“That’s not very exciting.” The disappointment on Kat’s face almost made me laugh.
“Nothing to get shot over,” I said. “From stuff Doc T said, archaeology doesn’t live up to all the Indiana Jones hype. Sebastian said physical anthropology is about finding stories in the shards and bones. And sometimes the stories are boring.” That was back when Sebastian was speaking to me.
“Les?” We both looked up to see Dog standing in the doorway.
I jumped to my feet. “Is Doc T okay?”
“You think you could start early tonight? I need to get to a medical supply store before they close.”
I swallowed, my heart thudding hard. “Sure.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
What could I say? I’d signed up for this.
I took a quick shower and lathered myself with a lemon verbena lotion Doc T once said he liked. When we worked together in the lab, I used gallons of it to kill the smell of old bones, rotting leather, and moisturize my dry desert skin.
I put on my inappropriate midnight blue nightshirt silkscreened with a picture of Mickey Mouse in his sorcerer’s apprentice garb. Old men preferred women in long nightgowns—I read that somewhere. Jen wore pajamas made of bamboo for its softness. The Abishag handbook recommended modesty. As I said, the nightshirt was inappropriate.
In the closet, I found a silk robe, like a kimono, embroidered in gold and black thread against a bright red. Matching pajamas or a nightgown were probably in the bureau. While I didn’t mind borrowing a robe, I drew the line at pajamas.
“Wow.” Dog’s eyes widened as I left the bathroom in a fog of lemon verbena and swirl of red silk.
“Shut up,” I said. I looked at Doc T who Dog had laid on his side. He already looked smaller in his dying.
“You okay? Or just the usual jitters.’
“The usual, I guess.” Avoiding Dog’s gaze, I studied the professor morosely. “Feels different this time, because I knew him. But whatever, right?”
I peeked swiftly up expecting Dog to be impatient to leave. His handsome Slavic features creased in an affectionate smile.
“But it will be okay soon, eh?” he asked. “Because now he is a different person, not the man you knew three days ago. Soon you’ll be comfortable with your Henry.”
Dog was right, but I still saw Doc T lying on the bed, leveled by a bullet. A mule bone project waited for his theories, students in the fall seminar waited to be taught, and somewhere Guinevere waited for his chaste love.
Dog moved a chair close to the bed. “There’s books in the nightstand. Maybe you’ll read to him before you turn out the lights?”
I nodded in relief. That I could do.
After Dog shut the door, I found the perfect book: a children’s chapter book called The Legend of King Arthur.
Settling into the stiff wooden chair, I read, “There once lived a young lad in the British Isles, a farm lad, who went by the name of Arthur.”
* * *
I read till hoarse, sipping from the glass of water Dog left on the nightstand. I finally marked the page and closed the book on an illustration of Guinevere.
I turned off the overhead light, the medical monitors surrounding the bed dimly illuminating the room. Staring at Doc T’s back covered by a hospital gown, I tried calming myself with thoughts of peace and comfort. Instead I wondered if Sebastian would remember to bring pajamas for the professor from his Claremont apartment.
I slipped into bed, my arm automatically going around him. Suddenly I knew it would be okay. Doc T was gone, but what I knew of him faintly colored the Henry I married. I leaned gently against his back, counting breaths, discovering again how each husband’s heartbeat had its own music.
For Thomas, I sang lullabies. For Jordan, holiday music. For Henry, I sang all the words I knew from Camelot and hummed the rest.
A few minutes before midnight while I softly sang Then You May Take Me To the Fair, Dog entered the room and left a pile of bags in a corner. He briefly surveyed Henry, the monitors, and the hanging bags. Unless she called for assistance, protocol prohibited anyone from entering the room while the Abishag wife watched her husband. Because I would be on “duty” for longer than eight hours, Dog had to interrupt for Henry’s medical needs. Dog didn’t acknowledge me in the 15 minutes he ran through his check list. Then he neatened the blanket over us, winked, and left the room.
Between Camelot songs, I rested my voice and started naming mule bones in my head, partly to stay awake, partly thinking that these thoughts would please Henry, and partly to keep my brain calm and focused.
Listing mule bones worked till fourteen minutes past 4:00 a.m. when a gunshot rang out.
I threw myself over Henry’s body, sobbing, and shrieking for help. Why did they keep shooting poor Doc T? Couldn’t they see that he was already nearly-dead?
After an eternity of 14 seconds, someone heard me, slammed through the bedroom door, and pulled me off Henry. I scrubbed at my eyes to see Dog laying Henry onto his back and checking his vitals. Black shadows under her eyes, Kat quietly came into the room and gave me a weak smile. “You okay, Les?”
I nodded but couldn’t move. Another few minutes later, I realized someone’s arms held me tight and we sat on the floor. I relaxed, fuzzily content to let someone else keep me upright.
Dog hunkered down in front of me and shone a light in my eyes. “You okay, Les?”
“No.” I pushed the light aside. “Is Henry dead?”
Dog shook his head. “What happened?”
I groaned. “Someone shot Doc T again. It happened so fast, I didn’t see them coming, I heard the gun like last time. Is he bleeding bad?”
Dog put a finger gently to my lips to stop the flood of words. “Give her to me, Sebastian.” The arms loosened around me, and Dog pulled me to my feet. “Listen to me, Leslie Greene. That was a car backfire, not a gun. You understand me?”
I swallowed. Did he say Sebastian? I twisted slightly to see Sebastian rising tiredly to his feet. “My car, Les. Sorry. It does that all the time. You remember?”
I took a breath. “You went to Claremont.”
He skated a glance at Dog and then nodded. “Just got back.”
I wavered, and Dog immediately scooped me up. “You’re done here tonight, Les.” Dog carried me to my bedroom, Kat hurrying before us to pull down the covers. After Dog laid me down, she tucked me in.
Sebastian leaned against the doorframe, his eyes so grim, I cried out, “What’s wrong?”
Dog wheeled around to glare at Sebastian, who swallowed, and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it now. We’ll talk at breakfast.”
“Tell me now or I won’t sleep.” I tried to sound threatening, but it sounded more like whimpering.
“Someone broke into my car while I was at Doc T’s place. Don’t worry about it.”
I started to laugh. Of all the horrid things I imagined, someone breaking into Sebastian’s beater car didn’t even make the list. Then I started to cry. Kat shooed Sebastian and Dog from the room and sat on the bed next to me, crooning quietly. Moments later, I fell asleep.
When I woke, the sun glinted through the window. Even without touching the pane, I knew it was already hot. Curled up next to me, Kat snored softly. I slid from the bed, changed quickly into a bathing suit, and crept from the room.
Slinging a beach towel around me, I peeked in on Henry and saw Sebastian drowsing in the chair where I’d been reading the night before. I left the room before he saw me. I heard Dog snoring not so softly in the middle room as I tip-toed down the hall.
The motel where I’d lived while working for Doc T had an unheated swimming pool. The air conditioner in my room was unreliable so I spent most of my free time in the pool. Every morning, I woke by six to swim laps.
The pool outside the Crowder’s desert home was much nicer than the motel’s. I eased into the shallow end, feeling the buoyancy of the salt water, admiring the Mexican tile. I swam lazy breaststrokes, lap after lap, feeling the t
ight bands around my chest loosen.
Panting, I pulled myself from the water and flopped onto a lounge chair, staring at the pink sky above the Santa Rosa Mountains, trying to catch my breath. Muscles burned in a good way.
I heard the Crowder patio doors open and turned to see Sebastian standing in the patio, pointing at the coffee cup in his hand. I could almost see the question mark appear above his head.
I wound the towel around me and headed for the house.
“Who’s with Henry?” I whispered, adjusting the towel so the dining room chairs wouldn’t get wet.
“Dog spelled me at 6:00. I was heading for bed when I heard you splashing like a seal in the pool.”
“I wasn’t…”
His smile took the sting out, and I subsided. Putting a cup of coffee in front of me, he asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Better. Probably won’t go psycho again at least till lunch.”
“You want to talk about it?”
I shook my head. “Later. Dog had that look in his eyes, so I know we’ll be talking about it. No worries.”
With no makeup and my hair stringy and wet, I doubted that I inspired confidence about my sanity. Even without a mirror handy, I suspected I looked exactly like poor, mad, drowned Ophelia. However, Sebastian let it go and padded to the kitchen. “What do you want for breakfast? Captain Crunch or pop tarts? We’ve got toast and fruit too.”
I chose Captain Crunch.
CHAPTER NINE
Sebastian disappeared before I finished my cereal. Probably by design. A yawning Kat took his place and drooped over her coffee while watching me. To make it easier for all concerned, I returned to bed, wet hair and all.
“Miss?” Groggy, I looked at the clock, read 10:30, then checked the door. The tall French girl peeked through the crack. Today she wore black shorts, a white tank that showed off her shapely but formidable arms, and a spotless apron.
“I plead forgiveness, but I forget your name. Wished you to know that I’ve put the table to rest and a salad is ready.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Thanks.” I wondered if I should explain about the Abishag wife’s night schedule, but decided that Sebastian had hired her, Sebastian should deal with her.
“Is a good salad—it will detox your liver of the bad cereal.”
I remembered leaving evidence of the bad cereal in the sink. Great. With this marriage came a mother making me eat my greens. Not my mother. My mother had introduced me to the wonders of vitamin-fortified Captain Crunch and Lucky Charms at a tender age.
“Give me a moment,” I said. “I need to check my husband first.”
Too polite to sniff, I saw the mental one in Dèsirèe’s gaze before she retreated.
I’d napped in my underwear, so I threw on the kimono, picked out something clean to wear from my dwindling supply, and used the bathroom in Henry’s room. After hanging the clothes in the bathroom, I checked the bedroom. Dog sat with a medical book on his lap near Henry who with his gauze headdress looked like a sleeping sultan. Dog bookmarked the book with his finger and studied me quizzically.
“Crowder said you were better.” I didn’t quite flinch when Dog called Sebastian “Crowder.” Crowder would always mean Thomas to me.
“I’m fine. Sorry for freaking out last night.”
He continued to watch me so intently that I wondered if he had researched mental illness while I slept. “What happened?”
“I mistook Sebastian’s car backfiring for a gunshot. Happens to even normal people, Dog.”
“Ah?” He pounced. “You think you are not normal.”
“I hope you’re not going into psychiatry,” I said. “That’s not the way you talk to a crazy person.”
Before he could say anything, I added, “I’ve been on edge since someone fired a gun at me and Kat in Thomas’s house last year. Someone shooting Doc T three days ago didn’t help either. I may have overreacted to the car backfiring, but I’m not surprised I did. You shouldn’t be surprised either.”
Actually it horrified me that I couldn’t remember everything that happened last night, felt shamed that Sebastian had to restrain me, and felt like a total failure that Dog had to cut my duty to Henry short and carry me to bed.
“I think you have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”
“That’s just for soldiers…”
“It can happen to anyone who has survived a trauma.”
“I don’t…”
“I think Kat has it too.”
I stared blankly at Dog. “What?”
“She’s had nightmares since getting bashed on the head at Jordan Ippel’s house last Christmas. More likely it started as flashbacks to what happened at Thomas Crowder’s four months earlier. She brags about the bullet missing her by inches, but she’s not as tough as she thinks.”
Dog’s eyes narrowed. “And neither are you.”
I blinked. “I never said I was. Maybe I’ll always freak at cars backfiring. It’ll be inconvenient but not life-altering.” I couldn’t stop from quavering. “I didn’t know it was affecting Kat. It’s my fault that she was there both times. I should…”
Dog laughed. “Your fault? I don’t remember you having a choice either time.” He sobered suddenly. “She won’t talk to me about it. Maybe she’ll talk to you.”
I nodded dubiously. “I’ll try.” Then I remembered my current gripe. “That French girl about ordered me to eat a salad. Where’s Sebastian? He needs to tell her to leave me alone.”
Dog opened the medical book and said to a pustular boil on the page, “He took his car to a mechanic. He wanted to make sure it doesn’t backfire again.”
I choked up hearing that he’d done that for me. Afraid I’d start crying, I fled to the bathroom.
After showering, I applied makeup carefully. Not that Dèsirèe looked like a model, but she definitely caught the eye. And not that we were competing or anything. The Handbook for Abishag Wives contained several rules about proper appearance and while I hadn’t been exactly diligent in that—hey, till recently I had no budget for nice clothes—I figured it wouldn’t hurt to spruce up my image. Donovan Reid and Florence Harcourt considered this contract to be a high profile one for the agency. I should do my part and look my best.
Who was I kidding? No way would I be Plain Jane with that French hot girl running around. It was my duty as an American!
Clad in a teal top with matching eye shadow, white shorts, and a yard-long silver necklace that Tina gave me for Christmas last year, I headed to the dining room. I padded barefoot on the slate floors because why waste shoe leather inside? Besides, no one should miss my teal toenail polish.
Sebastian must have just returned from the mechanic. Washing his hands in the kitchen sink, he did a double take as I sat at the table. After a warning look from Kat, I said nothing. I sipped lemonade with a raspberry bobbing on its surface—fresh squeezed lemonade with the perfect balance of sweet and tart. So Dèsirèe excelled at her job. Big whoop.
The salad was delectable: mixed greens with Granny Smith apples, pecans, celery, and feta cheese. I doused my serving with a tangy orange-bergamot vinaigrette. While sifting the greens for the good stuff, I covertly studied Kat. Dog might be right. Something seemed off with Kat. She played with her salad listlessly, and her eyes had black circles.
I needed to get rid of Sebastian. Kat would never open up with him there. My Abishag friend Jen said I should go about such things tactfully. She said that you can’t just tell someone to leave. You should introduce a subject that will make them feel you care. After that, you can shove them out the door.
I hunted for a topic. I really wanted to ask him why he’d held me on the floor for so long when it made more sense to secure me to the chair with restraints. Depending on how he responded, I might have to give him a lecture on the proper way to deal with the mentally unstable. I had worked in a psych ward once. Except for the job in a daycare center, it was my shortest job ever, lasting only hours. An incident with tapioca pudding l
ed to a full-scale riot. But I did learn how to secure a mentally unstable person.
Demonstrating the technique would take too long.
As I spread cilantro-fava bean dip on toasted baguette slices, I hit on another topic that shouldn’t take long to explore.
“So someone broke into your car in Claremont last night,” I said brightly. “Do you know who?”
He shook his head. Okay, by Jen’s standards that didn’t last long enough that I could now ask him to leave.
“Uh,” I added. “Do you know why?”
“The shoebox of bones,” he said. “Whoever broke in, took it. I’ve been trying to figure out why ever since.”
“No, they didn’t,” I said. I took another bite of the baguette, wondering what the French girl put into the spread besides the fava beans and cilantro. Tahini, lemon, garlic, salt, maybe tarragon…
“What do you mean?”
“The box of bones is in my room. I accidently picked it up with my purse yesterday. Sorry, I forgot to tell you.”
A look of relief crossed his face. “Can I have it now?”
“Maybe later,” I said, fidgeting. Okay, this had gone on long enough. Under Jen’s rules, I could now ask him to leave. What was that tactful phrase she said to use?
“I’ll get it,” Kat said. She dragged herself from the chair and left.
As soon as Kat was out of earshot, I hissed, “You have to leave so I can talk to Kat. Dog says she’s got PTSD, and I should talk to her.”
“He wants you to talk to her?”
I drew myself up. “You don’t have to say it like that. I worked in a psych ward once. I know what to say.”
He didn’t look convinced. “You kind of had an episode yourself last night. Look, I minored in psychology, Maybe I can talk to you both.”
“I’m fine. Yeah, I was a little anxious last night…”
He made a rude noise.
I raised my voice. “But I’m over it now.” Hearing Kat returning, I lowered my voice. “So make some excuse, not a lame excuse, and leave.”
Riddle in Bones: An Abishag’s Third Mystery (The Abishag Mysteries) Page 5
