Dial M for Mascara

by Bevill, C. L.

  “Mary Grace,” she repeated wrathfully, stalking up to the table at which her daughter was doing her utmost to hide underneath. “Just what in the name of God have you been doing lately? And do you have clean underwear on?”

  Chapter Seven – Sunday, June 19th

  For a Gothic look, liberally apply baby powder to one’s face before foundation. Then powder your eyes before applying a thick pencil eyeliner. Apply powder again and then retrace your eye lines with a liquid eyeliner. It simply makes a dark vixen’s eyes pop with black energy.

  -Aunt Piadora’s Beauty Hints

  Several hours, three Snickers bars, two and a half cups of coffee, one-half pack of Bubblicious gum (twisted tornado flavored), and one extended trip to the bathroom later, a doctor came out to tell the horde of anxious Italian-Americans that one Caledonia Caprice Branch would be all right. Her concussion and head fracture were serious but not threatening enough to warrant intensive care. Her MRI and CAT scans had come back showing a small hematoma. (The doctor had to explain the meaning of a hematoma no less than three times and drew a picture on the back of a chart to illustrate the position.) However, Callie was responding well and exhibited no symptoms that the hematoma was problematic. (More explanations to older members of the Branch family followed, as well as the doctor drawing a large smiley face to indicate his level of happiness with the successful treatment of the patient.) The downside of this news was that Callie had a badly broken leg. The fracture there was severe, had cut nerves and tendons, and would require orthopedic surgery, which would take place in the next twelve hours.

  Ottavia Branch moaned. Aloysius took his wife into his arms and patted her back. “There, there, Mother,” he said soothingly. “Nerves and tendons can mend. So can a broken bone. Our little Callie will be just fine. Isn’t that correct, Doctor?”

  The doctor nodded nervously, abruptly afraid of twenty-odd sets of fretful eyes looking acutely at him. Mary Grace commiserated. He went on. “The break is severe, as I’ve said. But barring undue complications such as infection,” he paused as several heads snapped back to him, instantly focusing on the words, complications and infection. One elderly aunt vigorously crossed herself and mumbled a prayer to Callie’s patron saint under her breath. The doctor hastened to explain that this was not necessarily a bad thing. “Infection is highly unlikely and Ms. Branch is receiving a substantial dose of antibiotics for the injuries she’s sustained. She’s a tough cookie and I believe she’ll be just fine. She’ll be moved to intermediate care after the surgery.” Then the doctor underwent an array of hands patting his back and arms before he was able to escape, his flight nimbly covered by two nurses, who were evidently used to adoring and relieved relatives.

  With a sigh, Ghita nudged Mary Grace with a not-so-gentle elbow. “You should see if that doctor is single,” she said. “Doctors are good providers.”

  Mary Grace didn’t have the heart to tell her mother that the doctor had a little rainbow pin on his nametag, or the heart to tell her that her underwear was, in fact, clean. Or that Aunt Maria’s gift Jimmy Choos had been ruined the night before. Or that she had broken into her boss’s house not so many hours before. Or that she felt irrevocably guilty at the fact that her best friend was laid up in a nearby hospital room, enjoying a constant drip of morphine for the pain. Or that she had what seemed like an instantaneous lust for a man who she had barely met and wanted to pull him across the table and smooch him until their brains turned into mush.

  A few of Callie’s relatives were herded out of the waiting room by irritated staff. Aloysius and Ottavia went to look in on their daughter before they went home to rest for a few hours. Mary Grace sat in her seat, wondering if she could kill herself by jumping off a hospital gurney. Ghita sat quietly beside her, silent for a change.

  After a few minutes Ottavia came out of the emergency room and beckoned to Mary Grace. “She wants to talk to you, dear.” Ottavia held the door and as Mary Grace passed through, she added slyly, “Perhaps you can tell us later, what you were doing in North Arlington?”

  Mary Grace bit her lower lip and was not surprised when it bled.

  Aloysius patted Callie on her head and left as Mary Grace entered the room. The monitors connected to her best friend clicked, beeped, and whorped. She was lying on her side with pillows propped against her hip and her heavily braced leg supported by a complicated mechanism that didn’t appear comfortable at all. When Callie saw her she held up a little device with a bright red button that was attached to the IV standing at the side of the bed. “This lets me inject morphine any time I want,” she said, her voice slurred. “Except they turned it off so I wouldn’t OD before the operation on my leg. I’m going to set off airport security systems after this. Three screws and a plate are going to be put on the bones. Permanently. I can’t wait to go through the metal detector and see their faces when they wand me. Cool, huh?”

  Mary Grace was overwhelmed with guilt. She wanted to throw herself on the floor at Callie’s feet and beg forgiveness for involving her friend in this mess. She wanted to commit ritual seppuku so that the world would become a better place. She wanted to…solidly and firmly KICK that bastard’s ass who had done this to her friend. “I swear I’ll get the little prink,” she muttered. “I’ll find him and cut off his testicles and stomp on them with my Jimmy Choos. I’ll make him eat my Prada. Then I’ll get really mad.”

  Callie’s eyes went large. “Wow. Did you say you’d do the fandango with the guy’s hairy-conkers?” She sighed in a drugged-out fashion. “Ma said your mother has arrived. And here you are, still alive. Tha’s amazing.” She looked around craftily and whispered, “Is everyone gone?”

  The room was small but Callie was very high. “Yes, they’re in the waiting room.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “We went to the park to rollerblade,” Mary Grace said ineffectually. Callie winced.

  “God, that’s lame. I can’t remember the last time I actually exercised. At least, not on purpose. Is your mom staying with you?”

  “No, she hates the bed in the spare, so she’ll sleep over at Aunt Isabella’s until, and I quote, ‘We get this dreadful mess all straightened out.’” Mary Grace groaned. “And I had to promise three, count ‘em, three babies by the end of this decade to get her to let me stay at my house alone. This is getting worse and worse. Now I’m wishing the guy had been successful.”

  “I thought we weren’t sure if it were a him or a her,” Callie muttered.

  “We’re not. I just keep calling him him. You know.”

  “Did you see the blonde woman with the baby?” Callie asked weakly. “Or was that a pain filled delusion?”

  “She was there,” Mary Grace confirmed.

  “Did she follow us?”

  “I think she must have, but then someone in the black car also did. If I hadn’t stopped, he would have…”

  “Hit both of us,” Callie finished. “Don’t sweat it, sweetheart. I’m going to miss all the good stuff. It’s up to you to find the bad guy, now. I’d start by finding the blonde. She’ll blab.”

  Mary Grace thought about it. When she started to speak, she realized that Callie was snoring softly. Why did someone try to hit them with a car? That was beyond stupidity. Why follow them at all? The black car, in itself, cleared Jack. After all, Jack couldn’t drive his Saturn and the black sedan at the same time.

  A crime of opportunity? An act of stupidity? Probably both. Here was Mary Grace, still alive after three attempts and not only that, but her friend was getting in on the action. The person was probably so angry that they were lucky he hadn’t tried to run over them a second time.

  Mary Grace brushed a lock of Callie’s hair away from her face. She didn’t know what to do. She could go break into Trey’s house or apartment or wherever he lived and see if any evidence bit her on the butt there, but what if he weren’t the person either. Trey didn’t drive a black car. He had a little economy car and he still lived with his parents. Pl
us he was all bluster and no blow. She could also stake out Lolita Lewis and see where that led her. But since Lolita had been so convincing in her lack of recognition it seemed like a long, long shot.

  Callie said to find the blonde woman. How in the name of Jiminy Cricket was Mary Grace going to do that? Deep Throat had showed up at her place early Saturday morning, and then later the same day near Jack’s place. She wouldn’t be surprised if the blonde mama showed up at the hospital to pound in a not-so-well-meaning I-told-you-so. With baby.

  Callie had a little drip of drool running down her cheek. Mary Grace wiped it away with a Kleenex and her friend murmured, “Green noodles? All right, only if a fox has carnal knowledge of a camel.” Or something like that.

  A baby. Mary Grace perked up. Can’t find the woman. Find the baby. When she left the little room with her friend sleeping restlessly in the midst of morphine-induced dementia and her friend’s keys as well as Jack’s keys in her pocket, her mother was waiting for her. So was Brogan.

  “Oh, Lord,” Mary Grace said, instantly more depressed at the thought what that pair would have been saying to each other.

  •

  One interesting conversation between Mary Grace’s mother and Mary Grace’s lust-bunny later, she was sitting in Brogan’s unmarked sedan. It was tidy inside and smelled like mint candies. Her mother had gotten a ride with one of Callie’s aunts in order to fulfill her need for intricate and detailed gossip. That worked well for Mary Grace because Ghita had that look on her face. That look denoted utter doom when they were alone. All Mary Grace had been able to say to her mother was, “I don’t know who’s trying to kill me. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you and Dad to worry. Look, see, I have my very own cop. I still love you, Ma. Please don’t cry.”

  Sitting in Brogan’s passenger seat, Mary Grace pretended to look around the car. “I’ve never been in a police car before,” she said. “No. That’s not true. There was the time a cop caught Callie, me, and Lorna Depachio playing hooky in the ninth grade. I guess we weren’t supposed to be downtown looking at the grassy knoll.” She sighed. “You’d think they would have been glad we weren’t in a dive drinking whiskey with fake IDs. But no-ooo.”

  Brogan didn’t start the car, so they sat in the parking garage of the hospital looking at a water-stained cement wall. Mary Grace twitched awkwardly. Brogan had told her he’d give her a ride to her house, but after her mother had left with only a swift evil gaze in her daughter’s direction, Mary Grace had asked him to drop her off at Callie’s Miata. She needed to get Callie’s car out of that neighborhood and she certainly couldn’t have asked her mother. God Forbid!

  Mary Grace restrained a strong and catholically induced urge to cross her breast.

  Sternly looking directly ahead, Brogan finally said, “Do you think that stain looks like Jesus Christ? Because if it does I can take a picture of it and sell it on Ebay. We could make a fortune. Give directions to His image on a hospital parking lot’s wall. See the big poofy hair on top and those are definitely sideburns. Huh. I don’t remember Him wearing big hoop earrings.”

  Mary Grace gulped nervously. The water stain on the wall looked like a big glob of moisture. It looked like the big jellied mass in The Blob. It looked like the time she had poured water down the lap of a man in a bar who couldn’t take no for an answer. That was unquestionably the worst of omens for her. She had lost her sense of humor. Horrors.

  “Were you inside Jack Covington’s house?” Brogan asked quietly. All absurdity had left his voice and it boded ill for Mary Grace. More omens.

  “If I say I was do you have to arrest me?” Mary Grace could have groaned after the words came out of her mouth. It sounded like a six year old confessing to a crime to his parents. ‘If I did it, will you spank me?’ Someone was going to get spanked and Mary Grace didn’t want it to be Callie or her. Then she followed up with, “Was Jack’s house broken into or was the phone call tip a prank?” That was better. Put the detective on the offensive.

  Brogan’s head turned toward Mary Grace and she swore she saw a distinct twinkle in his eye. He shrugged. “There’s not a lot of evidence that indicates the house was broken into. No one, other than the anonymous caller, saw anyone go inside. None of the neighbors saw anyone come out.” She breathed a sigh of intense relief. Then he added, “Screen window on the back side of the house was pushed out. Bushes were mashed, a little. And the neighbors did notice a couple of young women walking past shortly before the incident was reported.”

  Brogan’s eyes went down her figure, checking out the same jersey and jeans she had put on earlier to speak with him in. She knew there were grass stains on the back. Just as she knew there were blood stains on the front. Mary Grace’s black hair, normally sleek and in place, hung in tatters around her face. Lastly, her eyes were drooping with fatigue. No fashion plate, she.

  “However, nothing was taken,” Brogan said, not waiting for an answer. “The homeowner doesn’t seem to be concerned. So, consequently, neither is the Arlington Police Department.”

  Mary Grace brightened. That was a good thing. Jack didn’t want to press charges. Or maybe he didn’t know what to press charges for. Or, the suspicious part of Mary Grace’s mind willfully suggested, he wanted to hide the portraits au natural before the evidence could be used against him. Ah, Christ, she swore silently. Had the police told Jack about Callie and me? Am I going to have a job on Monday or am I going to show up to Pictographs and find a box with all my stuff in it on the front step? Closing her eyes for a moment, she asked softly, “Did you go inside?”

  Eyes that without warning didn’t seem so puppy doggish snapped back around to her. Mary Grace wondered how she could have mistaken them for puppyish. No, they were suddenly like Doberman Pinschers before they went to chew on a poor postman’s leg. Intent, determined, ready to rip, chomp, and shred. Brogan couldn’t trust her, Mary Grace realized. How could he? Nine out of ten people he met were liars. Eight out of the nine were probably guilty of some crime. Five out of the eight were probably felons and worse.

  Was breaking and entering a felony? Mary Grace finally looked away. Probably. Oh, God, I’m a terrible person. A terrible person someone wants to kill.

  “I did go inside,” Brogan said quietly.

  Mary Grace glanced at him, startled. That glint was back. Not a twinkle of humor, though. Oh, craptacular, she thought. He saw the portrait. “Ididn’tposeforhim,” she uttered, all at once and then realized what she’d admitted, in not so many words. Then she realized that probably half of the Arlington Police Department had seen the portrait. Even though the face was unclear, the body was not. Even though Mary Grace knew that she hadn’t posed for Jack’s studies, anyone who knew her might think she had.

  Brogan swiftly smiled. “Mr. Covington told us they were not works based on a real person.”

  Mary Grace’s eyes rolled. “What do you want to know, Brogan?”

  “I think that’s the first time you’ve called me by my name alone,” he commented huskily.

  “I could call you something else,” she responded saucily, not knowing where the urge to flirt had come from. A blush started to rush across her, causing an intense feeling of heat in all kinds of places.

  Brown eyes suddenly smoldered. Mary Grace would have sworn on a stack of bibles that smoke billowed from Brogan’s face. She had a lust going on for him. He had a lust going on for her. He knew that she did. She knew that he knew that she did. Very slowly and methodically he leaned toward her, his gaze never faltering from hers. Mary Grace didn’t move for a scant second and then moved her head just slightly so that they wouldn’t bump noses. His full and very luscious lips met her plump ones in what started off as a conservative kiss. Two seconds later, Mary Grace was sitting in Brogan’s lap with her arms wrapped around his neck. Brogan’s hands were gleefully molding themselves over her voluptuous figure. She wasn’t sure if she had thrown herself there or if he had yanked her, or whether it was a combination of the two. But who
cares?

  Mary Grace’s jersey had managed to expunge itself from her body and flutter to the passenger seat when she pulled back to look him in the eye. “I don’t do this,” she muttered and kissed him hard. Stars exploded behind her eyes.

  Brogan pulled back. “Of course not,” he said firmly and kissed her back. More stars exploded. It was not unlike the birth of a new universe.

  “Not in cars,” she added between kisses. He nibbled on her ear. Mary Grace would have clenched her thighs together to quell the rapid surge of heat that enflamed her loins, but she found herself straddling Brogan’s lap. His hands were wondrous explorers of the female body.

  “No, not in cars,” he muttered, his lips running down her cheek to snack on the corner of her mouth. “Not since I was about sixteen,” he added, dipping to examine the lovely length of her neck with his tongue. Everything was a banquet of erotic sensation.

  “Once I made out with a boy in ninth grade in the back of a station wagon,” Mary Grace muttered back. “Only he didn’t get my shirt off. Or my pants.”

  Brogan was reaching for the catch of her Jezabel bra when the police radio blared loudly and both of them jumped as if they had been caught with their proverbial hands in the cookie jars.

  Almost in my cookie jar, Mary Grace amended, barely able to think. Brogan stared at her with an expression of amazement. “What the hell am I doing?” he said and swore luridly.

  Mary Grace winced and crossed her arms over her chest. For some reason her nipples were like a pair of ack-ack guns, standing proud and ready to shoot at the slightest provocation. Crossing her arms over her chest didn’t particularly help. And when she shifted her body she discovered she wasn’t the only one with a trivial inconvenience. Brogan was going to have problems standing up anytime soon without everyone’s eyes dropping to the part of his more masculine anatomy.

  Her mouth dropped open as she looked at that very part. Mary Grace had a shameful urge to scootch slowly backwards without breaking contact, all the while sinuously moving her upper body forward in order to see what Brogan was made of. Was it red-hot steel or was he all cream-puff? Was he satiny soft flesh almost painfully stretched over hardened warmth? Was he-