I give his proposition some thought. It does offer me an alternative means of transportation temporarily, but I’m also afraid of Bjorn getting a little too used to the idea of me caring for him and getting stuck doing it for a lot longer than I’d like. So I counter his offer with one of my own.
“Tell you what, Bjorn. We can try that for a few days but then I want to reevaluate things. I’m pretty sure I can get you a different kind of leg bag, one that has an easier gizmo for opening it. It might cost a little more and it’s something I’ll have to order so it will take a few days to get here, but I think it will solve your problem. In the meantime, we can help each other out.”
He thinks about my offer for a few seconds and then says, “Okay. But if this newfangled bag doesn’t work any better, will you help me out a little longer?”
“We’ll deal with that when the time comes,” I answer evasively, hoping it never will. He seems satisfied with that answer and we finally pull out into the street at a blistering ten miles an hour.
Dairy Airs is just over a mile from the hospital but it takes us nearly fifteen minutes to get there. Along the way at least ten drivers honk, yell obscenities, and make rude gestures as they pass us by in a cloud of disgust.
Unsure how long I will be here, I suggest to Bjorn that I call for him when I’m done but he insists on coming in with me, saying the length of the wait won’t matter. “They have the best cheesecakes in this place,” he says, pulling into a parking place and nudging the van’s front tires into the curb. “I try to get a slice at least once a week.”
Cheesecake sounds pretty darn good to me, too, and Bjorn and I spend a few minutes at the cake case, staring through the glass at the day’s choices and trying to decide what to get. Finally we settle into a booth and moments later our treats arrive: caramel pumpkin for Bjorn, and for me a delicious, melt-in-your-mouth lemon chiffon with a grilled cheese sandwich yet to come for dessert.
Jackie is the waitress again. I’m relieved when she greets Bjorn by name, letting me know that the two have met and I don’t have to worry about any awkward comments from Bjorn. When Jackie asks him how his health is doing, he dodges the question with a polite “Fine, thanks.”
I ask Jackie if her mother is on duty and she shakes her head. “She’s a little under the weather today,” she says. She hesitates a moment, looking nervous, then slides into the booth beside me and asks in a low voice, “Anything new on Shannon’s case?”
“Nothing concrete. They’ve arrested Erik but most of the evidence is circumstantial. He’s retained Lucien as his lawyer.”
“Well, that’s good,” she says, looking unconvinced. Mention of Lucien triggers a mixed reaction in most people. She leans closer to me and whispers, “Do you think he did it?”
I shake my head, swallowing a bite of my cheesecake. I look over and realize Bjorn has already scarfed down his slice, and decide I need to try to get him to drive as fast as he eats.
“No,” I tell Jackie. “I don’t think Erik did it. But there are some things that don’t add up.”
Jackie chews on her lip looking worried for a moment. Then she sees that my sandwich is up and goes over to get it. As I watch her walk, I’m once again struck by the feeling that something about her is different.
Before I can ponder it much, Bjorn says, “Do we have to talk about dead people? When you get to be my age, it’s kind of an uncomfortable subject, you know.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Besides, I thought you just came here for some cheesecake. Speaking of which, when am I going to get mine?”
“You already ate it.”
He turns and glares at me. “I think I’d know if I just ate a piece of cheesecake, missy.”
“You did, Bjorn. Look, there’s your empty plate in front of you. See the crumbs?”
Jackie returns and hands me my sandwich. Bjorn, who is staring at his plate with a puzzled expression, shrugs and says to Jackie, “Best bring me another piece then.”
Jackie leaves to fetch Bjorn’s second piece of cheesecake while I bite into my sandwich, relishing the mixed flavors of fresh cheese and butter.
As soon as Jackie brings Bjorn his second piece of cheesecake, he stabs a chunk of it onto his fork and waves it at us. “If you ask me,” he says, “the husband did it. I watch that crime channel on cable all the time. You know the one, with all the court cases and forensic shows? It’s fascinating stuff, but the outcomes are pretty predictable. Nine times out of ten it’s the spouse.”
“Erik was pretty jealous,” Jackie adds, sounding as if she’s trying to convince us. “So I guess it would be foolish to rule him out too quickly.”
She turns to leave but I say, “Wait a second,” and grab her arm to stop her. I can feel the ridges of her scars beneath her sleeve, and when she looks back at me with an expression of panic, I release my grip. “Sorry,” I say looking apologetic. “But there’s one more thing I wanted to ask you. Do you know that new psychiatrist in town, Luke Nelson, the man Shannon was dating?”
Jackie glances nervously over her shoulder and I’m not sure if it’s to see what’s going on in the rest of the place, or if it’s to see if anyone else is listening. Finally she nods and says, “He’s been in here a few times. He likes our Very Berry ice cream.”
Maybe there’s hope for the guy after all, I think, finishing off the first half of my sandwich and grabbing the rest. The Very Berry is excellent.
“How did he and Shannon get along?”
Jackie frowns. “Okay, I guess,” she says with a shrug. “I never saw them argue or anything. But they never showed much affection, either,” she adds quickly. She looks around again, her eyes blinking fast, her hands stuffed inside the pockets of her apron, jingling her tip change. “If you’ll excuse me,” she says biting her lip again, “I need to make a dash to the ladies’ room. You guys have a good one, eh?”
She is gone in a flash and her reaction to the last line of questioning leaves me wondering if there is more to her knowledge of Luke Nelson than she let on. Determined to find out, I fish some cash out of my purse, slide it across the table to Bjorn, and ask him to pay for our meal. Then I head into the ladies’ room, eating the remains of my sandwich along the way.
I find Jackie standing in front of one of the sinks, staring at herself in the mirror. I move beside her and check out my own reflection, horrified when I see what a mess my hair is and the faint reddish discoloration on my right cheek—most likely from the strawberry jam—that looks like a faint port-wine stain birthmark.
“I thought you might come in here,” Jackie says, as I dampen a paper towel and try to wash the red off my face.
“I’m sorry, Jackie. I don’t mean to impose, but I want to find out what happened to Shannon and make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else.”
She nods wearily, squeezes her eyes closed, and sighs heavily. Her hands have a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the sink.
“Are you a patient of Luke Nelson’s?” I ask as gently as I can.
She turns and looks at me with a startled expression, like a deer caught in headlights. Then a montage of emotions flit across her face: surprise, curiosity, and then relief. “Yes, I am,” she says finally, sighing. “I’m not crazy or anything. It’s just that . . . well . . . this . . .” She waves her hand around the scarred side of her face and I nod sympathetically. “And then to top it off, my mother was just diagnosed with breast cancer, which means I’m at risk, too.”
“Oh, crap, Jackie. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“No reason you should since you don’t work at the hospital anymore, but between trying to hold down the fort here and at home, worrying about Mom’s health, and dealing with my dad . . . well . . . it does stress me out at times.”
“That’s perfectly understandable. It’s nothing to be ashamed about.”
She casts a wary look at me. “You won’t tell anyone, will you? I don’t want anyone to know I’m seeing a shrink. People jump to conclusions.
I don’t want everyone in town knowing about my personal life. You know how it is.” Boy, do I. “No one knows I’ve been going to Dr. Nelson, not even my family.”
“And I won’t tell them,” I assure her. “But I would like to ask you a couple of questions, just between us.”
Her shoulders sag in resignation. “Go ahead.”
“Did you see Dr. Nelson on Friday at all?”
She thinks for a minute, then nods. “I had an appointment with him at two o’clock.”
I breathe a sigh of relief when I realize that her appointment is outside the time frame needed to verify Nelson’s alibi, which means I have no need to share the information with anyone else. So I move on to my next inquiry.
“What do you think of him? Is he helping you?”
For a moment her face takes on an almost beatific expression. Then she shrugs. “I guess so.”
“What does he do for you?”
“We just talk mostly,” she says, her cheeks flushing pink. “He’s a very good listener and that seems to help me.” She looks down at her hands and starts picking at a cuticle. “Why so many questions about him?’ she asks.
I can see how uncomfortable she is with the topic and figure it’s either because she’s still worried that I will share her information with others, or that too much rumor and speculation will chase Luke Nelson away. Patients do tend to develop strong attachments to their shrinks. Sensing that I’ve pushed her as far as I can, I say, “I’m trying to get a feel for all the people in Shannon’s life, that’s all. And I promise that what you’ve told me will stay between us. I’m sorry I had to pry.”
“It’s okay. I understand.”
I turn to leave but she calls me back. “There is one other thing I forgot to mention earlier. It might not be important but . . .”
I look back at her, waiting expectantly.
“I had a really bad day a couple of weeks ago and I called Dr. Nelson in a panic. It was late in the evening but he was kind enough to agree to meet me in his office for an emergency session.” She flashes me a wan smile. “Since it was so late, he walked me out to my car when we were done and, just as I was getting ready to leave, this woman showed up. I got the impression he wasn’t very happy to see her.”
“How so?”
“Well, she approached us and said, ‘I see you’re up to your old tricks, Luke.’ At that point he practically shoved me into my car and made a hasty retreat for his own. But the woman followed him and the two of them began yelling at one another. I started my car up but rolled down my window and dawdled a bit before driving away because I was curious. I heard the woman tell Dr. Nelson he’d be sorry he screwed with her and that she would make him pay. She was totally in his face and tried to block him from getting into his car. But he shoved her aside, got in, and drove away.”
“I don’t suppose you know who the woman was?”
Jackie shakes her head. “No, I’ve never seen her before. But I did see her get into a little cherry-red convertible sports car of some type and it had a vanity plate on it.”
I raise my eyebrows in question.
“It was an easy one to remember,” Jackie adds with a smile, “because the lady was rather well-endowed and her license plate read HOT 44D.”
Chapter 21
After borrowing Dairy Air’s phone to make a quick call, I drag Bjorn away from the ice cream display and ask him to drive me across town. He stares at me, blinks hard several times, and asks, “Who are you again?”
It seems his daughter’s suspicions about possible senility might be on target.
“I’m Mattie, remember? The nurse? I emptied your bag for you?” I say, gesturing toward his leg.
He nods, but still looks confused. It doesn’t exactly warm the cockles of my heart knowing that I have a half-blind, slightly confused, incontinent old man for a chauffeur. So I offer Bjorn a deal.
“Tell you what. How about if I drive the cab for a while and you ride along? It’s going to be dark in a couple of hours and I have a few other places I need to go.”
Bjorn considers my proposition for a second or two, then counters with, “Okay, but will you empty my bag again?”
“You betcha.” It’s a no-brainer. Either I empty the bag or risk the explosion of urine all over the cab.
We climb into the van with me behind the wheel and I drive us to the Keller Funeral Home. As I pull up out front, Bjorn looks at the building and then gives me a questioning stare.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” he says. “I know I’m old but I think I’m in pretty good shape.”
“Relax,” I reassure him. “I’m just here to get my hair done.”
He looks back at the building, then at me and mutters, “And they think I’m senile.”
I laugh. “I know it looks odd but there’s a woman named Barbara who works here as a beautician and she is quite talented, with both the living and the dead.”
We get out and head inside. I steer Bjorn toward the main office because in order to get to Barbara, who works her magic down in the basement, we will have to get past a locked door. An elderly woman who looks a little too close to casket-ready is sitting behind a desk in the office. She starts to get up from her chair to greet us but then recognizes me and plops back down. This is a good thing because the first time I came here I had to watch her negotiate the distance from her chair to mine and feared I’d be doing CPR before she reached me. Her name is displayed on a metal bar on her desk: Irene Keller.
“I’m guessing you’re here to see Barbara again,” she says to me.
I nod. “Yes, I just spoke with her on the phone.”
She gives me a quick once-over, clucks her tongue several times, and shakes her head, though I’m not sure if the shaking is a tremor or a judgment. “You know, a little basic maintenance goes a long way,” she chastises. “Barbara is very talented but if you don’t do your part, you’re just wasting her time.”
“It’s been a rough couple of days,” I explain. “I haven’t had the time to tend to myself the way I should.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “I don’t understand you young folks these days. You need to find the time. If you don’t care how you look, why should anyone else? I mean, seriously, even at my age I manage to find the time to work at my appearance.” She waves a hand around in front of her face. “Do you think this look is easy to maintain?”
Yikes! I’m not sure a monster special-effects expert could duplicate her look. Her skin has more wrinkles than a shar-pei, and her white hair has a faint green tint to it and is so sparse I can count the individual follicles in her scalp. Her eyebrows are drawn on and the rest of her make-up is boldly colored, a garish contrast to her translucent skin and pale coloring. And her lipstick is drawn on so far outside the normal lines of her lips that it looks like a three-year-old did it.
Bjorn apparently thinks it all looks fine because he says, “You are a beautiful woman. How is it I’ve never met you before?” Obviously his cataract surgery wasn’t as successful as I’d thought.
Irene shifts her attention from me to Bjorn and does another quick once-over. I notice that her eyes stall briefly and widen when her gaze nears his crotch. There is a noticeable bulge there, thanks to Bjorn’s catheter, but Irene has no way of knowing that’s what it is. She shifts her gaze to his face and smiles. “I’m Irene Keller,” she says. “I own this place and I’m a widow.”
“Bjorn Adamson,” Bjorn says with a sideways nod of his head. There is a definite twinkle in his eye. “I drive a cab and I’m a widower.”
Nothing like getting the preliminaries out of the way, though I guess when you get into Bjorn and Irene’s age group, time is a valuable commodity.
“Barbara is expecting you. She’s just finishing up with another customer,” Irene says to me, never taking her eyes off Bjorn. “The door is unlocked.”
“Is the other customer dead or alive?” I ask.
“Alive,” Irene says, still maintaining eye contact wit
h Bjorn.
I look over at Bjorn. “Do you want to wait up here or come with me?”
“I think I’ll wait up here. That is if Irene doesn’t mind.”
“Of course not,” Irene says, smiling broadly and revealing a mouthful of yellowed, lipstick-stained teeth.
“Do you have anything to eat?” Bjorn asks.
“I have some cookies.”
“I love cookies.”
As I leave the office and head for the basement door, I hear Irene ask Bjorn if he’s done any preplanning for his funeral. He says he has not, but would love to hear what she has to suggest. Foreplay for eighty-year-olds.
I head downstairs and enter the main prep room. There is an elderly female corpse stretched out on one of the tables and for a minute I think Irene must have been confused. But then I hear voices in a room off to the side and head that way.
Barbara sees me and waves me into the room. A tall blond woman is standing beside her looking picture-perfect and utterly radiant in a tight-fitting pencil skirt, tailored blouse, and peep-toe pumps. As I take in the sleek hair, the deftly applied makeup and the long-legged, stylish grace, something about her strikes a familiar chord. A second later it hits me.
“Chris!”
“Hey, girlfriend,” Chris greets back. “Good to see you again.” Chris, despite the feminine good looks, is actually a transvestite. I met him a few weeks ago at a trendy bar outside of town while investigating the Karen Owenby case. I found myself then feeling much as I do now—envious as hell and amazed that a man can look that good as a woman, not to mention that much better than me.
“I took your advice and met with your stylist here,” Chris says. “You were right. Her talents are magical.”
Barbara smiles at me and says, “Thanks for the referral.”
“My pleasure.”
“Oh, the pleasure is all mine,” Chris says, admiring himself in a mirror hanging on the wall. “And the ambience here is so . . . so . . . delicious.”
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