.
Marguerite lives in Texas on a farm where she raises miniature donkeys, poultry, boys and a variety of other critters. When she isn't writing or tending to the critters and children, she is usually curled up somewhere with a book.
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2011 Marguerite Butler
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.
First Electronic Edition: February 2011
ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-232-4