Syd looked through the peephole and saw that Amaryllis Burton was on the doorstep, wearing a white lab coat with her name tag and the clinic name stenciled on it in pink cursive. Syd hesitated. Unfortunately, the glass panels on either side of the double door, frosted though they might be, made it clear that someone was there inside.
Syd swung the front door open and tried to smile. Amaryllis, medium height and plump, fair-skinned but plagued by an outrageous number of large brown moles, gave her a big smile beneath eyes brimming with hostility.
“Taking it easy today?” Amaryllis said, showing all of her teeth. She looked Syd up and down, taking in the sweatpants, the sweatshirt that read “The Only Bad Coffee Cup Is an Empty Coffee Cup,” the chestnut hair expensively streaked with blond highlights piled carelessly up and held by a comb, and the face clear of makeup. Even in grubbies, Syd knew she outclassed the woman on the doorstep, whose overstretched tan sweater and A-line brown skirt had been worn to the nub. She knew Amaryllis resented that Syd’s nails were recently manicured. French tips, though, short and squared-off. Syd refused to consider herself spoiled or frou-frou. Amaryllis could get her nails done if she wanted to, it just wasn’t her style. She treated looking dowdy as if it were part of a healthier lifestyle, like buying organic fruit.
Amaryllis glanced down at the novel Syd held splayed against her thigh; the front cover showed a woman stepping into a carriage. Syd was a sucker for Regency romance and collected first edition Georgette Heyers.
“Am I interrupting something?” Amaryllis said, pursing her lips at Syd’s book.
“I was just getting ready to walk out the door.”
Since she was barefoot, the lie was blatant, but Syd rarely felt it necessary to be polite to a woman who so often and so clumsily put the moves on her husband. Ted was convinced that Amaryllis was in love with him, although Syd thought Amaryllis, to her credit, was mainly interested in his prestige and bank account, in that order. Ted often thought women were in love with him because he was a doctor, and considered it part of the job. Usually he was wrong.
Syd had told him long and often that she would not tolerate affairs and there would be no second chances, but that if he had the bad sense to fool around with Amaryllis Burton she would kill him just for having bad taste. Syd didn’t like Amaryllis, but Amaryllis hated Syd. Syd had everything that Amaryllis wanted—a prominent doctor for a husband, a house full of children, and what looked, from the outside at least, like a lot of money.
“I won’t ask to come in,” Amaryllis said, glancing over Syd’s shoulder into the house. She offered Syd a thick file. “I thought I’d better drop this by.”
Syd took the file, which meant she had to open the screen door, which meant, by the rules of good manners, that she had to ask Amaryllis in.
“You sure you don’t want to step inside?” Syd asked.
Amaryllis eyed the dogs. For a moment Syd held out hope, but Amaryllis inclined her head and stepped through the open door, squealing in what was meant to pass for pain—and in all fairness might actually be pain—when Ethel jumped up and pushed both paws against her stomach.
“Bad dog,” Syd said halfheartedly. They were bad dogs, both of them, and every attempt she made to train them was undone by her bevy of outrageous children, who thought dogs were put on the earth to be spoiled.
Syd led Amaryllis into the living room and saw the raised eyebrow of disapproval. The truth was, Ginny had spent the last two weeks on the road in her RV, and the house was much the worse for wear. The open bag of cookies that Syd was having as a late brunch was set up high on the mahogany and marble antique table so that the dogs couldn’t get to them without a lot of effort. The dogs circled Amaryllis, who made shoving motions with her hands that interested them momentarily, but the smell of the cookies was more to their taste, and they settled side by side beneath the table, long strings of drool coming from their maws in anticipation of what those Keebler elves could do. Syd gave them both a cookie, then remembered to offer one to Amaryllis.
“Just one, I guess, I’m starved. We’re about run off our feet at the clinic today, so I thought I’d better bring these over on my lunch hour.”
Syd flicked the open file: the monthly list of clinic expenses. That was odd. The information was confidential, and one thing Ted was a bear about was keeping the financial end to himself, as in to herself, since she kept track of most of it. She and Mr. French.
“I’m surprised Mr. French asked you to bring this over,” Syd said.
Amaryllis, who had been reaching for another cookie, looked up. “I offered.”
“Really? And he took you up on it?”
“Oh, I don’t mind.”
Syd smiled, and Amaryllis smiled back, basking in martyrdom. Syd’s smile, however, hid a great deal of anger. She could access this information via her computer. There was absolutely no need for Amaryllis to have the printout, and only she and Mr. French, and Ted, of course, had access. There was no way on this earth that Mr. French would hand any financial information over to anyone who could glance through the file at their leisure on their unnecessary drive over.
Obviously Amaryllis was lying.
Nosy, of course. And always anxious for an excuse to come to the house and stare at Syd as if she were an exhibit in the museum of things Amaryllis desired. Something not quite right here, Syd just wasn’t sure what, and she was wise enough not to push until she found out. Which was hard, because she wanted to ask the woman, in that formal icy polite voice that made even Ted nervous, just what the hell she thought she was doing. It might well be nothing more than an excuse to come out to the house, or she might be insinuating herself into the financial workings of the clinic. Amaryllis was envious of Mr. French’s authority, as administrator, over the nursing and support staff.
“How are the children?” Amaryllis asked, in that soft sad voice she used to remind everyone that her own child had died a lingering death of liver failure at the age of eight. It was how she’d met Ted—he’d been her son’s doctor. One thing led to another, and Amaryllis, who had begun by just hanging out at the clinic to “help,” had finally been hired. Ted said she was likely lonely, as her husband, whom Syd had thought might be imaginary until she’d finally met him at last year’s Christmas party, spent Monday through Friday on the road analyzing mortgage portfolios for investment firms. She had a brother she was close to, a truck driver, who lived in Sevierville, Tennessee. He and Amaryllis jointly owned a house they’d inherited after their parents died. Syd knew Amaryllis spent at least one weekend a month down there.
“All the kids are fine,” Syd said. She used to be kind to Amaryllis, but it was too hard. “Freddie loves first grade, and for the first time I have a whole morning and afternoon while all four are in school.”
“The lady of leisure? I’d go out of my mind with boredom.”
Syd did not like being called a lady of leisure. She worked her butt off as a mother of four and often was up late taking care of the clinic finances. Nor did she like being dropped in on and insulted in her own living room. But all she said was, “Don’t let me take up any more of your time.” Amaryllis, disappointed but defeated, followed her to the front door, head swiveling as she took in every detail of the messy and actually quite dirty house, to file away in the nasty wrinkles of her mind. She left with a smug smile of superiority, letting Syd know that no household of hers would ever be allowed to suffer so much slack and neglect, and that she had standards of homemaking and, most likely, motherhood that would leave Syd, literally, in the dust.
LENA
CHAPTER NINE
It is my opinion that for every intricately difficult and unfair situation, like that of Emma Marsden, there is an equally intricate and likely unconventional pathway that will get the job done—either by going over, under, or through the problem. All you need to remember is that you don’t have to play by any rules other than your own. It is always effective to keep in mind the goals, and fears, of all interested pa
rties.
The hero of this method of living is my ex-husband, Rick, who has always done things his own peculiar way. Which is why I was headed over to see him when the Emma Marsden videotape made the front page of the morning paper. Rick was no doubt busy with other things, but it is my opinion that my Ricky is a bit bored with his job. The problem is that his business brings him too much money and personal satisfaction to slow down. Rick works vaguely with a sort of listlessness at anything that doesn’t interest him. Acting was the only thing that fired him up until he started his business.
Joel is not jealous of Rick. This annoys me.
I wasn’t exactly sure of how to approach Emma Marsden’s problem. I only knew that the traditional way involving lots of research, and legwork, and legal advice, not to mention an actual attorney, ridiculous fees, and months and months duking it out with the legal system, wasn’t going to help my client any time soon. And she needed help soon. She had come to the attention of both the Commonwealth Attorney’s Office and Child Protective Services, and there were no doubt many terrible things headed her way. We needed to move quickly.
There was actually a parking space in the restaurant lot of the Atomic Café, so I didn’t have to put the BMW on the small lawn of Rick’s office (and home—he and Judith live upstairs). I hesitated after walking through the front door. I smelled coffee and was considering helping myself to a cup, but it had an overcooked aroma, and frankly, I would much prefer that Rick make me a fresh pot. Also, there were a lot of phones ringing in the right wing of the building (right if you are facing in). It sounded very busy back there.
Rick’s door was shut tight behind a Do Not Disturb sign. I didn’t hear anything from behind the door, not even when I put my ear to the wood, but it is a thick door, so there was no telling. In the way of ex-wives universal, I ignored the sign and walked in, making sure to shut the door tight behind me, because once inside, I agreed with the sentiment that Rick should not be disturbed.
He had his feet up on the desk, and he was sound asleep, snoring even. Opening the door didn’t wake him up. Rick had always been a heavy sleeper.
I stretched out on the couch, facing him, and watched him sleep. Some of the papers had drifted off his desk, either from neglect, from a strong wind, or from being kicked off while he slept. I wondered how long it would take to let him wake up naturally, and thus be in a better mood.
I myself had slept pretty well, despite Emma Marsden’s problems. I felt a little guilty about it, but on the other hand, a little distance is a good professional qualification. I wondered if my life was going too well to make me an effective detective. On the other hand, with a mind no longer clouded by anger and emotion, my thought processes were clearer. I wasn’t obsessed with my work anymore, and was content to leave off after a reasonable day’s work and slouch around with Joel. He’d scaled his own hours back, or he did whenever he could, and we were turning into a couple of dull but happy homebodies. I remember thinking, quite some time ago, that it was good that he and I were both so ambitious about our jobs, because it meant that neither one of us was critical or unhappy with the other when work got in the way. Luckily, we’d both slacked off about the same time. True love.
“You’re awfully quiet over there, Lena Bina.”
“Ricky? You’re awake?”
“Have been since you pulled your car in outside. Thanks for not parking on the lawn. Although now you have a BMW it’s not quite as annoying.”
“It just happened there was a spot.”
“Did you really think I was asleep?”
“Yeah.”
“I was feigning sleep. And you—be serious now, Lena—you were totally convinced, totally, that I was asleep?”
“Totally. Why do you care?”
“Just rehearsing, Lena. I might eventually need to feign sleep, and it’s one of those things I was never good at. I’m honing my craft, as always.”
“Once an actor, always—”
“Lena. I’ll go back to it eventually. As soon as I get more staff trained and up and running and as soon as Judith and I get married.”
“She finally said yes?”
“No, I finally gave her an ultimatum.”
“You did?”
“Yes. I am too much in love to accept a half-assed commitment. All or nothing.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she’d think about it.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“Sarcasm noted but not appreciated. Do you think she’ll say yes?”
I knew of course that she would, she had told me as much last night before she and Ricky left, but I saw no reason to ease his worry. He would appreciate it all the more when she relented. I wondered how long she was going to let him dangle. It seemed a bit cruel of her, but then I am of the blurt-out-whatever-pops-into-your-head category of female.
“Rick, did you worry like this when you asked me to marry you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’d already told me you’d say yes. Refreshingly direct, Lena, you always have been.”
He pulled his feet off the desk and sat up in the chair. “Well, my dear, thanks for coming by.”
“Nice try.”
“Lena, there is no point in sitting there trying to get me to do your work for you, I have a business to run.”
“Okay.”
“Of course, my offer of an office beside mine, an office of your own, where you can work if you will promise to work without bothering—I mean, interrupting me, is still open.”
“Thank you.”
“But that doesn’t mean I’ll do your work for you.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
“Yes, you would. That’s why you’re here.”
“I didn’t want you to do my work for me, Rick. I just wanted your advice. But you’re right, I am interrupting, and I shouldn’t keep you from your day.”
He nodded at me. I just sat still.
“Okay, what?”
“This business with Emma Marsden. I mean, I know the best thing to do would be to consult an attorney, and read up on the law, and try to figure out what the cops have on her, and see if they have anything even remotely like a case, and maybe she should file suit, and then—”
Rick came up out of his chair and paced in front of the desk, hands behind his back.
“That’s quite good,” I said.
“What?”
“The pacing. Hands behind the back. Frowny-face. I would call it ‘concerned exasperation.’”
Rick’s face went a bit pink. “Thank you. And it wasn’t all faked. You are exasperating.”
I smiled up at him and waited. I felt sure he would tell me.
“Lena, you can do all of that, and you’ll get your client tied up in a fight that could last years. Meanwhile, she may wind up conducting a lot of that fight from jail, or under the scrutiny of a grand jury, and she’ll run up some god-awful legal fees.”
“I’m way ahead of you on that, Rick.”
“You … then why are you here?”
“Because your computer is better than mine, and you’re better at ferreting things out than I am, and I think the first thing we need to do is look into this doctor, this Tundridge, who made the accusation. Especially since he’s made three other accusations in the last five years. Also, you haven’t heard the best part.”
“About the sex tape? I was sitting right there in the living room—”
“That’s not the best part.”
“Depends on your viewpoint, Lena Bina. What did Joel tell you later? Did he watch it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t feel like I could press him on it after shrinking all his jeans.”
“I take your point.”
“No, the best part, or the most gruesome part—”
“Gruesome? Do not leave out a detail.”
“This whole thing started with the Tundridge Children’s Clinic—”
“I’ve heard
of it.”
“Congratulations, you get a cookie.”
“Did you say—”
“I said ‘cookie.’ Anyway, this clinic, which was started by Tundridge, and I think he owns the major stock in it, but it’s kind of a doctors’ consortium—”
Rick waved a hand at me.
“Anyway, the clinic called Emma and told her that they had some of her son’s remains, that were … how did they put it? Retained. Retained after the autopsy. And that she would have to pick them up, or she’d have to pay a storage fee.”
“Storage fee?”
“Yeah, evidently she had seen that on her bill and inquired, and then somebody in the office doing the paperwork called her and told her to pay the fee or come pick the stuff up.”
“When you say ‘stuff,’ my dear, what exactly do you mean?”
“I mean the child’s liver, his heart, his tongue. And some other parts, I think.”
Rick sat back on his desk as if he could no longer stand on his feet.
“Tell me you’re making this up.”
“No. I’m not.”
“And did this doctor have permission to keep all these … various bits and pieces? I mean, Lena, honey, this is grotesque. It’s bizarre, it’s—”
“I know. And you haven’t heard the best part.”
“The best part?”
“Or the worst part. Emma Marsden goes to pick this stuff up.”
“To pick it up?”
“Well, Rick, she was kind of in shock and she didn’t know what else to do. She didn’t want them to throw anything away. She’d thought it had all been buried with her son, you know, and she wanted to put him all together, so to speak.”
“Good lord.”
“So when she gets there, they take her down to this sort of basement pathology lab, and then the girl goes and asks management, you know, about a container or something, and finds out she’s in a shitload of trouble for, one, calling Emma Marsden in the first place, and, two, almost letting the parts out of the path lab. So she goes back downstairs and tells Emma that there’s been a big mistake. But by then Emma has seen her son’s heart in a jar—”
When Secrets Die Page 9
