Cross Your Heart and Hope to Die

by Nancy Martin

  Her air of command successfully got the girls to their feet, and Emma spirited them away like a dyspeptic prom chaperone.

  I hesitated, then slid onto a vacated spot on the bed beside Hemorrhoid’s, keeping one foot on the floor. I noticed a dish of candy amidst the pillows. Gummi Bears. Someone had organized them by color.

  “Let’s have a talk, Casanova,” I said to Hemorrhoid.

  He tried to sit up in the bed, but looked even more uncomfortable. “I was just . . . you know, interviewing potential models for Lamb Limited. There’s nothing wrong with that. We’re thinking of launching some new products in the States, and—”

  I cut across his sniveling. “Have you been in touch with your house in the last few hours?”

  “My house?” His stupefied expression morphed into terror an instant later. “You mean . . . ? Oh, God, has something happened to Orlando? Is he all right? Has he been hurt? If something’s happened to him, I’ll be in—”

  I grabbed Hemorrhoid’s wrist and pulled him back onto the bed. “Nothing like that. Orlando’s fine.”

  I had his full attention. “What’s wrong?”

  “The police are at Tall Trees. It seems something happened there during the fashion show.”

  His voice was barely a squeak. “What?”

  “Someone killed Kitty Keough outside your garage.”

  “Kitty Keough? Why would she . . . Was there an accident?”

  “No, she was executed.” I decided to channel my sister and turned on the tough act. “Listen, Hemorrhoid, we’ve got a problem, and you’re going to help me solve it or risk some very bad consequences, understand? I want you to shut up with the stupid questions and start answering me, got it?”

  He clapped one hand over his mouth to smother his own whimpers. A lifetime of being a victim kicked in, and Hemorrhoid was suddenly, pathetically ready to do anything I wanted. He nodded, subdued, and looked as if he wanted to crawl under the covers and hide.

  “Okay.” I tried to keep up my charade despite the sick wave that rolled up from inside me. “Good. Now, what business did you have with Kitty?”

  He slid his hand off his mouth. “None, I swear. I barely knew the woman.”

  “She didn’t just waltz in off the street for no reason. She had your name and address in her schedule book. She obviously had an appointment at Tall Trees.”

  He grabbed a Gummi Bear and put it into his mouth. Three more followed rapidly, all red. “The appointment wasn’t with me. I’ve never spoken to her in my life. My father hated her. She wrote terrible things when Oriana married so young.”

  He reached into his pocket and came up with a foil packet. For a mad moment, I thought it was a condom. But he tore open one corner and unfolded a Handi Wipe. He used it to remove infinitesimal traces of the sticky candy from his fingers.

  “Then tell me about your relationship with Brinker Holt.”

  “Who?”

  An almost irresistible urge bubbled up inside me. Looking at Hemorrhoid, I wondered what it was about him that just seemed to be asking for abuse. I could see why people longed to slap him—the combination of mealymouthed whining and the weird perfectionist mannerisms drove normal people crazy. “Hem, you’ve known Brinker since you were Orlando’s age. We all went to the same swim club, remember? The two of you weren’t exactly best friends. Yet you went to his fashion show the other night. Why? Just to look at women’s underwear?”

  “No, of course not. I mean . . . well, yeah! I like women’s underwear as much as the next guy.” He ate more candy—popping them into his mouth without regard to color.

  “Why did you take Orlando to the show?”

  “I was—It’s time he had a little polish, that’s all. He needs to get out into the world. He’s going to control an international conglomerate someday. Why not give him some sophistication?”

  “I overheard your argument with Orlando, Hem. Half a dozen people did. You’re thinking of buying the Brinker Bra for Lamb Limited, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t have that kind of power! I’m only one guardian in a committee of—”

  “But you have influence. Not to mention ambition, right?”

  Hemorrhoid proceeded to devour the whole bowl of candy. “What do you mean? I’m nothing at Lamb Limited.”

  “Do you like it that way?”

  “Of course not. I have a lot to offer.”

  “So you do have hopes for a career with the corporation? You’re trying to buy the Brinker Bra as a professional coup. To ingratiate yourself with the rest of Orlando’s guardians?”

  “No, no—”

  “Because that sounds like a smart move.”

  “I. . . I can’t say anything. It’s confidential. Strictly need-to-know.”

  “Hem,” I said.

  Hemorrhoid swallowed with difficulty, and his lower lip began to tremble. “Please,” he said.

  “Is it a secret?”

  “If the deal fell apart before—I just can’t tell you.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Don’t make me say it,” he said. “Please.”

  Sweat began to shine on his face. I knew the only thing that could have prevented him from answering me was fear of something more threatening than I could muster.

  “What’s the matter? Who are you afraid of? Somebody at Lamb Limited? Or Brinker?”

  “I can’t talk about it.” He dropped the Handi Wipe onto the bedclothes and put one hand to his stomach. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Calm down. I only—”

  “I’m going to be sick.”

  He crawled off the enormous bed and made a run for the bathroom.

  I sat on the bed awhile longer, tugging my skirt down and feeling nauseated myself. Bullying Hemorrhoid had gotten me some answers, but I didn’t feel happy about it. Around me, people talked and laughed. The music rose and fell. Life went on, with me wondering what kind of person I had become.

  As I waited for him to return, a woman in garish blue pajamas suddenly appeared beside the table.

  The pajamas were a sari, I realized. And I noticed assorted bracelets, bangles and rings, too.

  “Sabria,” I said.

  Sabria Chatterjee looked just as startled to find me sitting on Hemorrhoid’s bed. Her eyes, rimmed tonight with three carefully blended shades of eye shadow, widened as if I had pulled a dagger. “Nora. What a surprise.”

  An unpleasant surprise, I could see by the expression on her face.

  Uneasily, she glanced around the crowded room. “Have you seen Hemmings?”

  “He’s indisposed at the moment,” I said. “Why don’t you wait with me? We can have a chat.”

  Sabria’s expression said she’d rather bathe with live tarantulas than talk to me. She toyed with the bracelets that winked on her wrist. Her sari, a little limp, revealed one bare shoulder. It was hardly the uniform of a woman bent on hacking her own career path through the corporate jungle, but her posture was rigid and ready.

  She held up the little brown paper bag for me to see. “He sent me on an errand.”

  I gave up being polite. “Sit down, Sabria.”

  She surprised me by sliding onto the bed beside me. She sat alertly on the edge of the mattress, like a dog who’d been promised a treat if he performed well.

  “So,” I said, “you and Hemmings are . . . what? Seeing each other? Working together?”

  “We’re acquaintances,” she corrected, holding the bag in her lap. “Friends.”

  “Interesting. How did you meet, exactly?”

  “Oh, you know. Around.”

  Even in the dim light of the club, I could see that she wanted to leave. But my tone of command kept her planted on the bed. “Tell me more about your work at Clientec. It sounds very interesting.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m interested, yes. Advertising is a fascinating peek into the American psyche. Popular culture, appealing to the masses, communicating ideas. . . It’s all intriguing. What campaigns have you
worked on?”

  “We represent many clients.”

  “Like Lamb Limited?”

  “Uh, yes,” she said, still careful but obedient. “And others.”

  “Such as?”

  “West Texas Bare Ass Barbecue.”

  “I bet that advertising campaign is fun.”

  “It’s not much different from our other accounts, like Chantilly Soap and Big Box,” she said soberly. “We give full service to all our clients.”

  “Big Box,” I said. “That’s interesting. What does Clientec do for Big Box? Print ads? Television spots?”

  “A bit of everything.”

  Using a pair of sturdy pliers to yank out her teeth would have been easier than dragging information from Sabria. Either she was very discreet with her clients’ business or she had things to hide. I tried again. “Do you know Monte Bogatz?”

  “Monte . . . ?”

  “He’s a spokesperson for Big Box. I’m a big fan of Monte’s,” I said. “I love his singing.”

  She blinked. “You do?”

  “Sure.” I thought fleetingly of warbling a line from one of Monte’s songs to make my claim authentic, but couldn’t remember one. “Do you work closely with him? Maybe you could get his autograph?”

  “I could try,” she said at last, eyeing me as if I’d be needing a straitjacket soon. “But now I must go. I must find Hemmings.”

  “He’ll be back in a minute.”

  Sabria fingered the paper bag in her lap. She was torn. She wanted to escape, but she felt responsible, I could see, for delivering the little bag to Hemorrhoid.

  I said, “I’m sure he’s depending on you.”

  That got her. She sighed and shifted the bag to her other hand.

  Hemorrhoid came out of the bathroom paler than before, and mopping his brow with a handkerchief. I thought he might try to make an escape, but he looked across the room and saw Sabria on the bed. He pulled himself together and came over.

  “You have no idea how disgusting the men’s room is. There aren’t any hand towels! Somebody should call the health department.”

  Sabria scrambled to her feet at his arrival.

  “Hemmings,” she said, obsequious and secretarial. “I found the . . . um . . . throat lozenges you wanted.”

  “Throat lozenges?” As a newbie to the recreational drug scene, Hemorrhoid was slow to catch on.

  “With echinacea,” she volunteered, suddenly inspired.

  Hemorrhoid hastily stowed his handkerchief. “Oh, right. Yes. Thanks. You did well.”

  Sabria smiled and looked ready to roll over on her back to show her tummy to him.

  Hemorrhoid said, “Is it. . . ? Did you get the name brand?”

  “Name brand?”

  “Yes,” he said more harshly. “The specific brand I requested.”

  Sabria’s smile faltered.

  “You nitwit,” he said. “Can’t you do anything right?”

  “Hem—”

  “It was a simple task, and you blew it!”

  Sabria lowered her head.

  He grabbed her elbow and yanked, spinning Sabria around in a whirl of blue silk. Still gripping her arm, his nails digging into her flesh, Hemorrhoid propelled her toward the door.

  As I stood up to stop them, I caught sight of her expression. Sabria didn’t look frightened. It stunned me to see it, but her face looked almost happy.

  I’d had way too much weirdness for one night to follow them. I went looking for Emma.

  I found her in the bar, teaching the Girl Scouts how to tie cherry stems with their tongues. My sister could do it in fifteen seconds and earned their applause.

  She saw me coming and got off her bar stool. “Now what?”

  “I’m ready to go,” I said. “I’m disgusted with myself. And the human race, come to think of it.”

  “What happened?”

  “People are sick, Em.”

  “You’ve just observed that fact?”

  “Are those the Finehart twins?” I stared down the bar. “Those models from the fashion show?”

  She spun her head around. “They’re back from New York already?”

  “Must be.” I noticed my tough sister actually looked nervous and tried to hold back a grin. “Want to go talk to them?”

  “Hell, no!”

  “I get the feeling they want you snuggled under their bed-sheets watching Xena, Warrior Princess.”

  “Very funny.”

  Perched at the other end of the bar, Fawn and Fontayne wore their Brinker Bras under sheer blouses for the world to see. Their straight blond hair was unmistakable, and they appeared to be carrying lollypops—red to match their glossy lipstick. Already they were drawing a crowd. Fawn leaned out and waved to Emma.

  Em turned pale.

  “She likes you,” I said.

  “They can’t possibly be as vacant as they pretend,” she said. “Can they?”

  “Would they be more appealing to you if they were smarter?”

  “No!”

  As we watched, Fontayne spilled her drink on the bar. Four men leaped to her assistance.

  “They might act stupid,” Emma said, “but they know how to get what they want.”

  “Hussies.”

  “You can laugh. They seem willing to do a lot to get the Brinker Bra gig.” Emma shivered and grabbed my arm. “Let’s jet. I don’t feel like getting my tonsils tickled by the Doublemint Twins.”

  We returned to the hotel to get the rest of my clothes. We found Spike sound asleep in the wreckage of what once had been the sofa.

  “Wow,” said Emma, impressed by the destruction. “How’d he manage to shred all the cushions so fast?”

  I tucked his limp, exhausted body into my handbag. He gave me a feeble lick and snuggled down with a sigh of contentment. “At least he didn’t chew the wooden legs. I won’t have to worry about splinters in his stomach.”

  “Heaven forbid.”

  Emma took me home in Monte Bogatz’s Hummer, which was like riding in a giant carnival ride. It had desert camouflage upholstery and more interior lights than the cockpit of a jumbo jet. Lesser vehicles dodged out of our way, and Emma left them behind in a wake of slush.

  Over the roar of the engine, I asked Em about Sabria Chatterjee.

  “I didn’t know her very well in college,” Emma told me. “She was a good student. Lots of drive. Big ambitions. I got the impression her parents wanted her to be perfect, poor kid. They came around on weekends to check her homework and talk to her professors.”

  “About what?”

  “Giving her extra assignments. They wanted her to be class valedictorian, but they wanted her to get it the hard way.”

  “Did she make it?”

  “I dunno. I didn’t hang around to find out.”

  Of course. Emma hadn’t finished college. She dropped out when our parents couldn’t afford the tuition, and she never looked back.

  I said, “I wonder what kind of personality results from such high expectations.”

  “Lots of people manage. Sabria seems to be okay. Maybe she’s a little wacky about her job. But buying drugs for Hemorrhoid isn’t exactly a good career move. Those two are an odd match, aren’t they?”

  “My impression was more master and slave, actually.”

  “Sound familiar?”

  “You mean Brinker and Hem?” I shook my head. “Hemorrhoid was always the victim then—a masochist who went looking for people to pick on him.”

  Emma shrugged. “So he’s flipping. It’s not impossible.”

  “Has Monte ever mentioned Sabria?”

  Emma sent me a puzzled glance. “Sabria? Why should he?”

  “Her ad agency probably hired him for Big Box. Now he’s hanging around Brinker. It’s a suspicious coincidence, that’s all.”

  “I’m not up to speed on the cowboy’s career plans.”

  “Em, about Monte. Is he . . .”

  She shrugged. “He’s no Rhett Butler. I know that. But he’s not
bad. He’s . . . resilient.”

  Carefully, I ventured, “Are you taking out some frustration on him?”

  She considered my question seriously. “Maybe. It doesn’t matter. This is a short-term thing. We both know it. Not like you and the Love Machine.”

  “Uhum,” I said.

  “Mick’s trying, you know. To clean up his act for you.” Keeping her eyes on the road, Emma was able to say things she couldn’t say to my face. “It’s a whole redemption thing for Mick, Sis. Because you believe in him, he’s trying to be good. It’s pretty sexy when you think about it. But if you stop believing . . . I don’t know what he’ll do.”

  “Are you about to give me some sisterly advice?”

  She grinned. “Not me. I’m a Blackbird too, you know. I always pick the wrong men.”

  Em dropped me off at Blackbird Farm and declined my invitation to spend the night.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got to return the cowboy’s toy.” She patted the steering wheel of the Hummer.

  “Em—”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “You’ve got a lot of stuff on your mind. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Smiling a little, I took Spike inside.

  Michael was not in the house.

  Nor had he left me a phone message.

  My machine, however, was clogged with calls from old friends angling for invitations to my party.

  With a groan, I went to bed.

  In the morning, I woke up alone except for Spike.

  When the phone rang, I grabbed it, hoping to hear Michael’s voice. But the call was from another potential New Year’s Eve guest, a pal who fortunately volunteered to bring a bottle of wine. I hoped it would be a very big bottle.

  When I hung up, I wrote down her name and looked at my guest list. It had gone so far beyond my control that I might as well invite the whole city.

  The thought of providing food and drink for such a crowd that size gave me a dizzy spell.

  “Maybe I’ll make hors d’oeuvres out of you,” I said to Spike while cleaning up one of his near-misses by the door.

  I went into my closet and decided not to endanger any of Grandmama’s clothes for a daytime foray. I put on a classic sweater set with a Zac Posen layered skirt, one of the last things I could afford for myself before my trust fund evaporated. I checked the mirror and decided I didn’t look half-bad for a woman whose life was imploding.