“I’m, rather we’re, hoping you might be free—if the need arises—to take a short trip across the River in the coming days.”
Dru shook her head as she clicked the go button on her Leica. “If it’s the one I’m thinking of, I thought she wasn’t scheduled for transfer till the end of the month.”
“The lazy sleeveen of a husband has requested judicial intervention yet again. If God and the judge aren’t pre-menstrual, we might not need to run at all. If either is on the rag, then we’ll need to move quickly.”
Dru had to lay flat on her back to catch Nunie’s face at the perfect angle. “Head up. That’s great. Perfect. Isn’t the Wild Bear Agency handling the case?”
Nunie paused, not so much with regard to client confidentiality; Dru Horvath’s integrity was beyond reproach. Old sayings survive for a reason and, as she’d learned early on in her affiliation with the underground movement, loose lips really can sink ships. All it took was one hasty word, no matter how innocent, to send a child back to an abusive home—or put a woman in worse danger than what she originally fled.
With hordes of strangers in town for Caper Madness, it was impossible to determine whose motives might be less than sincere. Passengers of the modern day underground railroad deserved safety and security. After reading the medical and psychologists’ reports on Siobhan Anderson and her children, Nunie understood that of all the clients she’d helped, these three deserved swift, competent advocacy.
“Aye. Michael Dineen himself is handling the pleas and responses.”
“Can’t do any better than the Mick.” With a jolt, Dru came to her feet, turned sharply to look down the lane toward Nunie’s house. “What’s that sound? Fire siren? Ambulance?”
Nunie followed the photographer’s gaze and to her horror saw the twirling roof lights of an ambulance pulling to the curb in front of the cottage next to hers. Dropping everything, she kicked off the spike heels, hiked the hem of her dress above her knees, and took off at a run.
****
“Did I thank you for driving me to the hospital?”
Desperate for something to do with his hands, Nick toyed with the plastic disc one of the ER nurses had given him. Similar to devices used by popular restaurants to alert patrons their tables were ready, when it buzzed and the strobe lights flashed, it meant the docs were ready to make a pronouncement on Hank’s condition. Until then, no amount of prayers or threats would change the outcome. It didn’t take long for toying with the thing to lose its appeal. He zeroed in on the salt and pepper shakers and metal napkin holder, arranging them up in straight lines, then reversing the order, to keep his hands occupied.
Nunie Doyle, now dressed in skin tight jeans and flannel shirt, reached across the cafeteria table to still his nervous hands. Her touch was warm, firm and, though he hated admitting it, comforting. “It was the least I could do.”
Nick glared at her. “How much longer before they tell us anything? Can’t we go back to the ER and rattle a few chains?”
The fingers covering his fists began to rub in a soothing rhythm. “His doctors are the best. Give them the time and space to do their work.”
Wanting nothing from this particular woman, even logic, he snarled, “And you know so much about this place and its pill pushers?”
Leaning back in her chair, she offered a smile that started to thaw a far corner of his heart. “In addition to having put in many years as a clinical social worker in this very institution, after yer aunt and uncle became my friends, I took it upon meself to learn their needs, likes and dislikes. AnneMarie and I are close as sisters. Her latest email indicates she is enjoying her Alaskan adventure.”
Nick stirred. The last person he wanted insinuating herself into his family’s business was the Crone of Crozier College. “Yeah, I bet.”
The rumble of nerves deep in his gut kept him from sitting still. He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t get the picture out of his head of Hank clutching his shoulder and straining to breathe, turning a crappy shade of gray, and sweating to beat the band.
Straightening in the chair, he glanced around at the cavernous room, staring at the people, some in street clothes, others in uniform, who streamed past their table, heading in the direction of the food line. The P.A. system worked overtime, spewing out pages and announcements in screeching detail. Christ, how did anyone function midst all this chaos and not go completely bat shit?
One of the EMT’s who’d transported Hank from Cape Brendan ambled by, talking up a storm with a nurse whose mile-long legs were enhanced by a skin-tight uniform. Nick knew all the moves, having practiced them himself millions of times while on the job. Nurses and cops, nurses and medics. A story as old as Methuselah with the success rate of Rico and Lola from Copacabana fame. God, those were the days.
“It’s difficult when someone you love is hurting,” the Crone offered. “Waiting is always the hardest part.”
Screw that. With each passing moment the walls edged closer and strapped his chest in a strangle hold. God-dammit, he could barely breathe over the crushing pain of fear and guilt. “Gotta get out of here.”
She stood. “Brilliant. A lovely walk in crisp Syracuse air will do us both good.”
After disposing of the tray of half-eaten food and drinks, she led Nick down an empty hallway with a brightly lit Exit sign over the door at the end.
“Know your way around,” he groused.
Maintaining that long, even stride, she glanced over one shoulder and tossed off a smile so bright it might blind a man. “It’s been some time for me, but at this level of basement, not much has changed.”
The exit door brought them to an open-air parking lot facing Plaintain Avenue. They walked several blocks of the tree lined street which bordered one side of the massive medical complex. He found himself struggling to keep up with the pace she set. For a man who prided himself on staying fit, the humiliation of dragging ass behind a slim-hipped woman stung.
As they approached a stop sign at the near corner, a black and white patrol unit from the Syracuse Police Department slowed to a crawl. After a second, the passenger window rolled down and a man in a navy uniform stuck out his grizzled head. “I knew I recognized that pretty face. How you doin’, Sarge?”
Nick stopped, checked his memory bank to connect the name and face. “Not bad. How’s by you, Johansen?”
“Squad’s not the same without you, Sarge. How long’s it been? Six, eight months? Whatcha doin’ with yer fine self?”
“More like two years, Oley. Got a position with Gallow, Yankowicz and Perot, heading their investigation unit.”
One of Johansen’s bristle pad brows rose to meet his graying hairline. “The GYPsters, huh? Ain’t that the shits. Good for you.”
The driver, who looked to be bored out of his gourd with this trip down memory lane, said something which made Johansen grab the mike off the dash and bark a response. When finished, he waved a beefy hand. “Gotta go. Don’t be a stranger, Sarge. Stop by and say hey once in awhile.”
“You bet.”
Once the patrol car proceeded down the street, the Crone murmured, “Hank and Genny failed to mention their nephew was one of Syracuse’s finest.”
In the mood for a fight, Nick turned on her with a blast of rage. “Would it have made a difference, Miz Doyle? Make you think twice before you elected to shoot off your mouth about them?”
She backed up a step. “Clearly you believe you know me, while I am at a loss as to where our paths might have crossed.”
Deliberately he leaned into her personal space, got close enough to notice, for the first time, the deep green of her eyes. “I worked the periphery of the Crozier College case.” When she paled and took a second step back, the dagger slid in easily. “Need I say more?”
The buzzer in his hand whipped into a fancy dance; bells and whistles went off like firecrackers. He looked at her and didn’t give two hoots that she was pale and shaking. “I’m heading back. Come with me or stay here. I don’t
give a damn.”
****
Nick hated hospitals with a passion rivaled only by his fear of rats. While he appreciated what the barely-old-enough-to-shave doc said about how they’d tune Hank up and continue to tweak the doses on his meds according to the lab results. As far as he was concerned, his uncle still looked like death warmed over. Nick wasn’t so sure he’d embrace being ‘tuned up’ if it meant getting hooked to an EKG machine that resembled the console for a NASA space launch or having tubes running out of every orifice.
After several long seconds, Hank opened one eye and focused on his visitors. “I’ll save you an argument. Do not call your sister.”
If his uncle could string that many words together without need of a second breath, he was better. And, knowing Hank, when the old man put that particular tone in his voice, it was time to listen. “Yes, sir.”
Shifting in the bed, Hank glanced at Nunie. “I’m counting on you to help Nicky with Caper Madness.”
She had a look on her face that warned she’d book at the slightest provocation. Instead, she nodded. “Whatever ye want, Hank.”
“Good.” He closed his eyes, sighed deeply. “Time for the two of you to get back home. I’m depending on you both. Make me proud.”
****
One week into Caper Madness, six days since Hank Pierpont delivered his directive to do him proud; Nunie was ready to scream. It was that or shoot the swaggering nit who’d become her partner in this little caper. A more sour individual she had yet to meet. God help her.
In a moment of clarity, one of those bolts out of the blue, it dawned on her that the cheerful, optimistic type was what irked him most. And there she found her most effective coping skill: affecting the role of Little Mary Sunshine. Yes, by the cross, she could do this. Christ knows she’d had years of practice taking on a persona totally opposite her true nature. Too bad she’d not done it often enough during the Crozier debacle.
She invited Nick to join her at Mel’s Diner for today’s scheduled chat about Madness events. He was late. As usual. The man was always late. And did he ever offer an apology? Of carse not. As if she had nothing better to do than twiddle her thumbs and wait for him to arrive and launch into his endless list of gripes. Ah, the man was so tiresome.
“What can I getcha, Nunie love?”
She glanced up and offered MaryJane Monroe, aka Flo, a bright smile. Always wise to get in as much practice at being pleasant. “Coffee, please.”
“Seeing as you’re still in the Witchy Poo costume, dessert’s free,” the waitress said in a flat Brooklyn twang. “I heard the drill to Thriller went real well this morning. Sorry I missed it.”
This time Nunie’s smile was sincere. The routine had gone better than anyone hoped, mainly because the early tunes by the King of Pop always gave her the urge to dance. “I’m grateful the sisters from Saint Vee’s could make it. The kazoos were the perfect touch.”
MaryJane brought her order pad to the ready. “We got coconut cream and apple crisp pies; carrot cake; double chocolate mousse. What’s your poison?”
From behind Nunie’s chair, Nick Forrester broke in. “I’ll eat her portion of apple pie, warmed, with a scoop of ice cream. Please.”
He plunked himself into the chair opposite Nunie’s and offered MaryJane something that was part smile, part grimace. Nothing for her, of course. Never for her.
Plastering a smile on her face and slipping extra sugar into her tone, she asked, “Hurricane cause the delay, Mistur Forrester? Perhaps a terrorist attack on the village offices?”
The look he offered suggested she get real. “I could lie and claim I overslept, but I won't.”
“It's relieved I am to hear that,” Nunie murmured.
MaryJane made a business of tapping her pad with the end of her ball point pen. “To get a free dessert you haveta be in costume, Nick. Hank’s nephew or not, you know the rules.”
He fingered the black silk tie adorned with grinning skeletons hanging around his neck. “I’m in costume.”
In an uncanny imitation of the inimitable ‘Flo’, MaryJane planted a fist on one hip before snapping the wad of gum in her mouth. “That so? What or who?”
“A lawyer.”
“Hah!” she croaked “Good one. Hot apple with a scoop coming up.”
After MaryJane waddled off, backside swaying in skin-tight pink, Nunie got to the point. With a smile, of course. “If ye overslept then ye missed today’s drill. It went very well, I think.”
Nick sipped at the coffee MaryJane put in front of him and grimaced. “Christ, they need to switch their brand of beans, or brew it less. This stuff is poison.”
With that, Nunie was in complete agreement. Mel’s coffee was abhorrent. In fact, nowhere in the whole of Cape Brendan could one find a decent cup of coffee—except in her kitchen. She’d never tell him that of course. The git.
Apple pie ala mode arrived with a flourish and a giggle from the waitress. Nick dug in and after one mouthful, Nunie heard the complaint du jour. “Good Christ. This is as bad as the coffee!”
She beamed at his scowl. “Aye.” After he pushed the plate away, she continued. “What’s on yer list for today’s discussion, yer Highness?”
Taking a second sip of coffee, Nick grimaced when the siren from the afternoon ferry run sounded loud enough to shake the rafters of the old building. “Doesn’t the noise ever get to you?”
She considered any number of responses and decided to stay in character. Kill him with kindness and pray to her favorite saints the ruse didn’t take her down first. “What noise are ye referring to?”
“The ferry of course. It’d wake the dead.” He made a glancing motion off his temple. “Wait, we’re talking about a town with more Ten-Seventy-Eight calls than the local funny farm. Half dead ghouls in the town square playing cellos and bass violas, witches dancing to Michael Jackson golden oldies and the silent version of “The Phantom of the Opera”, circa nineteen-twenty, on Sunday afternoon in the school auditorium.”
Nunie pulled the ever ready pen and note pad from the pocket of today’s royal blue costume. “Brilliant, isn’t it? And it serves a number of purposes—the ferry, I mean. What are today’s concerns, yer Highness?”
“I hate it when you call me that.”
“That’s a shame. Ye were saying?”
“Okay,” he said and expelled a deep breath. “We can start with the ghouls. Not that I care about how they dress, but the filthy gray rags are a bit off-putting.”
She decided to hold off telling him of the number of compliments she’d received on Hank’s idea to ask the music students to perform. All were very much in favor of the drab costumes as well as the positively ghastly make-up which made the quartet of twenty year-olds look like—ghouls. “Next?”
“Their choice in music. The theme to “Jaws” isn’t exactly Halloweenish.”
“Aye but it’s creepy enough, and the tourists love it don’t ye know.” She beamed at him once more. The tiny muscle beneath the left side of his jaw had begun its rhythmic twitch—a sure sign of agitation. It delighted her to no end.
To forestall further recitation of complaints, which she had no doubt would be legion, she raised a hand in the universal gesture of Stop. “Nicholas, ye should know in my role as Co-Chair of Caper Madness, people have been phoning me day and night with complaints.”
He eased back in the chair with a smug look on his face. “I told Hank this was idiocy. People don’t like it.”
“On the contrary, people continue to love Caper Madness. It serves as a bit of innocent fun as well as bringing in much needed revenue to the entire town.”
“Then what are they bitching about?”
She reminded herself to smile before expelling the air from her chest on a long hiss. “The majority of complaints concern the way you have of speaking to people like you’re interrogating them.” She patted his arm. “This is a celebration, Nick, not a homicide investigation. Lighten up a mite. Be cordial, polite, understandi
ng.”
“You want me to kiss a boatload of asses.”
Again with the brilliant smile. She’d need treatment for TMJ by the end of the month. “Exactly.”
He shoved his chair back as if in preparation to leave. “I’m on my way to the med center. Any message for Hank?”
From the other pocket of her costume, she pulled a pile of get well cards from concerned Capers. “Tell him I’ll stop by soon. Please give him a kiss for me.”
He blanched as he took the envelopes. “You can do that for yourself.”
The door to the diner banged open to admit a woman dressed in a low cut blouse and Daisy Duke shorts. Lola McAfee, Queen of Busybodies and, in Nunie’s opinion, village tart. If ever someone deserved the scarlet A on her breast it was this one—though it might conflict with her numerous tattoos.
“Nickeeee! I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Aw, Jesus,” Nick muttered under his breath.
“Now there’s an arse—never mind,” Nunie said, rising regally to her feet. “Please remember one important thing, Nicholas: the woman is part of the farming operation which donates the pumpkins along with other treats for the children’s enjoyment during Madness, so be nice. Nod yer head, agree with whatever she nonsense she might propose and tell her you’ll consider her ideas.”
“And if I hate them all?”
“Fake it,” she advised with a beam wide enough to make her face ache. “I’m after doing a bit of shopping for the children at the preschool. The Emporium is having a two for one sale for any customer in costume.”
“Knock yourself out.”
“To be sure, I will. Till tomorrow’s battle—I mean, discussion—then. Where shall we meet?”
“Hank’s place,” he said. “We’ll talk about the Terminal Ball.”
She could only sigh. “I’m sure we will.”
****
And, so it went. Every day at twelve noon, they met either at Hank’s house or, weather permitting, at the gazebo on the end of Dingle Pier. Nick occasionally brought very bad coffee and stale pastries from Mel’s Diner. On those days the Witchy Poos performed, they sat on a bench in the town square afterward to review his ‘concerns.’
Hauntings in the Garden, Volume Two Page 8
