“Yes, yes, a tragedy.” She waved her hands impatiently. “We’re praying that the madman who did this is apprehended soon.”
“And brought to justice,” Donovan said.
“That too.” Florence Harcourt settled me in a chair, pulled another close to me—too close—and sat. “But the opportunity must be seized to comfort this deserving man during his last hours.”
“Ma’am,” I said firmly. “I’m glad funds have been made available, because I know Doctor Telemann wanted an Abishag wife, but it can’t be me. I knew him. It isn’t…” I hunted for a word. “…decent.”
She frowned, her small dark eyes narrowing. “Of course it’s decent. His people want you. That makes it decent.”
What kind of logic was that? “I’m sorry, I…”
She stood so quickly that the chair teetered. “Speak to her, Donny. I can’t deal with her in this mood. I’ll need to make a call. Speak to her.”
Donny? The director sailed from the room, already keying in a number on her Blackberry. I felt an ominous twinge.
Dragging the director’s chair a yard away from me, Donovan sat and crossed his legs. “Pay attention, Leslie. We’re meeting with the college president, the university lawyers, and Tillenbaum’s doctors in fifteen minutes so you had best see reason fast.”
“I’m confused, Donovan,” I said evenly. “You didn’t want me to be an Abishag wife for the second time. What made you change your mind for a third?”
“This is good for the agency, good for Tillenbaum. You married that tawdry artist Jordan Ippel for money and thought you could do it without me finding out. Really despicable, Leslie.”
I ignored what he said about my second marriage. “Why is marrying Doc T good for the agency?” Florence’s attention and Donovan’s support mystified me. The agency had clients far more illustrious than Professor Telemann.
“Wonderful publicity,” Donovan said. “There’s always been some…how would you say…resentment among the general population against Abishag wives since only the very rich can afford them. With this endowment, a teacher, an everyman, will find the same solace as a baron of industry. It’s like winning the lottery to the lower classes.”
I noticed that Donovan licked his lips when he mentioned the endowment. Someone should tell him that it made him look like a hyena.
Through the glass, I saw Florence wheel and head back to the office.
“It’s not Tillenbaum…” I began, but Donovan cut me off.
“If you do this, then you can be my girlfriend again.”
As Florence swept into the office, Donovan wiped his brow with a linen handkerchief. I gaped at them both, floored by Donovan’s offer and worried how Florence would up the ante.
“I have someone who wishes to speak with you, Leslie.” She handed me her cell.
Still shaken by Donovan’s words, I said a tentative hello.
“Leslie, dear?”
Appalled, I stared at Florence. “Mom?”
Florence whispered, “We had to have your parents’ permission. You won’t be twenty-one for another month.”
I turned my back on Florence and Donovan, and hissed into the phone, “Mom, don’t ask me to do this.”
Of course, she did. She began with “You must do this for your father—he needs the academic vote.” Dad wasn’t much of an intellectual and his opponent recently trounced him during a town hall debate.
She continued, a note of rhapsody in her voice: “His daughter marrying the eminent pathologist Doctor Harry Tolliver would ensure their support for an election, that’s—need I remind you—only fifteen months away.”
“Henry Telemann.” I rested my head on the conference table. “He’s a physical anthropologist.”
“He’s a doctor,” she said. “You’ve not had a doctor yet.” Like I was collecting husband trading cards. Her voice rose. “Are you listening to me, Leslie Ann Greene?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you want to break your father’s heart?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then marry the doctor. He’s sure to die soon, your other ones did, but don’t let him pass too quickly. Your father is speaking at Claremont next week and that wouldn’t look good. There was talk when your artist husband lived only two days after you married him. I’m not blaming you, but your father found it embarrassing to represent a deceased son-in-law at the art museum.”
“Mom.”
“I hear a tone, young lady. I’m only saying that your father could use this marriage in a meaningful way if you manage it right.”
Through the window, Sebastian signaled me.
“I gotta go, Mom.”
“Leslie, may I tell your father that you understand your duty?”
“I’m meeting with the doctors now. I’ll call you later.”
I hung up. I felt so pressured that I could barely breathe.
Sebastian opened the door, but Florence blocked the way, staring sternly at me. “You won’t say anything to embarrass us in there, will you, dear?
“Not intentionally.”
“Keep your eye on the prize.” Donovan shot me a look, and in case I missed the meaning, he tapped his chest. Oh, right. If I married Doctor Telemann, then I’d get Donovan as a boyfriend after the professor died. Not how I’d planned to win Donovan back.
Sebastian caught part of the exchange. As he hustled me to the meeting room, he raised his eyebrow inquiringly. I shrugged. No way was I explaining Donovan’s deal to Sebastian. I wished Kat were here to talk about it. I could use her clear thinking right now.
The hospital conference room had a long, highly polished, cherry wood conference table already filled on one side with doctors. Looking thoughtful, the college president Daniel Pons sat at the far side. He was a youngish man with longish brown hair who played with his reading glasses more than used them, wore a pin on his collar, and always seemed to be carrying a can of Pepsi. An older man, his administrative assistant, sat in one of the chairs lining the wall. He leaned forward alertly when I entered the room.
Instead of a table seat, Sebastian took a solo chair on the window wall, a strategic place to watch me. He asked me to keep an open mind and had put the least amount of pressure on me.
And he provided the endowment. Why? It seemed too grand of a gesture for a mentor.
Sitting next to Pons, Florence tugged me to a seat on her other side and Donovan flanked my left. I saw one of the doctors look sideways at Sebastian as if expecting him to speak first, but he only studied his shoes.
I recognized the doctor sitting across from me. He had given us updates on the professor’s condition the first day. I completely forgot my Abishag rules of behavior and leaned forward eagerly.
“Doctor Kim, how is Professor Telemann doing today?”
“Stable, Miss Greene.” One of the other doctors shot him an irritated look, and he fell silent.
As if Doctor Kim’s voice signaled the other doctors to contribute, another doctor began a lengthy report. I recognized few terms, except “irreversible brain damage,” and “initial signs of organ failure.”
Poor Doctor Telemann. I wished Dog were here to explain the medical jargon.
When that doctor finished speaking, another one took over. Evidently he was an internist who had evaluated the patient, that’s how they referred to Doctor Telemann, to see if he was a good candidate for an Abishag wife. I shifted uncomfortably, not sure I wanted to hear this part. I had picked my first two husbands from candidate files after they’d been evaluated. At first I hoped he wouldn’t be found capable, since that would make it easier for me. Florence Harcourt had briefly listed what constituted acceptable conditions in our training sessions, but that had been over a year ago. I had forgotten most of it. As the doctor laboriously went over the qualifications and how the professor rated, I was glad he met the conditions. Failures constituted things like: hypersensitivity to touch, extreme pain when moved, and inability to survive a move to a facility outside the hospita
l. I would never wish any of those on Doctor Telemann.
When the doctor finished, she passed a copy of the report to Donovan, who wrote her a receipt, and slipped the checklist into a folder.
“Expected end date?” Florence Harcourt asked delicately.
Two doctors exchanged glances. Doctor Kim said, “One to six weeks. We cannot be more exact then that.”
I remembered my mother’s absurd command to make Doctor Telemann live longer than a week so that my father could refer to his daughter’s living academic husband. Inwardly I writhed with embarrassment, largely because I knew Doc T and hated seeing my mother use him.
I felt someone staring at me and caught Sebastian’s searching look. He immediately dropped his gaze to his shoes again.
If this was his way to lessen the pressure on me, he was sorely mistaken.
Unable to produce a rise from Sebastian, Florence Harcourt fixed her pointed look on Daniel Pons. When the president cleared his throat, his assistant leapt forward and passed him a sheath of papers.
As if reading Doctor Telemann’s eulogy, Pons went over his history: born in South Dakota, graduate of Cornell, taught at a small college in Idaho for five years. By the time he was 30, he had been awarded numerous accolades for his fieldwork and published papers. He moved to California where he had taught in his current position for thirty-four years. Rustling through the sheets, Pons listed his papers, key findings, and a list of honors that went on for three pages. From time to time, he glanced at me.
When Pons paused, Florence asked about family. The assistant passed Pons another file. Pons continued, “He has a sister in a nursing home in Wyoming. As she has dementia, her caretakers have not informed her about Henry’s condition. He is, was, an amiable man with many friends. I considered myself one of them. Speaking for all who loved him, we are devastated that this has happened and want now to fulfill his final wishes.”
I wiggled uncomfortably, nervously playing with the pink feather tickling my ear. I felt some of those present turn their attention to me. I had never been someone’s last wish.
Florence Harcourt leapt in with, “It gives us great joy to fulfill this wonderful man’s final request. Our Abishag wives are highly trained, compassionate women who bring comfort and peace to their dying husbands.” She impaled me with a look.
I saw a look of revulsion on a doctor’s face, before he turned aside. Doctor Kim asked the president. “Where would you like us to move the patient?”
Sebastian finally spoke. “My grandfather has a house in Indian Wells, and my family would like to make it available for Doctor Telemann.”
“Hospice care…?”
Sebastian said, “I’ve made the arrangements. I will also remain with the professor till the end.” He spoke quietly and matter-of-factly, but the loneliness in his clasped hands felt like a dagger to my heart.
Later I wanted to believe I spoke for Sebastian and Doc T. My dad’s political fate didn’t affect my decision nor did I do it for Florence Harcourt and publicity for the Abishag agency. I truly hoped Donovan’s offer didn’t factor in the equation even a smidgeon.
I croaked, “I will be Henry Telemann’s Abishag wife.”
CHAPTER FIVE
I had signed marriage certificates for my previous two husbands in the Westwood agency’s second floor conference room with only a few agency personnel, Florence Harcourt, and the husband’s power of attorney present.
Today Florence dismissed the doctors from their conference room while Donovan shuffled people around. President Pons’s assistant was a notary public and had been directed to bring his stamp and record book with him. As Doc T’s power of attorney, Pons signed the thick contract, which Donovan carefully explained to him page by page. I flinched with each stamp of the notary, something in me protesting against being harnessed to another dying man.
As the time drew near when I would sign the certificate, I started to shake. I didn’t notice Sebastian sitting in the chair Donovan had vacated till he took my hand.
I shot him a terrified look. I had been nervous for Thomas’s signing ceremony and had a sick stomach for Jordan’s. Too muddled to figure out what frightened me this time, I held onto Sebastian’s hand as if I were drowning.
“Time for your signature, Leslie.” Florence frowned at my headband and whisked it off. When she saw my left hand in Sebastian’s, she shook her head. “That won’t do. You should sit elsewhere, Mister Crowder.”
“We’re fine, Mrs. Harcourt,” Sebastian said pleasantly.
He secured the paper, while I penned a signature that looked nothing like my own. Sebastian only released my hand when I stood to say good-bye to Daniel Pons.
Sebastian drove me to the motel, and then he headed for the grocery store while I packed my suitcase and checked out. When I waited in the air-conditioned lobby, I started shaking again. I tried calling Kat, but it went to voicemail.
Sebastian noticed me trembling as we left the motel. “Are you scared because they haven’t caught the shooter?”
I shook my head. I didn’t know what frightened me, but it wasn’t that.
When I’d been married to Thomas, we lived for the 21 days of our marriage in his Palos Verdes estate overlooking Portuguese Cove. I knew he had a number of other properties: my second husband lived across the street from Thomas’s La Jolla bungalow and Sebastian lived in the Santa Monica townhouse.
Was I nervous about seeing the Indian Wells house? No, something else bothered me.
In a gated community called Villa Dorado, Sebastian parked his car in front of a plain, single story house with a Mexican tile roof and a small open atrium with potted cacti and a fountain. A blast of cool air hit me as we entered, and my eyes slit shut with pleasure.
We ferried luggage and groceries into the house, and I had a brief glimpse of a sprawling living room with sliders showcasing the stark Santa Rosa mountain range beyond an Olympic-sized swimming pool. The spacious kitchen neatly flowed into the dining room. Sebastian had the groceries organized so quickly, I didn’t have time to explore either.
He grabbed both his and my luggage. “Sorry, this place isn’t much larger than Jordan Ippel’s, but at least it’s all on one floor. I had the master bedroom outfitted for hospice care.” He swung open the door and led me past a long narrow bathroom with a large shower and an airy bedroom with a hospital bed and medical equipment rentals. It looked strange without a patient.
As if reading my thoughts, Sebastian said, “They should be bringing Henry here in two to three hours. One of the doctors will come with him to brief the hospice workers.”
I felt a pang. Dog and Kat had been with me for my previous two husbands, Dog as a hospice aide and Kat…Kat could do anything. She’d tended Thomas’s hillside gardens in Palos Verdes and crated art in Jordan’s studio. They’d left yesterday on a cross-country trek. I couldn’t imagine how I was going to get through this without them.
“There’s just four bedrooms. The other three are small and share a bathroom. I put you in my old bedroom as it’s closest to the master bedroom. The hospice aide will have the slightly larger room in the middle, and I’ll take the one on the end.”
“When’s the aide getting here?”
He checked his watch. “Anytime now. I also called a service to do light housecleaning and two meals per day.” He slanted a look at me. “I guess I could do the meals like the ones at Jordan’s last Christmas, but I called someone who cooks and cleans better than me. Besides I’ll be working.”
I perked up. “Working on what?”
“Finishing Henry’s projects with the Institute and museum. I asked some of his old students if they’d be interested in helping and got a few volunteers.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “He would be pleased.”
“Yeah, well, it should be done. I would have asked…”
A loud banging on the door interrupted him, and he chuckled. “Right on time. Come on.”
Curious about the new hospice aide, I followed him.
Thomas had two aides, Dog and a woman I prefer not to remember. Jordan had only Dog during the time I was with him. An Abishag wife works closely with the aide, so I felt a twinge of apprehension as Sebastian opened the door.
“Let us in,” Kat said with a grin. “The Saab’s air conditioning quit in Arizona and we’re about melted.”
Sebastian grinned widely as Dog enveloped me in a bear hug, loosed me to punch Sebastian’s arm, and the guys headed back to the car for the luggage.
I finally found my voice, launching myself at Kat, who fended me off. She wasn’t the huggy-kind of female. Then she squeezed me briefly, sensing something wrong. Unlike me, she knew people. “Get me something very, very cold to drink,” she said. “And then we’ll talk.”
I poured orange juice in a tall glass of ice. We perched at the counter as the guys emptied the car’s contents into the middle bedroom.
“Sebastian called you.”
Kat nodded, smugly. “We were on the other side of Arizona, found this sweet little cabin near the Grand Canyon. There Dog was with his fishing gear and medical books, and me with my oils, about to paint a splendid landscape for the house, and Sebastian calls. My best friend decides to be an Abishag wife again and needs us. So I take a bunch of pix with my iPhone, and Dog and I blast back to California.”
“I hadn’t decided,” I said. Or maybe whined. “Everyone ganged up on me and decided for me.”
She started to say something and seemed to change her mind. “I’m sorry about the professor dying,” she said kindly.
I sighed. “I wasn’t ready to be an Abishag wife again. Kat, I knew him.’
She nodded sympathetically. “And that makes it harder.”
“But my mother talked to me, Donovan talked to me, Florence Harcourt talked to me, and a whole roomful of doctors, lawyers, and Doc T’s best friend, the college president all looked at me, expecting me to jump at the chance to be his Abishag.”
I started to tell her about my weird mix of feelings, but her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Riddle in Bones: An Abishag’s Third Mystery (The Abishag Mysteries) Page 3
