An Eggshell Present: An Abishag’s Fourth Mystery (Abishag Mysteries Book 4)

by Michelle Knowlden

  At ten, Dog turned Sebastian on his side with practiced ease. After turning off the overhead light and the Romanian gypsy music playing on his Phone, he brushed my arm as he passed. He seemed to know that any words or even a hug would undo me. The glow of the medical screens and the cardiac monitor displaying his steady heartbeat provided the only light in the darkened room, the muted pings the only sound.

  I nervously wiped my damp hands on the periwinkle flannel pajamas printed with purple morning glories. With my other comatose husbands, I would slip into the bed, press my cheek against their backs to listen to their heartbeats, and curve my arm around them for comfort.

  It seemed a furtive move to sneak behind Sebastian and share his bed. This was his mother’s wish, not ours. We made a comfortable dating couple. Perhaps he would have asked me to be his wife. I still wasn’t sure of it.

  I perched on the massive leather chair on the other side of the bed, staring at his profile in the dim light. With his bandaged head, he looked like an Arab prince, which unexpectedly made me smile.

  “Shall I tell you a thousand tales?” I took his hand, his splinted and swollen fingers still feeling spongy. “Or maybe just one tonight.

  “There once was a girl who did not know how to be a wife, a real wife, one who knew what to say and do around a real husband. She’d only seen pretend marriages built on business relationships, marriages of convenience, failed marriages searching for an escape clause, dead marriages foundering in silence and regret. If this girl saw something good and decent in marriage, like Kat and Dog’s, she dismissed it as a strange and passing occurrence.

  “Then she met this boy who gave her eggshells in mountains. She never understood him, didn’t believe what her friends told her, and had no faith in his presents. It seemed too unfathomable to be true—that love could happen to her.

  “Then this boy had an accident, a terrible accident. The girl grieved. She sat near him as he lay so still and mourned that she would never know if he loved her as others said he did. She only knew she missed his smile, and the way he waited patiently to understand the meaning behind an old bone or to see parrots flying overhead. Or for her to believe in love.

  “The accident led the girl to something she could do—being a wife to a comatose husband, one she could comfort and care for, one who demanded nothing.”

  I hesitated, at a loss over how to continue, stumped by a very simple thing.

  Finally I whispered, “I don’t know what to call you. You seem like a stranger, not the Sebastian I knew, but I feel something when I’m near you. Something familiar. Not fair to call it love.”

  I carefully laid down his hand. “Maybe we should go with Husband till something better occurs. Hope that’s okay with you.”

  For the fourth time, I gently eased into the bed of a new comatose husband—to warm, comfort and care for him—resting my forehead and sometimes my ear against his back, learning the language of his heartbeats.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Five weeks later…

  “Wake up, Les.”

  A mug thumped on the nightstand, Dog drew the blinds letting in dawn’s soft light, and I smelled coffee—the combination signaling the end of my night sentry duty.

  “I’m awake.”

  We were both half-right. After five weeks, I might doze but I’d never sleep. I shifted away from Sebastian, easing him onto his back with Dog’s help, the three of us perfectly synchronized after weeks of practice.

  As I smoothed a lock of his hair over the still-raw scar on his brow, Sebastian’s eyes opened.

  “Good morning, Husband,” I said.

  The first time his eyes opened, a few days after the signing ceremony, I’d screamed. Dog and Kat came running, and we called the doctor who explained that this was normal for those in a vegetative state, that it wasn’t an awakening in the miracle sense of the word. I watched Sebastian closely for the first week, keeping tally of every twitch till I drove everyone mad.

  Five weeks later, I no longer called anyone to the room to watch his blinks, spasms, and tremors, but I kept a journal of them. When I likened them to past-Sebastian gestures, Dog, Kat, or the doctor brought me ruthlessly back to present-Sebastian reality. His lips opening didn’t mean he was trying to talk, his fingers moving didn’t mean he wanted to hold my hand, and his eyes tracking me across the room didn’t mean he recognized me. They were random electrical impulses or neurological events. Past-Sebastian was gone. Present-Sebastian, my husband, was slowly passing.

  In some ways, he seemed better. The bandages were gone, the swelling lessened, and the wounds not so gruesome. In other ways, he was worse: thinner, muscles atrophied, and minimal brain activity.

  When the doctor removed the bandages, I immediately recognized past-Sebastian and could no longer pretend there had been a mix-up at the accident site. I didn’t entirely know this present-Sebastian, but nights of listening to his heartbeats and days of reading to him of a thousand (and one) Arabian tales, he’d become Husband to me and I, his Abishag wife.

  Dog handed me the mug. “Kat wants to see you before she leaves.”

  I nearly spilled the coffee. “Is she downstairs already?”

  Without waiting for a reply, I charged down the hall and to the kitchen, expecting mayhem. We only averted daily Kat / Mrs. Timmons confrontations (or massacres) because Kat didn’t wake till ten. Since she had started working, she ate breakfast while Mrs. Timmons had coffee on the patio with Sebastian’s aide, Connor.

  They’d first had words when Kat began objecting to the meals Mrs. Timmons fixed. Partly my fault, as we’d jointly decided on simple menus: breakfast was muffins with yogurt and fruit, lunch grilled cheese sandwiches and deli salads, and dinner a variety of leftovers or salads topped with whatever had ripened in Mrs. Timmons’ garden.

  Unfortunately Kat’s spotty veganism turned acute after Sebastian’s accident. She started papering the kitchen walls with flyers and pamphlets about cruelty to dairy cows, farm-raised fish, and egg layers. She went ballistic one morning over honey—ranting about bee exploitation—and again the next day when Mrs. Timmons used Havarti for the grilled cheese sandwiches instead of vegan cheese. When Mrs. Timmons sniffed at the pot of cashew goo, saying she would not make one more grilled cheese sandwich with anything but actual cheese, I thought Kat would throw the pot at her. Dog and I spent a good amount of our time keeping Mrs. Timmons and Kat separated.

  By the time I galloped to the kitchen, I wore most of my coffee. Kat sat quietly at the counter eating one of Mrs. Timmons’ peach pecan muffins and staring at a thick stack of papers next to her plate. A beaded headband restrained her blonde dreadlocks. Wearing stained overalls, she wasn’t dressed for work.

  I looked furtively around. Except for the plate of muffins on the counter, I saw no sign of Mrs. Timmons.

  “You alone?” Out of breath, I strained at acting casual.

  Kat yawned, looked me over, her gaze lingering on my coffee soaked pajamas. “She’s on the back patio.”

  I stepped into the living room and through the window, saw Mrs. Timmons peeling a bowl of oranges. I calculated how long it would take her to finish and stepped back into the kitchen.

  “What are you doing down here?” I asked.

  “Eating breakfast.” Kat’s calm air belied the gales of war whirling around us. She tapped the folder. “Let’s talk about this.”

  As I needed to wring my hands, I set my coffee cup in the sink. “Leaving for work soon?”

  An eyebrow rose. “Too soon for the office. Tina left a voicemail about a plumbing problem at the Portuguese Cove house. I called Dobbins, but thought I’d stop there before going to work. I packed a change of clothes.”

  I checked the clock. I usually showered before Connor, Dog’s relief hospice aide, arrived. Their shifts overlapped about 30 minutes. Since they went over charts and schedules in Sebastian’s room, it made it awkward if I needed to use the bathroom. If I waited till Dog left, then it would be almost impossible to ge
t enough sleep before I read to Husband.

  None of us needed another Crowder family drama. His mother and brother hadn’t visited Sebastian since he’d been moved to the townhouse. I palpitated with irritation. Duarte and his family had taken over the house in Portuguese Cove two weeks ago, and this was the sixth complaint to Tina. Kat had taken on Sebastian’s duties managing the family’s properties till Tina found someone else. Duarte and his wife were demanding tenants and Tina seemed in no hurry to find a permanent property manager.

  The irritation must have shown on my face as Kat waved a dismissive hand. “No big deal, Les. I’ve something more important to discuss.”

  Employing her Westwood Irregulars for the repairs explained her easy attitude in regards to the Crowder family impositions. I was pretty sure that Dobbins—an auto parts thief on parole since May—was not a licensed plumber. I was very sure Tina knew nothing about his background.

  Mrs. Timmons’ chair scraped outside, raising my blood pressure.

  “What did you want to talk about?” I asked.

  “Did I tell you that I was working on your dad’s campaign budget?”

  I craned my neck to check on Mrs. Timmons again. She was about half way through the bowl of oranges. And I wasn’t forgetting that Luke, Doctor Ingram, would be here after lunch. I really needed to shower.

  Frowning, I tried following Kat. “The accounts that Sebastian did?”

  She nodded. “Sebastian’s part-time work at Crowder Industry was the family’s personal property management account. I’m not sure Tina knew it included Sebastian doing your dad’s campaign finances.”

  Mrs. Timmons’ chair scraped again. I jumped. “You want me to talk to her?”

  Kat shook her head, blonde dreadlocks bouncing. “No, not Tina.”

  I shifted uneasily, now paying more attention to what she was saying rather than trying to get her out of the kitchen before Mrs. Timmons returned.

  “Was Sebastian doing something unethical? I mean was it okay for him to do the campaign books under the auspices of Crowder Industry?”

  It suddenly occurred to me that asking Kat a question about ethics was like asking Genghis Khan about peace talks.

  “Seb was a straight arrow,” Kat said. “I’m sure it’d been approved. I just meant he didn’t bother his mother with the details.”

  We both knew that Tina wasn’t interested anyway, so I let it lie.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “I told you that Sebastian left me a message on the night of the accident, right?”

  My attention sharpened. “No.” I drew out the word accusingly.

  Her lips twisted apologetically. “He didn’t say why he was calling, he just wanted me to call back. I thought he wanted to talk about the marriage proposal.”

  “You mean the marriage proposal that was all in your head?”

  “That’s not …” she began. I raised my hand to stop her. We would never resolve that old argument.

  She glowered. “I know he was going to propose, but I’m starting to think he may have called me about the campaign finances.”

  I looked at the folder. “Is Dad running out of funds?”

  Maybe I should have taken one of my mother’s calls. I knew they wouldn’t have a problem with me in another Abishag marriage—my previous three marriages had been used to further Dad’s political aspirations. I really didn’t want to know how they were leveraging the Crowder connection. Again.

  Kat played with a paperclip and didn’t look at me. Something was wrong.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  She managed a smile. “Relax, Les. It’s probably nothing. I just wanted to run this by you. Maybe Seb said something to you?”

  I didn’t bother telling her that we didn’t discuss my parents. He’d taken their measure the first time we’d had dinner with them—he understood people as well as Kat. It surprised me when he still chose to volunteer at Dad’s campaign headquarters. I knew that Crowder Industries offered their accounting services to both candidates: Dad and Lincoln Brock. Brock had declined, but the donated services had been reported widely. That should have answered the ethics question but didn’t explain Kat’s concern.

  “What’d you find?” I’m sure I sounded impatient, but I didn’t care. I wanted my shower and to get Kat out the door before Mrs. Timmons returned.

  “Between Seb’s accident and when I started, someone entered several new accounts. I think they may be holding companies.”

  “If they started after the accident, then what does that have to do with Sebastian calling you that night?”

  “I found an account entered the week before his accident—maybe that’s what he wanted me to check. Looks credible, but the funds seem to pay in like the new ones do. The tax liability numbers don’t jive, but maybe the temp bookkeeper was sloppy. I’m having trouble finding out who these companies are and that has me a mite chary.” Yeah, Kat said words like chary, when mighty suspicious was how I felt.

  Still, I appreciated her simplifying this for me. Being a numbers person, I like ledgers because of the stories they tell, but corporate accounting seems less about numbers, more about tedious tallies and obscured data.

  “I’ll talk to your dad’s business managers today,” she said.

  From the patio, Mrs. Timmons removed the compost bin lid with its signature sucking sound.

  “Okay,” I said in a rush. “Sounds like a plan. I’m sure it’s nothing. Guess you’d better run upstairs now.”

  She frowned. “It’s not nothing, Les. This could ruin your father.”

  The patio door slid open.

  “Look at the time,” I yelped. “You’d best get a move on it.”

  Kat leisurely wrapped two muffins in a paper towel. “I’d like to use a couple of my Westwood Irregulars, if that’s okay with …”

  “That’d be great. Let’s get you on your way.”

  I actually had her by the elbow, hauling her off the stool, when I spotted Mrs. Timmons at the door. I dropped Kat’s arm and gulped, frozen in my coffee-soaked pajamas, and waited for the fireworks.

  “Would you like a bag for the muffins, Mrs. Kovic?” Mrs. Timmons sat the bowl of peeled oranges on the island. “These would go mighty nice with them.”

  Kat smiled warmly. “That would be wonderful, Mrs. Timmons. Thank you.”

  “You are gaping, dear.” This from Mrs. Timmons to me—I shut my mouth.

  I watched both warily, wondering about the détente. Mrs. Timmons packaged the food, Kat beamed at us, and left the room.

  “Did you want breakfast now, dear? Or shall I fix a tray for your bedroom while you shower?”

  “A tray, please.” I fidgeted at the kitchen door, wanting to ask about Kat.

  “Leave that nightwear on the washer,” Mrs. Timmons said pointedly. “It’ll need soaking.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I headed for the bathroom, still wondering about the polite exchange between Kat and her. I saw Dog ensconced in the large reading chair, pouring over a fat medical tome as Husband stared at him in his present-Sebastian opaque way. Dashing into the bathroom, I shed the stained pajamas, twisted on the water, and froze.

  Had I really agreed to use the Westwood Irregulars to rampage through my father’s campaign accounts?

  I moaned, flung on my thrift store plushy purple robe and dashed into the hall as a car roared to life outside. Mrs. Timmons was drying a knife in the kitchen.

  “Is that Kat?” I shouted. Without waiting for an answer, I wrested the door open and watched the car race off.

  “She needed to drive to Portuguese Cove, dear.” At the kitchen door, Mrs. Timmons still placidly wiped the knife. “Duarte’s son flushed more toys down the toilet.”

  I shut the door. “I may have killed my Dad’s chances for state senate.”

  She patted my cheek. “Surely not. Funny how we imagine things much worse than they really are.”

  I moaned again and dashed into the bedroom, looking for my iPhone. When I
didn’t find it there, I shot into Sebastian’s room, tearing through a pile of bags and books on the floor.

  “Something wrong?” Dog asked mildly. Sebastian’s gaze was on me too, so like his old familiar look of gentle inquiry that I would have wept—if I hadn’t been frantically looking for my purse. I yanked it from beneath Dog’s computer bag and located the cell in the pocket.

  “I accidently told Kat it was okay to use her nefarious crew to look into my dad’s campaign funds. Gotta stop her.”

  Dog frowned. “Accidently?”

  The battery was dead, but I spied Dog’s cell on the bureau and grabbed it.

  “It’s an emergency.” I punched in Kat’s number. “Heads will roll,” I added darkly.

  “Kill troll,” Sebastian said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Shocked, I stared at Sebastian. Automatically, my thumb ended the call, my knees buckled, and I grabbed the end of the hospital bed. Dog jumped from his chair, the medical book crashing to the floor. Leaning over Sebastian, he flashed a light in his eyes.

  “Hey, guy. You woke up. How do you feel?”

  “Die. Broke. Deal.”

  He sounded rusty, was making no sense, and his face had none of past-Sebastian’s lively humor. But I heard the voice that I never thought I’d hear again. Wiping my leaking eyes on a plushy sleeve, I sat on the bed, the side where I’d laid next to him for five weeks. Gently I brushed the dark hair from his forehead and tried to answer his questions.

  “You didn’t die, Sebastian. You did break some bones, but you’re healing. You’re going to be okay so that is a good deal.”

  His dark eyes looked so lost that it tore my heart. When his eyes closed, I cried out, my fingers squeezing his shoulders. His eyes opened, his face convulsed in pain.

  “Les, let go,” Dog said sharply. I released Sebastian immediately and wiped my face again.

  “Guess,” Sebastian said.

  Staring at Dog, Sebastian shifted in the bed, and his right hand lifted slightly. Dog clasped it and smiled reassuringly. It was the same smile that Kat had given me earlier. I guess married people do start looking like each other over time.