Under the Skin

by Vicki Lane

  “Just set it there,” Gloria directed, pointing at the table between their chairs, “Phil will deal with opening it.”

  Her hand went to her pocket, there was the flash of a folded bill, and the young woman, now Gloria’s willing slave, turned to go.

  Though the cork put up a fight, Phillip was relieved that he managed to open the bottle with no more than a discreet pop—no showy foaming, thank god. Real French champagne too, he noticed; how much do you reckon they’ll charge for that? Ah, well, like they say—if you have to ask, you can’t afford it. Again, he found himself wondering just how rich Gloria really was.

  “I know you’re in a hurry to get back, Phil, but at least you can have one glass before you go.”

  He accepted, partly out of a curiosity as to what “real” champagne was like and partly with an ulterior motive—there were things he wanted to find out.

  On the drive over Gloria had resisted all his attempts to get her to talk about who, other than her current husband, might wish her harm. Her only response had been to say that she was sure there wasn’t anyone like that. And she had clammed up when he’d asked about earlier romantic entanglements. So, he told himself, leaning back and savoring the crisp dry wine, let her get a few glasses of this down the hatch. Maybe that will relax her enough to answer a few questions.

  It worked almost too well, he decided, glancing at his watch a half hour later. Gloria had slugged down three glasses while he had sipped at his first, cautious as a maiden aunt. And now it had come, a flood of words that had him wishing he could reach for a notepad.

  He was shaking his head in disbelief as almost an hour later he climbed into his car for the trip back to Full Circle Farm. For a moment he just sat, replaying the scene just ended. Then he reached for his cellphone and rang the house. There was no answer, only Elizabeth’s cautious message on the voice mail repeating the phone number and inviting the caller to leave a message after the beep.

  He left a message after the beep.

  “I’m on my way, sweetheart. Your sister insisted on being taken to Hot Springs and she’s safe and happy there. In the Rose Room, for cripes’ sake. I’ll explain when I get there. Love you.”

  Flipping the little phone shut, he started the car. As he was pulling out of the parking area, he saw Gloria come down the front steps of the inn, deep in conversation with a white-haired woman at her side. She pointed toward his car and waved briefly, then the two women continued their stroll out to the lawn.

  Phillip breathed a sigh of relief and continued on down the drive. After a quick stop at the Hot Springs police department and a few words with the officer on duty, he drove through the tiny town, noticing the summer profusion of lean hikers and chubby day-trippers wandering in and out of the little shops and eating establishments. On, across the railroad tracks and past the entrance to the spa, modest successor to a once magnificent hotel, and back to the highway.

  Gloria—what a piece of work! To look at her, you’d think she really was the dumbest of dumb blondes but he had to give her credit, she’d weathered some rough times.

  Again there was the resemblance to Elizabeth … the independence … the reluctance to share private problems … and yes, the strength too. It seemed that beneath the fancy clothes and brittle façade, there was a woman far more like his Elizabeth than not.

  Driving more or less on autopilot, his mind busy rehashing some of the things Gloria had told him, he was surprised to find himself already crossing the bridge at Gudger’s Stand. He slowed to see if the great blue heron was visible—he had caught the habit from Lizabeth, who was oddly superstitious about that bird—and scanned the lower reaches of the river. No luck.

  But just as he was almost to the other side, he was startled by a harsh creaking cry to his right and the sudden appearance of the heron rising on huge wings from the riverbank below the bridge. Phillip slammed on the brakes and sat watching reverently—another thing he’d caught from Lizabeth—as the great bird, long legs trailing, went flapping his stately way right over the car to continue upriver.

  As he turned onto Ridley Branch, Phillip found himself humming. Things were going to work out; he was sure of it. A quiet dinner for two—that would be nice. He had some time coming after last night—he could tell Mac that he needed tomorrow morning off …

  He was still humming as he got out of his car and headed for the house. Lizabeth’s Jeep was there with the hatch door open to show several canvas bags of groceries sagging against one another. Evidently, she had just gotten back from the store. Grabbing the rest of the bags, he took the porch steps two at a time, happy to be back home.

  Through the window on the porch he could see Elizabeth moving about the kitchen and he called out, “Hey, sweetheart!” He didn’t hear an answer but he wrestled his load of bags through the mudroom and into the kitchen where he plonked them down on the bench where the other bags sprawled.

  “Hi, honey, I’m home!” He grinned at her expectantly but she didn’t look up from what she was doing—which was taking what looked like freshly cleaned trout from a cooler and putting them into individual freezer bags.

  Trout? Where’d that come from, he wondered but before he could ask, he caught sight of her face.

  Unless he was badly mistaken, Elizabeth was angry. Very, very angry. Tight-lipped and quivering like a plucked string in a way he’d never seen.

  “Sweetheart,” he ventured, “what’s wrong? Didn’t you get my message?”

  At last her eyes met his. Their icy blue sent a chill through his body.

  “Oh, yes,” she replied, just a little too evenly, “I got your message. And so I thought I’d give Glory a call to see how she liked it over there. But when I reached the Mountain Magnolia Inn and asked to speak to Mrs. Lombardo, there was a little problem.”

  His heart sinking, Phillip tried to say something but she continued, ignoring his attempt to break in.

  “No Lombardo here, they said. Oh, I thought, she’s probably using her maiden name or maybe she’s gone back to Holst. So I told them that the guest in question was my sister and she had just checked into the Rose Room.”

  Another silvery fish slid into another plastic bag and Elizabeth ran her fingers along the seal. Her face was stony and he dreaded to hear the rest of her story. But he was like a man under a spell, unable to do anything but listen.

  “Imagine my surprise,” she continued, busy with the fish and not looking at him, “when the person on the other end giggled and said oh, of course, that nice Mrs. Hawkins. She—the person on the phone—had just delivered some champagne to that nice Mrs. Hawkins and her husband but she could find out if Mrs. Hawkins was available …

  “I told the person on the phone not to disturb the Hawkinses and I hung up.” She turned toward him, the last shiny fish drooping in her hand. “Maybe you can explain what’s going on, Mr. Hawkins.”

  Chapter 13

  Emergency Champagne

  Thursday, May 17

  There I was, threatening Phillip with a dead fish and feeling as though the Wicked Witch of the West was in possession of my body and speaking through my mouth, about to cackle I’ll get you, my pretty!

  What was I saying? What was I thinking, for god’s sake? Did I really believe that Phillip was fooling around with Gloria? Or was this some strange reaction I was having to the lust I had felt in my own heart (thank you, Jimmy Carter) a few hours earlier.

  Even as the words left my lips, I knew I’d made a mistake. The man I love was standing there, staring at me in utter amazement.

  “Who are you?” he asked, after a few uncomfortably silent moments had ticked by. “And what have you done with Lizabeth?”

  Covering the distance between us in two steps, he grabbed me by the shoulders, not roughly, but not particularly gently either. He ignored my gasp of surprise and brought his face close to mine, looking into my eyes as if searching for something. Stunned into speechlessness, I closed my eyes to escape that penetrating gaze. Then, without a w
ord, he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me so close that I could feel his breath in my hair and the beating of his heart against my body.

  Held tight in his embrace, I felt all the righteous anger—anger that I had knowingly stoked to flame by my imagination—flicker, sputter, and go out, leaving behind just the black ash of regret. The fish in my hand slipped to the floor and I put my arms around his neck. We stood there swaying slightly.

  “Hey, Lizabeth,” he whispered in my ear, “you want to hear a funny story?”

  “So there I was, shrinking back in that chair like a frightened virgin—hell, I did everything but cross my legs …”

  We were on the sofa, our feet up on the cedar chest, completely happy and completely relaxed. I had retrieved the fish from the floor and put it in the fridge to await cooking while Phillip had gone to the basement for one of the bottles of emergency champagne that I keep in the second refrigerator down there.

  Yes, emergency champagne—well, okay, sparkling wine—usually a Spanish Cava. Because you never know when there may be something to celebrate. Our family has always been big on celebrations—a needed rain, the first daffodil, the first snow, a bird-watching trifecta (i.e., spotting a male goldfinch, a male cardinal, and a male indigo bunting all at the feeder at the same time)—any of these served as an excuse to break out the cheap champagne.

  A narrowly avoided disaster is another good reason and it seemed to me that this was such an occasion. Besides, if Phillip was going to drink champagne with Gloria in the afternoon, it seemed only fair he drink it with me in the evening.

  The story, as he told it, was hilarious—from his driving my sister “disguised as a giant bug” to Hot Springs to his reaction when the innkeeper called Gloria “Mrs. Hawkins.” By the time he got to the part where he was sure she was about to make an assault on his virtue, I was helpless with laughter and the Wicked Witch had melted away—forever, I hoped.

  “There’s the Lizabeth I know and love.” He planted a kiss on the top of my head. “You want another glass of bubbly or do you want to save it to have with dinner?”

  “Dinner—now, there’s a thought.” I untangled myself from him and stood up, a little woozy with the champagne and the emotional roller-coaster ride I’d been on all afternoon.

  “That nice-looking trout you were waving at me—is that on the menu?” He trailed me into the kitchen and stuck the open bottle in the refrigerator.

  “Was I waving it? Well, at least I didn’t throw it at you. Would you get them out? They’re in a plastic bag right there on the top shelf. I thought I’d grill two and freeze the rest.”

  He brought out the pair I’d saved back for tonight and studied them with a professional eye.

  “These didn’t come from the grocery. I’d bet another bottle of that champagne they were swimming around this morning.” He leaned down and sniffed at them. “Maybe as late as midday—Where’d you get them?”

  Deep breath. What had I been thinking? Harice Tyler’s bedroom eyes flickered at the edge of my memory and disappeared.

  “There’s a trout farm up on Bear Tree Creek. You know where it is—just before that Devil’s Fork place, remember?”

  “I’d rather not.” Phillip grinned. “That was another time you caught me in a hard-to-explain situation. Thank god, we’re okay now … aren’t we?”

  Not waiting for my answer, he went on. “I don’t remember you ever getting trout there before, but I think it’s a great idea. Did you fish for them or …?”

  “Or,” I admitted. “The guy in charge threw in a little food and netted them for me. And killed and cleaned—”

  “Oh yeah, old man Tyler—I was out there one time last year. He’d called the department about someone getting into his ginseng patch. Quite a character but he’d talk your ear off. You want me to go light the grill?”

  While Phillip was tending the trout on the grill, I defrosted some of last year’s roasted cherry tomatoes, steamed some asparagus, and sizzled sliced almonds in butter to top the fish. A big salad of red and green lettuce with baby beets and carrots, chopped green onion, vinaigrette, and we were good to go. And the rest of the champagne, of course.

  As we took our places at the table, outside the dining room window a gentle rain began to fall and I felt blessed in all things. God’s in His Heaven; Gloria’s in Hot Springs; all’s right with the world.

  “Phillip, I’ve been such a bitch—” I began, but he stopped me by lifting his glass.

  “To us,” he said.

  “To us,” I agreed.

  We sat in the rocking chairs on the porch, savoring the lingering twilight and the refreshment of the rain—the welcome coolness, the clean smell, the calming patter on the metal roof. Molly and Ursa came hurrying up the steps, back from an early evening adventure, shook off the droplets that trembled on their fur, and settled at our feet. James, of course, was already ensconed on a pillow on one of the rockers.

  I listened to the rain and the chirping of the frogs down in the little fishpond and thought about the past few weeks … the letter from Dodie … was it having Gloria around and the poisoned effect of her doubts about her husband that had caused me to take seriously the scattered ramblings of a very sweet but sometimes rather loopy old woman? God knows, Gloria’s visit had revealed an unpleasant, snippy, arrogant aspect of my personality—why shouldn’t it be paranoid as well?

  Something clicked in my wandering thoughts. I turned to look at Phillip, who was rocking, eyes closed, completely relaxed and utterly at peace. Poor guy, I thought, he’s got to be exhausted after being out in the woods all last night. He couldn’t have gotten much of a nap.

  By unspoken mutual consent, we had avoided talking about Gloria during dinner. And it would probably have suited both of us to stay off the subject at least till the morning.

  But still, I had to ask.

  “Do you think she’ll be okay over there?”

  He didn’t open his eyes but yawned and nodded. “I don’t see why not.”

  “But this Eyebrow character … what if he—”

  Phillip’s eyes came open and he gave me a sharp, police detective look. “This morning—was it just this morning? Geez, seems like a week ago. But this morning you said that Gloria might have set up the whole Barbie doll thing.”

  I blushed, remembering my selfish annoyance at the whole affair.

  “I know, I did say that. But what if I was wrong? What if there really is someone after her? Is she safe over there?”

  He reached for my hand. “Sweetheart, I didn’t want to make a big deal of it but when I was looking around outside Gloria’s room, I found a man’s footprint on the little porch. I know Ben comes that way sometimes, but he always wears boots with cleated bottoms. This was a smooth sole—like a man’s dress shoe.”

  I thought about this. “Okay. I’m not saying I doubt you but … a footprint? This is the first rain we’ve had in over a week and the ground is—was hard and bone dry. How’d he manage to leave a footprint?”

  Phillip raised my hand to his lips and kissed it, then gently nudged at the sleeping Ursa with his toe. “Remember how Gloria was complaining the other day about the girls pooping right outside her door …”

  While I was still giggling, Phillip hastened to assure me that he had alerted the Hot Springs police force—such as it was—to be on the lookout for a black Hummer with Florida plates and had explained that the driver might be a stalker.

  “I told them that it was my future sister-in-law that was his target and that she had registered as Mrs. Hawkins in an attempt to throw this guy off. Nah, she should be fine—in a place as small as Hot Springs, this Eyebrow fellow’s bound to be pretty damn conspicuous. I gave them a description of him too.”

  “Stinky shoe and all,” I muttered. “Could they arrest him?”

  “Afraid not—he hasn’t actually done anything that we could prove,” Phillip explained. “Can you imagine going into court with my strongest evidence a shoe with traces of dog poop o
n it? I asked Gloria if she wanted to get a restraining order but when I found out she doesn’t even know the guy’s name … besides, I’m not convinced that this Eyebrow fella is the whole story. From some of the things your sister said when she finally started talking, I’m guessing Jerry’s not the only one with a motive for doing her in.”

  He stood and tugged on my hand. “Let’s go inside. I’d like to stretch out while I question my next witness. Gloria told me a good bit about her various marriages—why don’t you give me your take on these different husbands?”

  As we arranged ourselves on the sofa, me at one end with his head in my lap, I had my doubts as to how long he would stay awake. But he stretched luxuriously, closed his eyes, and said, “Let’s start with number one—the Latin lover who got annulled. What can you tell me?”

  I leaned back and tried to assemble my thoughts … to remember. This whole episode was hardly real to me—all my information was second- or thirdhand, and not from particularly reliable sources.

  “Let’s see … When Gloria was … I guess she would have been nineteen … she ran off with a foreign student she’d met at college. I’m pretty sure his name was Arturo but I don’t think I ever knew his last name. You see, Sam and I were married by then and he was out of the Navy and in college. We weren’t living in Tampa so I really didn’t know much about what was happening with Glory beyond some late night phone calls from my mother who seemed to think Glory’s elopement was somehow my fault because Sam and I hadn’t had a big fancy wedding.

  “The next thing we knew, my mother had managed to get the marriage annulled and Glory back in school. By the time Sam and I returned to Tampa, no one was talking about the elopement; Arturo, or whatever his name was, had moved back to Colombia; and Glory was engaged to Ben’s father.”

  Phillip nodded. “Yeah, you told me about him before. Skip him and tell me about the rich husband—Harold. Or not so much Harold but his kids. They’d be Gloria’s stepchildren, right?”

  “I guess—but there was never any kind of family feeling between them. They were all grown and off with their trust funds and she rarely saw them. None of them were happy about Gloria marrying their dad—particularly since she was more or less their age. I think they were afraid of her presenting them with some half brothers or sisters who would get cut in on the eventual inheritance. I mean, there was so much money—it could have been split a hundred ways and everyone would have still been rich. But the Holst kids acted like a bunch of kindergarteners squabbling over toys.”