Lies in White Dresses

by Sofia Grant

  Francie stewed. “You certainly got her to unburden yourself to you.”

  “Well, it takes a while for the color, so we had plenty of time to talk. You might want to know that she is in her room back at her hotel afraid to come talk to you because she’s worried that you’re furious with all of them—her, Mr. Meeker, and Mr. Fitzhugh.”

  Francie winced; how she wished she would never have to hear that name again. “What on earth does he have to do with any of this? Why must you even mention his name?”

  “Because,” June said, “Alice’s beau is his nephew.”

  Chapter 50

  Willy

  A man with his forearm wrapped in a bloody towel had been slowly advancing on Willy for the past half hour, sliding from one plastic chair to the next when she wasn’t looking, and she had had just about enough.

  “I’ve got a boning knife in my purse,” she said, just quietly enough so the nurse at the desk couldn’t hear. “You come any closer and you’ll be bleeding from both arms.”

  The man quickly retreated and picked up a magazine.

  Willy supposed it was partly her fault, for not changing clothes before taking a taxi to the hospital emergency room, but it had taken her the better part of an hour to get ready and she had been hoping that the evening might still be salvaged.

  But when she gave her name to the nurse and inquired as to Mr. Harry Carothers’s condition, Willy was told that she would need to take her boyfriend straight home to rest if he hoped to make it to his important event tomorrow.

  Willy had considered asking the nurse if she was aware that his “important event” was his wife’s funeral. Now, almost two hours later, she was running out of patience.

  She got up and headed for the nurse’s station again, her progress hindered by her red satin stilettos, but before she got there the swinging doors opened and Harry was wheeled out. Bandages crisscrossed his nose, his face was swollen, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was wearing nothing but a hospital gown over his trousers, but he was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Hey, gorgeous!” It came out “gor-jush.”

  “You the girlfriend?” the attendant said, looking her up and down. “Mr. C here told me you were a dish, and he wasn’t kidding!”

  “How nice,” Willy said frostily.

  “Be a sweetheart and bring the car around, doll,” Harry said, digging in his pocket for his lucky rabbit-foot key chain and tossing it to her. He sounded like a drunk with an adenoid problem. “They won’t let me drive.”

  “Is something wrong with your feet too?”

  “Mr. C is feeling no pain, Miss,” the attendant said, and chuckled. “He probably shouldn’t be doing much walking—wouldn’t want him to take a spill and end up right back here. Oh, and he bled all over his shirt so we’re sending him home in County General’s finest.”

  “You’ll wait with me, Hal, won’t you?” Harry said, plucking at the hem of the attendant’s scrubs.

  “Sure thing, Mr. C.”

  Willy turned without a word and stalked toward the exit.

  Outside, the night sky was obscured by streetlights. Willy fumed as she made for Harry’s white Corvette, which was parked in a no-parking area with a ticket stuck under the window wiper. She crumpled the ticket up and tossed it on the ground, wondering how Harry had managed to drive himself to the hospital. She’d seen fellows get their noses broken in bar fights and keep throwing punches like nothing had happened, but Harry wasn’t that kind of guy. In fact, he was more likely to run from a fight, which made it all the more infuriating that he’d managed to get himself clocked on the one night they had to be alone together.

  Willy was damn sure going to get to the bottom of this.

  She started the engine and floored the gas before she put it in gear, just to hear the engine roar. After canceling both of their planned weekend visits since she’d arrived in Reno, Harry had sworn they would make the most of tonight, especially since he would probably not be able to get away again until all of the out-of-town guests were gone—and he’d made an ominous comment about having to get back to Las Vegas as soon as possible.

  Willy pulled into the circle drive, where the attendant was helping Harry out of the wheelchair. He looked like an old man with his gown flapping open like that. At least this solved one problem, namely how she was going to get out of having sex with Harry tonight, since there was no way the antibiotic had killed the wretched clap yet.

  “You poor darling,” she said, feigning concern as the attendant eased Harry into the passenger seat. “Let’s get you home.”

  “Now, Miss, here’s his pain pills. He shouldn’t have access to them right now—he’s likely to forget he already took them and knock himself out. Can I count on you to take good care of him, sweetheart?”

  Willy didn’t care for the man’s suggestive tone. She snatched the bottle and stuffed it in her purse. “I’ll take care of him, all right.”

  “Thanks for everything, Hal!” Harry called out the window.

  “What’s that smell?” Willy demanded as she put the car in gear.

  “Oh, that—I puked all over myself in the waiting room. Listen, doll, could you stop by a liquor store on the way back to the hotel?”

  Willy shot him a look as she rolled her window down to get some air. “You’re doped up on painkillers, Harry. I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be drinking right now.”

  “I’m celebrating,” Harry leered, grabbing his crotch. “We can still have a good time tonight, baby—my face got a little beat up, but there’s nothing wrong with the rest of me.”

  “That smell—and your face—aren’t doing anything for your sex appeal, Harry. Besides, I don’t know what you’ve got to celebrate. Your wife’s funeral is tomorrow. You should probably act like you care, even if it’s just for your sons’ sake.”

  Why had she said that? Charlie had treated her like gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Frank was probably worse, from what Harry had told her about him.

  “My sons are the ones who did this to me, for your information,” Harry said, sulking.

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” He turned his face toward the window.

  What on earth was going on? Harry was thick as thieves with his boys—at least Frank. Chip off the old block, takes after his dad—to Harry, these were the highest compliments he could give his older son. With Charlie he was more critical—the boy was soft, too sensitive, lacked his killer instincts.

  Maybe Charlie had gotten tired of playing second fiddle?

  Harry’s silence didn’t last long. “It’s not my fault she offed herself,” he mumbled.

  “Cripes!” Willy exploded. “Could you just show a little respect? She’s dead!”

  “You’re the one who called her a she-devil, Willy.”

  “Only because of all the things you said about her! You know what, Harry? I’m starting to wonder if any of it was even true.”

  He glanced at her, worry comically rearranging his mangled features. “Of course it was. That woman made my life hell, I can tell you that.”

  “Well, it’s a funny thing, because I spent an evening with her best friend, and she says Vi was an angel. The sweetest woman on earth.”

  “You did what? What did you want to go and do something like that for?”

  “I didn’t know it was her, obviously! Tell me something, what did you think was going to happen when you put both of us in the same hotel? I mean, how dumb can you get, Harry!”

  “I had to.” Now he was whining, an effect that was heightened by his nasally voice. “I couldn’t get my deposit back.”

  “Are you telling me you put me through hell so you could save a few lousy bucks?”

  They were pulling into the drop-off area in front of the hotel, where three or four cars already waited in the valet line. Everyone was returning from their Saturday night out, which made Willy even angrier—she was supposed to have been wined, dined, plied with gifts, and treated like a p
rincess, and instead she was stuck with a foul-smelling old creep who was acting like a spoiled baby.

  “What did Francie say about me?” Harry asked.

  “What makes you think we talked about you?”

  “There was always something strange about those two—they spent so much time together I should have dug a tunnel between our two houses. I think Vi loved Francie more than she loved me.”

  “It would serve you right,” Willy said, “considering you probably loved every woman you took to bed more than you loved your wife.”

  “Don’t be that way, baby.” It suddenly seemed to have occurred to Harry that he could end up spending the night alone if he didn’t patch things up. That, or his medication was wearing off. “Let’s not fight anymore. Come up to my room and give me a backrub, and I’ll buy you something nice tomor—uh, the day after tomorrow.”

  Willy eased the car forward. There was only one car ahead of them. “It had better be something really nice, given the way you smell.”

  Harry give her thigh a squeeze. “How about some nice emerald earrings to go with your beautiful eyes?”

  Willy turned to glare at him. “The next piece of jewelry you give me had better be a diamond ring. You promised!”

  Harry cringed. “But that was before all of this. You said it yourself—I need to show some respect. I’ve been thinking—maybe we should wait. It wouldn’t look right, me getting engaged so soon after Vi passed.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Willy shrieked. “Since when do you care what people think of you and me?”

  “Since I’ve got to earn a living, that’s since when. My next job is for a goddamn Bible-thumper, for Christ’s sake. What’s he going to think if you come to dinner in one of your trampy little outfits and—”

  “Trampy?” How dare he! She’d spent six dollars on this skirt and another fifty cents to have the hem taken up. And Harry himself had bought her these shoes—and asked her to wear them to bed!

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Get out.”

  “Are you nuts? I’m injured! Besides, this is my car.”

  Something in Willy snapped. His car, his clients, his crazy violent sons—and apparently, his trashy bit on the side who was good enough to give him head in this very front seat, but not good enough to take to a business dinner. Well, she wasn’t having it!

  “If you don’t get out right now, I’ll scream!”

  Harry laughed as he reached over and grabbed for the keys, saying, “This is why you broads should never be allowed to drive.”

  And then, three things happened all at once.

  Willy screamed as loud as she could.

  Somehow, her foot came down hard on the gas pedal.

  And as the Corvette crashed into the back of the car ahead, she caught a glimpse of Francie’s daughter Alice, arm in arm with a tall, skinny red-headed young man, with a shocked expression on her face.

  Chapter 51

  Alice

  Ow, ow, ow!”

  “Stop being a baby,” Alice scolded, dabbing at Willy’s chin with a cotton ball soaked in iodine. “It’s just a little sting. You’re lucky you don’t need stitches.”

  “It hardly matters if I’m going to be swollen up like a melon,” Willy said. “I probably look as bad as Harry!”

  “Who cares? It’s not like anyone’s going to see you. If you come anywhere near the service, my mother’s likely to have you arrested.”

  “For the ten-thousandth time—”

  “I know, I know—nothing’s your fault, everyone’s being horrid to you. Really, Willy, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

  “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” Alice’s boyfriend asked. His name was Raymond, or Ronald, or something like that, and now that Willy was past the shock of the crash and had been whisked into the hotel manager’s office while the staff dealt with Harry and the police, she had time to look him over more carefully. He was actually rather handsome, in a scrubbed and wholesome kind of way—not her type, but she could definitely see the appeal.

  “Thanks, honey, but unless it’s forty-proof, I think I’ll pass.”

  “Actually, Reggie, darling, do you think you could see if you could find some coffee?” Alice asked him.

  Reggie—that’s what it was. He gave Alice an adoring smile before letting himself out the door.

  “Well, well,” Willy said when he was gone. “You didn’t do too badly for yourself, did you? What’s he doing here, anyway? I thought this was a family-only sort of thing.”

  “No one knows he’s here,” Alice admitted. “I was, um, rather upset when I talked to him last night, and so he took the day off work and drove here to surprise me. He got a room down the street.”

  “One of the good ones,” Willy said—though it came out more sarcastically than she intended.

  “Hold still, I’m going to bandage you up now,” Alice said. “Though you really should have let the medics do this.”

  Willy made a face. “There’s no way I was going to stay out there with all those cameras!”

  “It wasn’t ‘all those cameras,’” Alice said, rolling her eyes as she carefully applied the bandage. “It was one camera, and that was a salesman in town for a convention, not a journalist.”

  “Oh,” Willy said, disappointed. “Then I suppose there’s not much chance of me getting a copy of the photo.”

  “Whatever do you want it for?” Alice had started to repack the manager’s first-aid kit. “Forgive me for saying so, but I doubt you’re looking your best right now.”

  Willy laid a hand on her arm. “Listen, Alice. I get that you don’t have any reason to think well of me, but Harry and I are finished. I wanted that photo so I can remember what an idiot I was, and not make the same mistake again.”

  Alice regarded her in surprise before bursting into laughter. “Willy, between the two of us, we’re burning every bridge in town! What do you say we get a drink after all when Reggie comes back?”

  Chapter 52

  Charlie

  Charlie Carothers woke up on the morning of his mother’s funeral feeling both better and worse than he had the day before.

  Attempting to sit up in bed, the dull ache in his torso became full-on agony. Gingerly, he felt along his rib cage, half expecting to feel ragged shards of bone jutting from his skin. His face was no better: the vision in his left eye was limited to a cloudy band, the eye still swollen nearly shut.

  Charlie sighed and tried again, holding on to the bedpost to pull himself up. The marines had taught him a couple things about getting the tar beat out of him: first, it was always worse the second day. And second, the best antidote was to get the blood moving.

  He called down to room service and ordered eggs, a rare steak, and two glasses of tomato juice. While he was waiting, he shaved with great care around his scabs and bruises, and then he stared at himself for a long time, wondering when the image in the mirror had started to look so unfamiliar.

  He remembered a day years ago, when he was only eleven or twelve, and his mother had marched him to the bathroom and made him look at his reflection. His offense: stealing a slingshot from Montgomery Ward.

  “Tell me something, Charlie,” his mother had said, her hand on his shoulder. “Do you like what you see in the mirror? Is that someone you could trust? Someone who keeps his promises? Someone who never forgets how fortunate he is?”

  That day, Charlie had crumpled, his denial giving way to shame. He’d agonized over the first part of his punishment—a handwritten apology to the store manager promising to pay back every cent—and been grateful for the second, which was to help their elderly neighbor clear out her attic. Physical exertion, even at that young age, helped Charlie make sense of the world; by working himself to exhaustion, he found peace.

  But the man who was staring back at him today didn’t look as though he could lift a single crate. He looked like hell, and it wasn’t just his injuries.

  When Charlie had returne
d from the Pacific, his mother had encouraged him to take a little time to decide before joining his father’s company. “You’ve earned it,” she urged. “Look up your old friends. Take a trip.”

  Even then, he’d known she wasn’t keen on him working for Harry, though she’d never admit it. His mother had been, above all, loyal to her family.

  But Charlie hadn’t known what else to do with himself. There was a certain kind of restlessness that some of the men came home from war with, a hyperawareness, a vigilance that never seemed to go away. But that wasn’t Charlie: his need to keep moving came from elsewhere, from deep inside himself. Even his earliest memories of his father throwing him a football or teaching him a wrestling move or handing him a shotgun were tinged with the knowledge that his path lay elsewhere. There had been no way to escape it, not then and not now—for almost his entire life, Charlie had been on a doomed mission to please a man who could not be pleased.

  The food came, and Charlie ate without tasting it. He brushed his teeth and put on his watch. Almost nine o’clock—still two hours before the service was to begin. He’d pick up June and help her get everything ready at the house; anything to keep busy. So far, Charlie had managed to keep his grief mostly at bay, fighting it like a broom whisking floodwater—far from ideal, but effective enough until he found some other outlet.

  Another thing: he had no desire to ride in a car with his father. Later, at the cemetery, protocol would need to be observed; a united front would need to be presented. He and Frank would flank their father, and though nearly all the mourners would know that Harry and his wife had planned to divorce—and a few would also know that he had a woman waiting in the wings—they would play the part of a grieving family. But Charlie intended to put that moment off as long as possible.

  There was one more thing Charlie needed to do before he drove to the house, however. He put on his suit jacket, grabbed his keys and wallet, took one last look at his neatly made bed, the photograph of him with his mother that Alice had brought him, and let himself out.