Murder at Spirit Falls

by Barbara Deese

  16

  José had barely worked up a sweat on the tennis court, just enough to give his muscles definition and attract the attention of two girls in plaid, parochial school uniforms who whispered and giggled on the other side of the fence. José, seemingly oblivious to them, moved effortlessly, popping the ball just over the net on the right, then deep into the left court.

  Ross, breathing audibly, let the ball go. “Your game,” he gasped, bracing his hands against his knees. He took the water bottle José handed him and sucked it dry before asking again, “Did you bring it?”

  “Of course.” José grinned lazily, tossing a towel over his shoulder. “But due to circumstances beyond my control, the price has gone up.”

  Ross scowled, shifting his eyes to the next court. “What circumstances?”

  “Let’s hit the showers first,” José suggested, tilting his head toward the arriving players. “I’ll catch you in the juice bar.”

  Ross fidgeted with his gym bag strap while José order a smoothie with protein powder and spirulina. “I ask again, what circumstances?” Ross fairly growled when José joined him at the table.

  Maddeningly, José pulled on his straw for a while before answering, “It’s like this. I go up to your little hideaway in the woods with some prime stuff, and one of your brilliant friends decides to hide my entire supply in case the place gets raided.”

  “So?”

  “So he walked off with it.”

  “It was paid for, you dirtbag.”

  “Yeah, but it means now I have to make another run sooner than I’d planned.”

  “You poor bastard, having to fly to the tropics, suck down Goombay smashes on the beach and watch the girls jiggle past wearing nothing but dental floss.” Despite his shower, Ross felt flushed.

  José leaned back, a derisive grin on his face. “It’s not like that, man. You rich white boys all think you can do a few lines any time the mood strikes you, no matter the cost to anyone else, and the thing that’s funnier than shit is you think you can do it without ever getting your hands dirty.” His voice took on a sinister tone. “I can assure you, it’s not all that easy or that safe on my end of the deal. I think that’s worth something to you, am I right?”

  Ross tried to match his nonchalance. “Seems to me, it’s just a hazard of the business.”

  “Seems to me,” José said, mocking his tone, “doing business with you got more hazardous since your party.” He stood and crumpled his empty paper cup. “Anyway, the cost of insurance has just gone up.”

  Ross swiped a hand across his upper lip. “She wasn’t the only one who left the party. Where’d you go, anyway?”

  José stood up. “I saw you, man.”

  “You saw nothing. Nada.”

  José’s lazy smile mocked him. “I saw you go out in that storm.”

  Ross assessed him, his eyes narrowing. “Speaking of insurance, I hope you’re paid up on your life insurance.”

  José circled the table and leaned close to Ross, pinching the nerve running along the top of his shoulder. Ross felt the instant, disabling pain. “And you,” José said close to his ear, “You better make sure your medical insurance is paid up. You start shopping for bargains, it could affect your health, if you know what I mean.”

  Armed with a folder filled with her best Internet research, Robin went to see Dr. Kellner. The waiting room was cozy, done in rich maple and brocade furniture. End tables held large vases of cut flowers and a lighted stand in the corner displayed a blown-glass sculpture that resembled a multi-colored jellyfish encased in a cylinder of water.

  Once in the examining room, she tied a pink paper gown about herself, grateful that the sleeves covered most of the bruises. It had been less than twenty-four hours since she’d gone Dumpster diving, and her upper arms bore red scrapes and magenta bruises. Her inner thighs were worse. The back of her right knee sported a purple bulge.

  She studied Dr. Kellner’s family vacation photos on his desk while she waited: husband and wife, son and daughters, posed on a ski slope or in front of the Moulin Rouge or atop a catamaran. The parents looked like older siblings of the teenagers, and Robin wondered how much plastic surgery they’d had.

  Rudy Kellner swept in, proffered a hand, and settled on the stool, his legs stretched out in front of him. “So, you want to talk about reconstruction,” he prompted.

  “I’ve been reading about TRAM flaps,” she said, referring to a procedure in which a section of the transverse rectus abdominus muscle is cut out, along with the overlying tissue, and used to form a breast. According to testimonials, the new breast was very natural in appearance. Besides—something that appealed to Robin—the procedure would effectively give her a tummy tuck as well.

  She noticed his frown.

  “I’m not sure that’s your best course,” he said. “The surgery is a long one, about five hours, and the recovery takes about six months. You’d be unable to stand up straight while the belly muscles healed.”

  “But,” she said with an attempt at humor, “as you can see, I’ve been growing belly fat for just this reason.” She was chagrined not to have considered another plan.

  He referred to her chart. “You had your babies by caesarean, right?”

  There was hope, then. “Right, so I already have a scar.”

  “And that’s the problem.” He described to her how, because the scarring went all the way through her abdominal wall, there was a chance of the transplanted tissue dying from lack of circulation.

  “Okay.” She held up her hand. “I can see I need to shift mental gears. What do you recommend?”

  Robin stared at the wall. Dr. Kellner eased open the front of her gown and began probing her mastectomy scar with his fingertips. Her skin had no feeling, the nerves having been severed during surgery. “You didn’t have radiation, did you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well,” he said, scooting his stool back and placing his hands on his thighs. “You have good, resilient skin, and I think I can make a breast you’ll be happy with, although it’s never a perfect match to the other.”

  “Okay?” She looked at him quizzically.

  His smile was boyish. “Some women get offended when I say this.” He rolled himself forward once more, reached into her gown and cupped her good breast in his hand. “But the simple fact is that this is a fifty-year old breast. Many women opt for a lift on the unaffected side just to achieve better symmetry. Others choose to keep what sensation they have.”

  Robin’s eyes welled with tears. What did any of it matter? When had Brad last touched her anyway?

  He patted her knee. “Why don’t you get dressed and we’ll talk some more. Do you want to wait for Brad?”

  She waved away the suggestion. “He’s obviously tied up.”

  Dr. Kellner gave her a wry smile. “I usually like to include the husband in these discussions, but as a gynecologist, he already knows the options.”

  Robin nodded. Tempted as she was to voice her disappointment over Brad’s no-show, she couldn’t very well complain to a colleague of his. She said, “This whole thing has been hard on Brad. I mean, he examines women all day long, but when it comes to his wife …” She shrugged.

  His look held so much compassion, she could barely meet his gaze. “Yeah, sometimes we doctors are the worst about it. Now, I’ll let you get dressed. You can meet me in my office next door and we can talk about your options,” he said, and left the room.

  The very act of getting dressed brought on a hot flash, and by the time she entered his office, Robin’s face was red and shiny and she wanted nothing more than to dump the contents of the water cooler over her head.

  Seated across the desk from her, Dr. Kellner opened a drawer and took out two breast prostheses, handing one to her. “This is filled with a saline solution, basically a bag of salt water. It’s fairly natural, but tends to wrinkle under the skin. And this,” he said, handing her another sack of fluid, “is silicone, about a B-cup. Silicon
e got a bad rap a few years ago, but the most extensive study to date has shown no increased risk with it. It feels much more like the natural breast.”

  Robin felt it and set it back on the desk.

  “They come in different sizes.” He opened the drawer again and produced a larger sample, his hand resting on it as he spoke. To Robin’s consternation and amusement, he unwittingly groped it, kneaded it, even rolled the center of it into a pseudo-nipple as he talked.

  “You wouldn’t be putting that exact implant into me, would you?” she asked.

  It was his turn to redden. “Professional hazard,” he said with an embarrassed grin, and put it back in the drawer.

  When Robin got home, she put in a call to her oncologist, asking for his advice on reconstruction.

  Dr. Khan, when he called back, piggybacked on Dr. Kellner’s advice. “My issue with the TRAM flap,” he said after she outlined her options to him, “is that it covers the area we want to watch, and that’s a problem if your cancer ever came back. You see, your tumor was very close to the chest wall, and that would be the likely site—”

  “But it’s not going to,” she interrupted.

  “Keep that attitude.”

  His cautionary words stuck with her the rest of the afternoon.

  Brad was home in time for dinner, looking, as he frequently did these days, harried. Robin stabbed at her shrimp scampi. “I’m sorry you couldn’t make it today.”

  Brad looked perplexed, then wary.

  “I saw Rudy Kellner today.”

  His face said, Oh. Shit. His mouth said, “Oh, God, Robin, I’m sorry. I had a prolapsed uterus with some of the worst endometriosis I’ve seen. She needed two units of blood.” He pushed his hands through his hair and avoided looking at her.

  “Do you want to know what he had to say?”

  “Sure, if you want.” He dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Can it wait until after dinner?”

  But after dinner, Brad kicked off his shoes and retired to the sunroom with a magazine, one of his professional journals.

  After loading the dishwasher, Robin sat next to him on the loveseat. She cleared her throat, wanting desperately to get through this without disintegrating into tears. Brad never responded well to tears. “We have to talk,” she said softly.

  He sighed at the dreaded words and stared at the magazine a little longer before closing it. “I have a pretty good idea what Rudy said. So what have you decided?”

  “I’m still thinking about it, but I don’t want to do the reconstruction right now.”

  “It’s your decision.” He sighed heavily. “Frankly, I’m relieved. I don’t like the idea of you having more surgery.”

  A tear slid down her cheek. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  He tilted his head to look at her. “Didn’t you just say—?”

  “I’m not talking about reconstruction. I’m wondering if I should have the other one removed—preventively, I mean.”

  He tilted his head back, eyes closed. “A prophylactic mastectomy, Robin? Why, in God’s name?”

  “Because every time I hear about someone’s cancer coming back, I think I haven’t done all I can. Because I wake up every morning with my fingers on my good breast, feeling for lumps.”

  When he turned to face her, his eyes were wet. “Haven’t they done enough cutting? Do you really want to go through all that just when things are getting back to normal?”

  “Normal?”

  “I mean, you had a problem. You took care of it. Why can’t you just put it behind you?”

  Flicking tears off her cheek, she said, “The truth is, things aren’t ever going to be just like they were. Never again. Can’t you support me in this?”

  He pressed his lips together and slowly shook his head. “Does my medical expertise count for nothing?”

  “It’s not about you!” Robin said and rushed from the room.

  By the time her bag was packed, she was done crying. Brad appeared in the door of her darkroom, watching silently as she unclipped her dry photos from the wire and threw them into her plastic transport box.

  “What are you doing?”

  She tossed a few rolls of film into the box. “I have work to do at the cabin. You knew I was heading back.”

  “Right now? I thought you were going tomorrow.”

  “Actually, if you remember, I was going to leave after my appointment today. I stuck around to report to you how it went.”

  He leaned wearily against the doorframe. “I’m sorry, Robin. Please don’t be this way. I know I screwed up, but it doesn’t solve anything if you run off?”

  She looked him in the eyes and shook her head sadly. “I’m not running off, Brad. Really. I just need time to think.”

  By the time she reached the cabin, the mosquitoes were in a feeding frenzy and she almost cranked up the engine to head home again. But if she went back now, she was afraid Brad would, oh, so graciously, be willing to forgive her little outburst and discount the very real emotions behind it. She hauled her belongings into the living room and poured herself a glass of Chablis.

  On the large trestle table in the main room, she spread out the newly developed photos and set up her laptop computer. After a few moments she was humming to herself. A tap on the screen door made her yelp.

  George grinned disarmingly under the porch light and let himself in. Immediately he began flailing at the flying insects that came in with him. “Heard your car. I wanted to make sure it was somebody who belonged here.”

  Unable to find her voice, Robin, with one hand clutching her throat, simply blinked at him.

  “Oh, gosh, I scared you now, didn’t I?” George dipped his head in embarrassment. “And after all that ruckus last night.”

  She continued to stare at him as if she hadn’t known him for years.

  “Yeah, the whole thing was bogus. The sheriff and that woman cop came and asked me about something I found by the side of the road, and that bi—oops, sorry, Mrs. B. She wanted him to arrest me but I guess the sheriff finally figured the whole bracelet thing made more sense my way.”

  “Bracelet?” She felt the hair on her neck rise.

  “Yeah, I found it near the bridge a while back. The sheriff took it last night as evidence. Anybody that knows me knows I pick up junk.”

  “Was it junk?”

  “Actually, it was kind of pretty.”

  “What were you going to do with it?”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now. They took it.”

  Robin nodded. Her breathing became easier as she remembered all the roadside finds he’d shown her over the years.

  He moved closer, and, without waiting for an invitation, sat down and started thumbing through her pictures. “How come that husband of yours never comes here anymore?” he asked casually, not making eye contact.

  The question didn’t feel harmless. She felt herself flush. “Ob/Gyns keep horrible hours.”

  “Yeah, I can see how he’d really get into his work.” He laughed his little heh, heh laugh.

  The misconception wasn’t new to her. Most men couldn’t comprehend how Brad could come home from a long day and complain about having to “look at bottoms all day.” She always reacted with some unease to this particular idiocy, but from George, it was downright creepy.

  Oblivious to her reaction, George switched his attention back to the photos. “Here’s that old pin oak.” He jabbed a finger at one. “There’s that owl that always sits up there where he can watch for little critters.”

  Robin breathed a sigh of relief and slid another picture to him.

  “Yeah, that’s him, all right.” The ghostly face of a barn owl peered from the foliage. He picked up another photo, adjusted his glasses on his nose and looked more closely.

  “Which photo is that?” Robin asked.

  He ignored her outstretched hand and stood, holding it up to the light.

  Robin eased the photo from his grip. “Oh, yes, the deer,” she
said. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

  He looked at her oddly. “Yup. Well, I guess I’ll leave you be.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “I just thought I’d come by and let you know you’re not out here all by your lonesome.” The screen door banged behind him.

  You’re not alone. Robin said the words to herself. Was it a reassurance or a threat, she wondered?

  It was her subconscious mind that woke her the following morning, urging her to look again at the photograph George had been studying. She made herself some herbal tea and a bowl of granola, yogurt and red raspberries, all organic, and sat on the porch to eat. The sunlight made a dappled pattern on her bare feet as she sat, listening to a symphony of birdcalls. It was just the kind of setting that always brought about serenity, no matter what chaos existed elsewhere. Her previous worries now seemed laughable.

  But today she had to force herself to finish breakfast before she took her magnifying glass from her camera bag and sat once more at the trestle table. The deer were still beautiful, the scenery still idyllic. The high, rocky banks of the stream formed a fascinating study of light and shadow. She moved the glass back to a particularly interesting outcropping. There, above the waterfall, she now saw, lay the figure of a female stretched out on the flat limestone ledge, an arm flung over her face, and on her wrist, a glint of light.

  Robin sat back, frowning. She pulled out her photo log to make sure of the date. She’d shot several rolls that day, the day of the storm.

  Feeling a hot flash coming on, she fanned herself with her notebook. Her eyes fell again on the photo. She brushed at some white flecks with the side of her hand, but they remained. Again she picked up the magnifying glass, pulling back with an intake of breath when she figured out what she was seeing. At the edge of the woods, just behind the woman, were two elliptical bright spots, just the size and shape and position to suggest the sun was glinting off a pair of glasses. Someone had been watching—she might as well say it—someone had been spying on Melissa Dunn.