Dressed to Confess

by Diane Vallere

  The sun was just starting to break over the horizon, which told me one thing: if I hurried, I could make it to Jayne’s morning class of yoga in the park. I texted Bobbie and told her to join me, and then dressed in tights, a leotard, and an oversized sweatshirt à la Olivia Newton-John, the “Physical” era. A few minutes later, I joined Bobbie at the PCP.

  Bobbie had taken up yoga after her stint with rehab. She’d needed an outlet for stress and, apparently, spending her days surrounded by teddy bears hadn’t been sufficient. She’d tried to convince me to join her, and I had on more than one occasion.

  Today she sat on a pink rubber mat with one leg in front of her and the other leg pointing straight up toward the sky. She tipped her head toward the vacant blue mat next to her. I dumped my bag and assumed the same position (or tried).

  Because the festival was taking place on public property, the planners couldn’t tell the yoga class to find another place to meet. But still, only a handful of women were scattered about on colorful neoprene mats, twisting into pretzel-like shapes while calming melodies trickled from a boom box. Jayne, dressed in an outfit remarkably similar to mine but lacking the irony, faced the group. She sat in what I thought was the lotus position: cross-legged with her feet resting on top of her knees. When she spotted me, her face colored to a flush. She looked away and called out another pose that allowed her to turn around and hide.

  I spent much of the next forty-five minutes contorting into unfamiliar poses, hoping for a good time to ask some questions. I almost missed my window when Jayne called out the final position—instructing us to close our eyes and lay flat on our backs with arms overhead and feet pointed to the sky—and counted us down from twenty to one. It wasn’t until somewhere between seven and four that I opened my eyes and realized she’d been packing up her own belongings, probably so she could make a quick getaway. I jumped up and approached her.

  “Do you have a minute?” I asked.

  “Not really,” she snapped, exhibiting none of the Zen calm that one should find after forty-five minutes of yoga in the park.

  “This won’t take long.”

  “I’m late,” she said. She pushed the last of her belongings into a denim duffel bag and walked toward the parking lot. I jogged a few steps to catch up to her and then fell into step.

  “I was wondering if you were planning on doing anything for Ronnie? A memorial or a tribute or something to commemorate her contribution to the Domino Divas?”

  “Let’s see. She patented our name and made herself the sole proprietor of the operation, which basically told the world that the rest of us didn’t matter. The contract she signed gives us nothing. I’d say Ronnie established that when she died, the Domino Divas were done. So no, I’m not really feeling like spearheading a memorial, if you know what I mean.”

  “Why did you all agree to get back together? If it wasn’t for the money, then what did she say to convince you?”

  Jayne ignored my question. We had reached the parking lot. She reached into her bag and pulled out a full set of keys. She clicked the black plastic fob and a dirty gold sedan beeped. With longer strides, I made it to the car first and blocked her ability to open the door.

  “I already know you and Ronnie were friends once.”

  “Those days are long gone.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you that somebody killed her?”

  “Not really. Ronnie put herself at the front of the line. We’re all going to die someday. Her day came first.”

  A few other yoga class attendees caught up with us. Jayne smiled at them and wished them a good day. When they were finished, she reached out to me and tried to push me out of the way. I stood my ground.

  “What happened between you two?”

  “Nothing ‘happened.’ We just grew apart.” She pushed me again and this time I shifted out of the way. She threw her yoga gear in the backseat, climbed into the car, and started the engine. She put the car into reverse and backed up slowly even though I still held the door open.

  I kept my hand on the door and walked with the car. “If nothing happened, then why did you slap her after rehearsal?” I asked.

  She glared at me for several seconds. “Because a long time ago Ronnie took something that belonged to me. The only reason I agreed to this farce was so I could get it back.” She grabbed the inside door handle and yanked it shut. The power locks clamped into place and she swung wide and then peeled out of the lot.

  Chapter 21

  THE STATEMENT CAME out of left field. I watched the sedan pull onto the Main Line Road and speed through a yellow light. At the rate she was driving, she’d get a ticket for a traffic violation before she got home.

  Bobbie had stayed behind, packing up first her own belongings and then the ones she’d packed for me. By the time she joined me in the parking lot, Jayne’s car blocks away.

  “I know you don’t do this every day, but yoga is supposed to make people calm down and help you deal with your stress, not the other way around,” she said.

  “Try telling that to your instructor.” I pointed down the street. The only evidence of Jayne’s car were the fading taillights that grew ever smaller as she increased the distance between us.

  “What did you say to her?” Bobbie asked.

  “I asked her why she slapped Ronnie at the rehearsal.”

  “And?”

  “She said Ronnie took something that belonged to her.”

  Bobbie didn’t seem surprised. “She was probably talking about her husband. There’ve been rumors about Chet Lemming since I first started volunteering at Landis House.”

  “Isn’t that where you did your first teddy bear fund-raiser?”

  Landis House was a women’s shelter on the north side of Proper. Originally an apartment building, it had changed hands several times before becoming a temporary residence for women in need. The mortgage had long since been paid off, and the owners willed the deed from generation to generation to keep it privately owned. Outsiders might not even notice the structure, a nondescript building of craftsman design that was maintained by the women who lived there and a small team of volunteers.

  To anybody who didn’t know Bobbie’s history, they might have wondered what it was that drew her to help them, but I knew.

  Bobbie had first learned about them in rehab. A few of the women at the clinic said they’d gone there when they’d needed a safe place to stay while getting on their feet. Bobbie listened to their stories, about leaving abusive relationships, getting over addictions, taking control over gambling problems. Some of the women had young children who’d only known a life of instability. It was after hearing these stories that Bobbie got the idea to start a nonprofit that made and sold teddy bears to raise money. Landis House had become the first beneficiary of her now-famous teddy bear fund-raisers.

  “I’ve been volunteering at Landis House since getting out of rehab. One day a month Chet comes out to Landis House to give general checkups after his shift at the hospital. The women who live there aren’t exactly looking for a new relationship, but that doesn’t stop him from crossing the line of appropriate bedside behavior. It’s not that hard to imagine that he cheated on Jayne at some point.”

  “I get the idea that Chet is a ladies’ man, but seriously? He’d cheat on his wife with her friend? That’s the stuff of slimeballs.”

  “It takes two to tango,” she said.

  I turned away from Bobbie and stared at the street in the direction Jayne’s car had driven. “True. I wonder if it’s easier for Jayne to hold Ronnie accountable. I’d think after a while, a wife would get tired of being married to a man like that.”

  “What makes you think she’s not?”

  “She’s still married to him, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, but nobody said they have a healthy relationship.” Bobbie bent down and retied the open laces on her left sneaker. W
hen she stood back up, she said, “You could always get his side of things.”

  “I bet that would go over well. Knock on his front door and ask how long he’d been having an affair with his wife’s best friend.” I rolled my eyes. “With my luck she’d be in the kitchen making macaroni.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of something less obvious.”

  “Like what?”

  “If you can come to Landis House this afternoon, I can try to get you alone with him.”

  “I can’t. There’s nobody else to run the store.” I chewed my lower lip and thought for a couple of seconds. “You said he works at the hospital before coming to Landis House. Do you know when he starts?”

  “The free clinics open up around eight. Why?”

  I grabbed Bobbie’s forearm and twisted it so I could check her watch. “It’s seven thirty now.” I looked back up at her. “No time to spare.” I hugged her and said good-bye.

  * * *

  THERE was a short list of things I wanted to accomplish before opening the store and a narrow window of time in which to accomplish them. I made a banana and peanut butter smoothie, fed Soot a can of tuna-flavored cat food, and dressed in generic blue scrubs that we’d ordered from a uniform company. On any other day I would have draped a stethoscope around my neck and a surgical mask over my mouth, but today’s outfit wasn’t about accessorizing, it was about blending in.

  I drove the Le Sabre to the hospital. If time permitted, I could swing by the high school and then return the loaner car to Dig when I was done. I parked in Lot D, which was designated for visitors. I had a vague memory of how the hospital was laid out thanks to my dad’s first heart attack. Memories of that day flooded back as I walked across the street and stood in line to pass through the metal detector. Tears welled up in my eyes and I blinked rapidly to hold them in. When the blinking proved ineffective, I tipped my head backward, succeeding only in running into the person in front of me.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. I swiped my hands across my cheeks to brush away the tears that had spilled. “The hospital brings back bad memories,” I said.

  The woman glanced at my scrubs. “Don’t you work here?” she asked.

  The problem with being so comfortable dressing in costume was that sometimes I didn’t remember I was wearing a costume. It was one thing to dress like I fit in so as not to be noticed. It was an entirely other thing to lie about it.

  “No, I don’t. I’m here to see one of the doctors.”

  Her expression changed. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. You go on in front of me.”

  For a small town, we had a decent hospital, thanks mostly to the wealthy residents who knew even money couldn’t stave off potential health issues or accidents. I walked through the emergency waiting room, around the corner, and up the stairs to the area designated for weekly clinics. It was the one concession to the lower-income families in town. Different days of the week were designated for broad health concerns: vaccinations and flu shots, blood pressure tests, weight-loss consultations, and the like. Doctors rotated through on a somewhat regular schedule. Today’s board featured general physicals conducted by Dr. Chet Lemming.

  I approached the window. “Hi, I’m Margo Tamblyn,” I said. “I’m here to see Dr. Lemming.”

  “Sign in,” she said.

  “Do you know how long the wait is? I have to be somewhere in a couple of hours.”

  “Sign in,” she said again. She glanced up and tapped the clipboard with the back of her pen. “Dr. Lemming sees patients in order of arrival.”

  I took a seat on the end of a row with a pretty woman with long, straight blond hair. Three girls matching her coloring giggled and squealed as they ran around the reception room. A fourth girl, smaller than the others, sat in the chair next to the woman, hugging a threadbare blanket to her chest. The mother caught me looking at them and smiled. I smiled back.

  “Sorry about my girls,” she said. “They don’t realize this is a hospital.”

  “I think that’s a good thing.”

  “The staff doesn’t like it,” she said in a whisper. “If I could afford a sitter, I wouldn’t be at the free clinic. But Dr. Lemming, he’s good with the kids, and he renews our prescriptions whenever we need them.” She rolled her eyes. “Even if he is a little overzealous with his stethoscope.”

  It was starting to seem as though my initial impression of Dr. Chet Lemming was spot-on.

  “Has he ever—you know—been inappropriate?”

  She laughed. “He’s a big flirt, that’s all. You get a physical, they’re going to weigh you, take your temperature, check your blood pressure, and listen to your heartbeat. All part of the routine.”

  The door next to the reception desk opened and a woman in scrubs printed with cats stepped out. “Margo Tamblyn?” she said.

  I gathered my things and glanced sheepishly at the woman and her girls. Embarrassed that I’d been called before her when she clearly had been there longer than I had, I held a closed fist up to my mouth and faked a cough. She put her arm around the girl next to her and pulled her closer, as if shielding her from my imaginary germs. I followed the cat woman through the hallway and into exam room number four.

  “Wait here. The doctor will be with you shortly,” she said.

  “Aren’t you going to weigh me or take my blood pressure or temperature?” I asked.

  “Not necessary. The doctor will be with you shortly,” she said again.

  There were no clocks in the exam room, and I still didn’t have my cell phone back. I wished I’d brought a magazine from the lobby with me. I quickly bored of the poster on the wall, an artist’s rendition of the pulmonary cavity illustrated in bold shades of red and blue. I hopped down and wandered around the small space. A series of framed posters that illustrated various internal organs in colorful graphics hung on the wall.

  The door to the exam room opened just as I was pulling a pair of blue rubber gloves from a box next to the sink. I shoved the gloves into the back pocket of my scrubs and sat back on the exam table. Chet entered. He stared at the contents of a light blue file folder, flipping through pages. I recognized my handwriting on the top one.

  “Open your mouth,” he said. He held a large wooden tongue depressor in my mouth. “Say ah.”

  “Ah,” I said. He shined a light into my mouth, and then threw the tongue depressor away and moved the light to my ears.

  “You’re here for a physical?” he asked.

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

  He clicked the end of his pen and wrote something in my file. He placed the flat end of his stethoscope on the outside of my scrubs and put the earpieces into his ears. “Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth,” he said.

  I took a few breaths until he appeared to be finished, and added, “About Ronnie Cass.”

  He stopped writing mid-word. He glanced up at me and then back at the paper, but his writing didn’t resume. “What about Ronnie?” he asked.

  “She was murdered a couple of days ago, and I heard”—I took a deep breath—“I heard that you had a relationship with her.”

  “Oh yeah? Where’d you hear that?”

  “Your wife.”

  He pulled the pen out of my file. “My wife is a disturbed woman,” he said. “I thought it would be good for her to get back involved with the Domino gals, give her a chance to recapture her youth, but gossip has a way of coming back to life. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to stir up old wounds.”

  “Gossip about your affair or gossip about the bank robbery?”

  He held my stare for a few uncomfortable moments and then clicked the pen off. He reopened my file and flipped back to the top page. “Margo Tamblyn,” he read aloud. “You’re Jerry’s daughter, aren’t you?”

  It was one of the more familiar questions I’d gotten since moving back to Prop
er. My dad was popular around town, not just because of running the costume shop, but also because he’d lived there his whole life. In a small town, people got to know each other, either through school board meetings or poker games or other social activities.

  “Yes,” I said. “I moved back to Proper last year and took over the costume shop. My dad says he’s done the costumes for your Mardi Gras parties for the past few years.”

  “He and Don Digby just started up some kind of publication, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, a conspiracy newspaper. It’s nothing.”

  He flipped the file shut. “Doesn’t sound like nothing. Is this some kind of undercover exposé?” he demanded. “Forget anything I said here. And you tell Jerry he’d better watch what he prints. One word about me or my wife and I’ll slap him with a lawsuit for defamation of character.”

  Chapter 22

  CHET DIDN’T GIVE me a chance to respond. He stormed out of the exam room with my folder and left me alone with little more than a pocket full of blue rubber gloves. I counted to sixty to see if he’d come back. He didn’t.

  I left the exam room and stopped at the reception desk. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to wait or not,” I said. “Dr. Lemming left in the middle of my exam.”

  “Dr. Lemming got paged for an emergency,” she said. “We’re trying to get another doctor to come in to take over for him, but it’s going to be a couple of hours. You can wait if you like.”

  “No thanks,” I said. I left the clinic.

  The blond mother of four from the waiting room caught up to me in the parking lot. “Excuse me,” she called out.

  “Did I drop something?” I asked.

  “No, but that receptionist lied to you. I don’t know what happened in that exam room, but Dr. Lemming didn’t get paged for an emergency. He came out front and told the women behind the glass to ‘get that woman out of this clinic.’ What happened back there?”

  “Nothing. Well, something. I accused him of cheating on his wife.”