by Jada Ryker
The other woman roared and picked Marisa up.
From his position below them, Alex cried, “Marisa, I don’t think that was a very good idea to give her your opinion on her fashion sense!”
Alex vaulted up onto the bar, and squeezed his way in between dancing women. He threw his arms around Marisa’s upper body, and pulled. Marisa’s attacker kept her grip on Marisa’s hips and tried to haul her away from Alex. “You’re going to pull me in two like a wishbone!”
Tara unsteadily grasped Alex’s shoulders and pulled. She lurched.
The four of them toppled into the crowd.
As they fell on the spectators below, the woman finally let go of Marisa. Alex retained his hold.
Marisa recognized the squirming bodies beneath them as Tara’s quartet of new friends. Marisa reflected as she tried to get up that at least they were good for breaking falls.
From her position on the floor, Marisa saw the woman with the purple ponytail standing over her. Her fists were clenched and she was focused on Marisa. Her eyes were slits. She roared as she reached into the milling bodies for Marisa.
Arms like steel bands circled Marisa and hauled her to her feet.
It was Alex.
Marisa spied Dreamus. His glasses crooked and shirt ripped, he reached into the crowd and plucked Tara out of the teeming bodies.
With his arm around Tara, Dreamus shouted for them to follow him.
He pushed open a door, and practically threw Tara inside. Dreamus frantically gestured for Alex and Marisa to follow.
Two men were standing at the urinal. One of them blurted, “Hey, this is the men’s room!” He quickly zipped his pants and advanced on them.
Something in Dreamus’ and Alex’s faces, and possibly Marisa’s, had the man throwing up his hands and backing away. “I don’t want any trouble!” He quickly exited the men’s room.
The other man at the urinal was William. “I’m glad you all decided to drop in...” His face scrunched in puzzlement. “In the men’s room?”
“Tara!” Marisa put her arm around Tara’s shoulders. “You’re drunk—”
William threw up his hands. “Will you all please listen to me? I was approached tonight! I was given the offer to buy kiddie porn! I—”
Tara ignored William and pulled away from Marisa, her flushed face defiant. “No lectures! Not from you or anyone!” She shot a venomous glare in Dreamus’ direction.
Marisa was torn. “William! Who was it? The High Priest of Death?”
Alex shook his head. “No way! It was the Royal Bloodhound!”
“Would you please stop interrupting me! It was—”
“I am out of here!” Tara rummaged in her little purse. It had remained on her body due to the strap crossing her upper body like a Girl Scout sash waiting for merit badges. With a jingle, she pulled out her keys and crashed out the door of the men’s room.
“I can’t let her drive like that!” Marisa dashed after her friend.
She could see her friend’s blonde curls bouncing through the uproar of the brawling crowd. Marisa ran, barely missing a flying chair.
Marisa caught up to Tara. She grabbed a flailing arm and roughly whirled the shorter woman around to face her.
“Let me go!” Tara screamed. She struggled to get free.
“You heard her! Let her go!” Marisa’s head snapped around.
The four men Tara had been cavorting with earlier were ranged around her, their faces hard and determined. One man stepped slightly forward, his body taut with aggression. “She told us earlier she was leaving with us. If you don’t let her go with us—” His insolent eyes ranged over Marisa’s body. “—then you’re coming along with her.”
“Leave the women alone!” Alex materialized, his fists clenched and his face dangerous.
One of the other men stepped forward. His eyes gauged Alex’s short stature and slender body. He laughed. “You going to take us all on?”
Dreamus was right behind Alex. “You’ll have to fight me, too.”
“And us.”
Marisa looked around. The members of Tara’s online group were ranged behind Alex and Dreamus like avenging angels. Bryce had made the statement, and Steve, the funeral director, stood next to him with his fists up. Marina Poole, otherwise known as Empress of the Endless Seas, raised her huge purse and shook it. Carla reached into her tube top and pulled out a slim stick.
Marisa’s eyes widened. Online, Carla was Merlin. A magic wand?
Carla brandished it.
Marisa released her breath in a whoosh. A yellow, number two pencil.
The man closest to Marisa dropped back. “Ah, that whore ain’t worth it—”
Dreamus’ fist slammed into his mouth.
As the other three surged forward, Alex lunged to meet them.
“Police!” someone yelled.
Clubbers surged toward the doors.
The man Dreamus had hit wiped at the blood on his mouth. “Let’s get out of here!”
Marisa screamed, “There goes Tara! She must have slipped away when Dreamus slugged that guy! We have to get her before she gets in her car! We can’t let her drive like that!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“The previous chief executive officer is in jail, thanks to you. Are you here at daybreak on a Saturday to try the same shenanigans with me?”
Marisa fought to keep her face impassive. “Good morning, Mr. Bolte. I’m not sure why you’re blaming me for someone’s poor choices.”
The first rays of the summer sun glinted on the sparse red hair as Milton Bolte lowered his round figure into the chair in front of Marisa’s desk. “Poor Payton Reed. I ran into the man from time to time at our corporate headquarters. He was always very professional and definitely got results from his people. They knew if they didn’t meet his expectations, they’d be out on the street. He could take a failing hospital and turn it around in no time at all.” Nearly the same shade as the thinning hair, the eyes gleamed with admiration.
Marisa gripped the edge of her desk as if it was her rising temper. “I must admit, in spite of his faults, Payton Reed never tried to staff the hospital with voluptuous blonde goddesses.”
As the admiration faded, Bolte glared. “What are you nattering on about, Marisa?”
“You hired Patricia Hillard to fill the vacant rehabilitation director role. She was the least qualified of the candidates. Her degree was earned through a dicey online educational website, and her experience was sparse. Her only assets appear to be height and beauty.”
His multiple chins quivering in outrage above his tightly knotted gray and white necktie, Bolte opened his mouth.
Marisa raised a hand. “It’s bad enough you’ve hired a marginally-qualified candidate into a key role. But now you’ve ignored my recommendations regarding your executive assistant role.”
Bolte gripped the arms of the chair, his pudgy body taut under the expensive gray suit. “I need an executive assistant who will not only mesh with my personality, but also present a certain appearance to visitors to the executive suite. You deliberately sent me old battleaxes to interview! The middle-aged women who paraded through my office sported swollen ankles, age spots, thinning hair, and wrinkled faces. You purposefully did not send me any young or attractive females to assess! Because of your obstinacy, I had go out and find my own viable candidate!”
“Although she probably will…mesh…with your personality, the blonde, six foot tall waitress you picked up at the Chamber of Commerce lunch is not a ‘viable candidate’!”
“Marisa, you’re being petty.” Bolte leaned back in the chair. “Patricia worked in a doctor’s office for five years! She has plenty of experience!”
“I ran a criminal background check on her. I am all for giving people chances, especially if they’ve made the effort to turn their lives around. However, she just finished serving her prison sentence for embezzling from the physician for whom she worked!”
“She just needs a chance, Marisa.”
He sneered. “Word on the street is you of all people should understand that sentiment.”
Marisa flushed. “Regardless, she dropped out of high school to work for the doctor. She doesn’t meet the minimum qualifications for the job. I can’t give her a chance, even if it’s warranted.”
“Marisa, I am your boss. I am in charge of this hospital. You will do as you are told. If you don’t, I’ll fire your insubordinate ass!”
“Mr. Bolte, if you fire me, I’ll have to tell the corporate office the reason.”
“Are you threatening to tattle on me to the corporate office?” His face red, the chief executive officer leaped to his feet. He leaned across the desk, nearly nose-to-nose with Marisa.
“She doesn’t have to, Milton. I will.”
Bolte’s body twisted as he faced the new threat. “Deanna! What are you doing here?”
Her tall, rangy body encased in a lavender skirt and matching jacket, Deanna advanced from the doorway to the outer office. She clutched a bag from a nearby bagel store in one hand, and a drink carrier with two covered cups in the other hand. “I came by to surprise you with breakfast, Milton. I tried the executive suite first. Imagine my surprise when I found Rehab Barbie waiting inside your office, curled up on the couch with her skirt hiked up her thighs and her breasts falling out of her top, what there was of it. She said you had told her to wait while you spoke with the human resources director.” She shook her long blonde hair back from her angry, carefully made up face.
Marisa pushed her chair back, and stood up. Across her desk, Bolte raised his hands to placate his infuriated wife as Marisa made her way around him to stand next to Deanna Bolte. “Mrs. Bolte, I am Marisa Adair. We met at your husband’s welcome reception.” Although taller than average, Marisa felt dwarfed next to the other woman.
Her body trembling with rage, Deanna shook off Marisa’s placating hand. “Milton, my family has run the healthcare management corporation for fifty years. My father successfully piloted the company, and then turned the helm over to my brother. Through the process of osmosis, my knowledge of healthcare is fairly extensive. I asked the woman some basic questions about reimbursements, outcomes, and quality measures. Oddly enough, she thought reimbursements were related to her getting money for her travel expenses. She told me all about her planned jaunts on company time to various exotic locations, including Hawaii and the Caribbean.”
“Deanna—”
“Shut up, Milton.” The sunlight from the window shone on the wrinkles around Deanna’s mouth and eyes as her face scrunched in distress. “The woman, who happens to look a lot like I did twenty years ago, excitedly told me her boss is going with her to Hawaii. She said she was expecting developments on that front, since he’s separated from his screeching harpy of a wife. This harpy had no idea her marriage was in trouble. I suppose the old saying is true, the wife is the last to know.”
“Mrs. Bolte—” Marisa glanced toward the darkness of the outer office. When her administrative assistant Janie had been let go during a round of budget cuts, the outer office had remained vacant. Since it had been used several months ago by a killer and now by an irate wife to eavesdrop on her philandering husband, Marisa wondered if she should move her operations out there.
As tears trickled down Deanna’s pale face leaving black tracks of mascara, she closed her brimming eyes. “Marisa, please don’t make me tell you to shut up as well. I need to say this.” She opened her eyes. “Milton, I begged my brother Andrew to give you this job as chief executive officer. Against his better judgment, he agreed. Now I have to call him and tell him he was right.”
“Milton! You liar!” Patricia, the new rehabilitation director, materialized next to Deanna. With their long blonde hair and tall, lanky bodies, the two women looked like an angry mother-daughter team.
The focus of their anger edged toward the door.
“Stop!” Patricia and Deanna screamed. As a unit, they turned to Milton Bolte. Two sets of angry eyes narrowed.
He paled and licked his dry lips.
Marisa wondered if she should call security. When he’s let go by his sure to be angry brother-in-law, I’ll probably get the blame for the loss of this chief executive officer. Marisa brightened. Or perhaps the kudos!
The chirpy ringing of Marisa’s cell phone broke the tense silence. Grateful for the diversion, Marisa hit the button to answer it. “Marisa, this is Lieutenant Camden. I am so sorry. Your friend is dead. This is the last number she called from her cell phone.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Marisa tried to stem her falling tears with a sodden tissue. “She’s dead, Macon. She’s dead and it’s my fault.” Marisa realized today, of all days, she needed her therapist’s common sense and calm approach to help her deal with the tragedy.
Macon leaned forward and touched her arm. “Let it out, Marisa.” His face was set in sympathetic lines.
“She was so beautiful, with her long, shining blonde hair. She was smart and I loved her so much.” Huddled in her chair next to the big oak desk, Marisa covered her face with her hands and sobbed, the grief shaking her slumped body.
“She had problems with addiction, Marisa. You couldn’t fix her issues. No one could, just she herself could resolve them.” Macon’s calm voice penetrated Marisa’s thoughts of her vivacious friend. “This is not your fault.”
“Then why do I feel so guilty? It’s on me, Macon. I should have stopped her, but I didn’t.”
Macon leaned forward. “Marisa, she was a grown woman. You couldn’t stop her. No one could. She was the only one who could have stopped, and she didn’t. You know there are some people who never get control of their addiction, no matter how many different times or how many different ways they try.” He handed her a fresh tissue.
“Thank you.” Marisa blew her nose. “I feel a little better.”
“I hate to pick at another scab, Marisa, especially since it’s really fresh. How is your brother doing? Mosely, I think you said?”
Marisa gulped down another sob. “You always say the only way for wounds to heal is to drain out the poison. Mosely wrote letters to me and our two brothers. In his letter to me, Mosely said if I didn’t stay away from our mother, he’d kill me. He wrote another letter to our brother Eddie, something along the lines of ‘Old Red Ed, Going to be Dead’…”
“Your brother Eddie is a redhead?”
“No, his nickname growing up was Red Ed, for redneck.”
“And the third letter?”
“It was addressed to my other brother, Tommy. He frequently goes over there to mow the lot for our mother, and take care of minor jobs around the mobile home and yard. Mosely broke out the glass in the trailer door, cut himself with the glass, and called the police. He told the officer Tommy broke in and assaulted him. They actually took Tommy to jail! I guess they believed Mosely. I even called Lieutenant Camden to see what he could do. He said my brother made an especially pathetic picture, since he has been using a walker since he got out of the hospital after his last drinking binge.”
“How unfair!”
Marisa nodded. “Tommy called our mother from jail, asking her to make Mosely tell the truth.” Marisa blinked away the tears of anger and frustration. “She told Tommy that Mosely would drop the charges if he would apologize to Mosely and promise to stay away from the home! Frantic, Tommy called me. I tried to reason with our mother. I told her she had to intervene for Tommy, it was only fair for her to make Mosely drop the charges. She refused! Tommy had to apologize for nothing in order to get out of jail. Now, Tommy, Eddie, and I just stay away from our mother and Mosely.”
Macon leaned forward. “Now Mosely has what he wants, doesn’t he? Your mother is isolated from the other family members.”
“I don’t see any other option, Macon. I know Mosely owns a gun. He used it to shoot a soft drink machine.”
“What?” Macon raised one hand in surprise.
“He was extremely drunk when he tried to use a soft drink machine. It di
dn’t give him his change. He had a gun in the truck, because he had been seeing a married woman with a drug dealer husband, and feared retribution. He used the gun to shoot the machine.”
“Was he arrested?”
“A simple destruction of property, my mother made restitution, and he went to anger management class. Bottom line, he’s threatened my life and I know he’s armed.” Marisa glanced at the clock.
Macon followed her gaze and stood up, uncoiling his lithe, runner’s body. “I’m sorry for all your losses, Marisa.”
Losses, plural. Marisa staggered to her feet. Her head rose past the misery weighing down her soul and she gazed up at Macon. He was tall and thin in his black dress pants and his pale blue shirt. He bent and offered his hand. The light shining through the window and on the wispy brown hair with the hint of scalp at the center of his head pulled at her memory. She’d felt the same sense of familiarity the last time she’d visited Macon. What the hell in her subconscious was trying to get her attention?
At the front desk, Barbara looked up from her open newspaper.
“Seems strange to see the news on paper, rather than on the computer,” Marisa observed as she dug into her wallet. Resolutely, she pushed away the thought of Parvis Stidham and his online investigative reporting and website.
Folding the paper and smiling at Marisa, deepening the lines at her mouth and eyes, Barbara stood up. She accepted Marisa’s debit card, and swiped it in the machine. Her powerful body like a sturdy plow horse, Barbara handed Marisa the card and crinkly slip. She glanced at the folded city newspaper. “For whatever reason, I like the smell of paper and the feel of it in my hands.” Her stubby fingers flipped the newspaper over. “Did you hear about that exotic dancer who was stabbed?”
Marisa paused in the middle of her signature. “Yes, I did,” she answered neutrally, then finished her signature.
“Did you know the young woman was a patient of Macon’s?” As she took the slip from Marisa, her heavy jowls quivered in distress.
