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

by Michelle Knowlden

  His head drooped. I stood quickly, my hands running over his face and arms, thinking that he’d passed out, maybe even died.

  His hand caught my wrist. I stopped and took a closer look at his face. Fatigue etched lines in his face, his eyes at half-mast.

  “Les,” he whispered.

  “Sebastian, we can talk more tomorrow. You need to sleep now.”

  “You sleep?”

  “I’m staying with you.”

  He exhaled, and I helped settle him on his right side. I stood at the light switch and thought about asking Connor to check him to make sure he was alright.

  In the dim light, I saw Sebastian’s eyes close and his breathing deepened into sleep. My own breath caught on a sob.

  Peace like a river. Serenity like a lake. Calm like me.

  When I was back in control, I slipped into bed behind Sebastian, hugging him close to me. Without waking, he shifted closer.

  Something none of my previous husbands had done. I spent the rest of the night considering that thought.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “I think it’s time to tell Tina,” I said.

  Sunday morning, and Kat stared at me blearily, wearing her dobok and yellow belt, a spoonful of granola dripping almond milk into her cereal bowl. “Tell her what?”

  “Sebastian woke up in bed last night and started asking questions. He didn’t rhyme once.”

  This got Kat’s attention. “Bet that was weird for you.”

  “Yes.” Weird how he stared at me when I left the bed this morning. Frustrating not knowing if he understood his diagnosis. Agony thinking that he hated me being his Abishag wife.

  “I should tell the agency, too.” I know I didn’t sound certain, but Kat nodded.

  “Past due.”

  I took a deep breath. “He didn’t remember about Thomas dying. Instead of the flash cards today, maybe we can see what he knows and what he doesn’t. Then I’ll call Doctor Ingram. Then I’ll call Tina and the agency.”

  I pointed my spoon at her dobok. “You finished your Taekwondo practice or are you going?”

  “Finished.” She took her bowl to the sink. “You should go.”

  “Maybe tomorrow.” I stirred the cereal. I wasn’t good at martial arts, but I liked kicking stuff.

  “You want to take a nap while I talk to Sebastian?”

  I shook my head. I wanted to be present during Sebastian’s few hours awake. I’d nap when he did.

  I inhaled half the Captain Crunch. “When’s Dog getting back?”

  “Not till tonight. Probably close to ten. Connor’s okay with staying till then. He says you never wake him at night.”

  “I haven’t needed to,” I said. I usually never asked for after hours help with my comatose husbands either. The nights with our husbands were a sacred Abishag duty. And no one had died on me between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m. Only loud noises and killers had ever interrupted our nights.

  I rinsed out my bowl. “You were working late. Find anything?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “Later,” she said. “Maybe at lunch. You have other stuff to deal with now.”

  By the way she avoided my gaze, I knew her stuff couldn’t wait long. I suspected I would understand it even less than the enigma Sebastian had become.

  I sighed. “Let’s get started then.”

  ***

  We began with everything I knew about his family, his education and travels, his undergraduate studies and his work with Crowder Industries. He seemed to remember most of it but some of his older memories seemed spotty. When I spoke some of the Guarani words he’d taught me from his time in Paraguay, he stared at me blankly. Maybe my pronunciation made it hard to understand.

  Part of his attention fixed on a peg board that Connor had given him before leaving us to our questions. It was part of Sebastian’s daily therapy, exercising finger dexterity and cognition. He didn’t seem to have a problem figuring out which peg went into what hole, but the pegs kept slipping from his fingers.

  When I talked about his young nephew, he had difficulty remembering his name and age. Though Sebastian generally liked kids, he hadn’t been close to Duarte and rarely saw his nephew.

  About an hour into our time testing Sebastian’s memory, Kat told me to stop analyzing the results. I had been excusing each lapse. She managed a smile for Sebastian. “It is what it is. We’ll figure it out later. Let’s just find the gaps now.”

  He dropped a peg again, and his lips tightened with irritation.

  “Are you okay?” I asked Sebastian. “Not too tired?”

  “I’m fine.” Something crossed his face, but I wanted to cheer over his answer. Still not rhyming and now he wasn’t pulling words from my questions either. “Fine” had to have come from his head, and he’d used a contraction too.

  “Where is Dog?” he asked.

  Both Kat and I gaped at him. I remembered the long days when he stared at Dog. Now he was asking for him?

  Kat recovered first. “He took a weekend shift at the hospital. He’ll be back later.”

  “Do you need to talk to Dog now?” I asked. “We could call him.”

  His gaze wandered to Connor’s cell phone that the aide had left on the bureau. “Yes. No. I not remember.”

  “Did you want to talk to your mother? She’ll remember stuff Kat and I don’t know.”

  He shook his head, wincing slightly. “Later.”

  I felt a wave of relief. I wasn’t sure I wanted to deal with Tina’s complicated but predictably extreme reaction to Sebastian’s status change. Maybe Sebastian remembered that about his mother, too.

  “Did you want to talk to Dog about the accident?” Kat asked.

  He blew out a breath. “Don’ remember.”

  Diplomatically, I changed the subject. “You remember Mrs. Timmons, right? She’ll be here tomorrow.”

  For the first time, he smiled. “Cookies?”

  Kat and I laughed. “You can count on it,” I said.

  Connor tapped lightly on the door and stepped in. “Time for Mr. Crowder’s medication. He should rest too.”

  When I reached for the pegboard, Sebastian’s hand brushed against mine. “Les.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “That’s me,” I said lightly.

  “You rest, too?”

  Did he think it was night time? Did he understand about the Abishag duties at night? Did he want me to stay with him? Did he think that every time he slept, I’d lie in bed with him? Did I look so tired, he was concerned?

  Carefully, I said, “Don’t worry about me, Sebastian. I’ll rest. See you after lunch, okay?”

  Connor cleared his throat, but I kept my gaze on Sebastian. He nodded.

  I squeezed his hand, comforted that he’d been thinking about me, in whatever way I’d never understand. But he was thinking about me.

  Kat and I were nearly to the door when Sebastian spoke again. “Dog come soon?”

  ***

  “Don’t worry about it,” Kat said again.

  I leaned against the patio door, staring at the orange tree, heavy with fruit. Too early for lunch and too rattled to sleep.

  “What is his fixation on Dog?”

  “Maybe it’s a guy thing.” She shrugged.

  I turned. “When Sebastian called you that night, did he say anything about Dog?”

  She exhaled impatiently, stretched out on the red leather couch, and rested her head on the padded armrest. “For the millionth time, Les, he said nothing except ‘Call me.’”

  I rubbed the back of my neck and perched on the fat, flowered chair opposite the couch. It nearly matched the duvet covers and curtains in the downstairs bedroom. I could picture Sebastian’s grandmother sitting here, too. Which was impossible as the chair had been made long after her death. Maybe someone had reupholstered it?

  I shook myself. I needed to concentrate. Good thing Connor slept last night. Neither Kat nor I were fit to care for a canary, much less Sebastian.
Which made me think about my duties as an Abishag. Which made me think about the agency.

  Ignoring the fact that the Westwood Abishag Agency had a hotline I could call 24/7, I said, “It’s Sunday. I’ll call Florence Harcourt tomorrow.”

  She opened one eye and regarded me sourly. I wasn’t fooling anyone.

  “He’s much better than yesterday. Loads better than last week,” she said.

  “After he’s rested, we’ll tell him about the last two years. After that we’ll know more about what to tell Doctor Ingram, Tina, and the agency.”

  Something changed on Kat’s face, and she pushed herself into a sitting position. “Can we talk about the campaign finances now?”

  “Right. You said you found something last night at Dad’s headquarters. So is Dad a criminal?”

  I’d been joking, but at her expression, I swallowed wrong. After coughing a full minute, I choked out, “Are you kidding me?”

  She shook her head. “Stanley had to help us break into your dad’s computer at Vote Greene. Surprisingly sophisticated security. Took nearly all night for Fitz and me to go through his files. Fitz found the records where your dad had been laundering money through campaign contributions.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “No way,” I said. “My dad’s not smart enough to be a criminal mastermind.”

  Kat smiled wryly. Whether at my lack of daughterly loyalty or at the stark truth, I couldn’t tell. My mother was the brains in his senate bid, and their constituency probably knew it.

  I frowned. We often used our ex-housemate Stanley’s cyber skills, and we could trust his discretion. I wasn’t familiar with the other name Kat mentioned. “Which one is Fitz?”

  “One of my Irregulars. Ronald Fitzwater. Did a stint at Lompoc for money laundering, so I figured he’d recognize it when we found it.”

  “You expected to find it?”

  “Remember I told you about the inconsistencies I found and the receivables I couldn’t trace in Sebastian’s books at Crowder Industries?”

  “Uh.”

  “I expected to uncover something in the Greene headquarters’ accounts. I didn’t expect it in your dad’s files.”

  “That’s why Sebastian called you on the night of his accident.” It wasn’t a question, but Kat answered anyway.

  “Yeah. Guess I was wrong about him calling about asking you to marry him.”

  I thought again about the 96th eggshell present and the engagement ring. I still wasn’t ready to talk about it.

  “What do we do now?”

  She studied me. “We have to talk to your parents.”

  I closed my eyes. For a moment I contemplated letting my dad get arrested just to avoid seeing my mother.

  “And we have to talk to them before they talk to any reporters.”

  “When?”

  She glanced at the clock. “Maybe they’re free for lunch.”

  ***

  My mother made noises about their busy schedule, but eventually said they’d be at the townhouse in 90 minutes.

  “We’ll bring leftovers from the brunch I catered yesterday for a Newport Beach women’s forum,” she said. “I doubt there’s anything your father would eat at your place.”

  Even with Dog gone this weekend, we had managed to finish off last week’s leftovers and the enormous pizza Mrs. Timmons made Friday. Kat offered to run to the grocery store for a deli platter, but leftover campaign food seemed a better choice. We didn’t need the distraction of my mother complaining about spicy mustard or fatty ham.

  My parents, Gerald and Penelope Greene, made it to the townhouse in record time. After Dad unloaded the boxes of dips and canapés on the dining room table, he pumped Kat’s hand.

  “My name is Gerry Greene, and I hope I can count on your vote for the State Senate in November.”

  Kat managed to keep her pleasant smile in place, but I grimaced.

  “Dad, you remember Kathmandu. She’s been my housemate for the past four years and took over Sebastian’s bookkeeping at your headquarters for the last two months.”

  He blinked at me. “Surely you are mistaken, Leslie. I wouldn’t forget a name like Kathmandu.”

  “You call me Mrs. Kovic.” Arching an eyebrow at me, Kat disappeared into the kitchen.

  Dad threw Mom a harassed look, but she walked past him and into the living room. She paused at the mantel and stared at the painting above it. Her posture shifted, and with one hand on her hip and her chin jutting forward, her lips thinned in the way that put me immediately on guard.

  “What dreadful art, Leslie. Can your husband afford nothing better?”

  I gritted my teeth but managed a peaceful tone. “Sebastian purchased it from Jordan’s estate, Mom, and paid a lot for it. It was a good investment as there’s been a revival in his oak vein work. Kat says it’s now worth double what Sebastian paid for it.”

  She frowned at me. “Jordan?”

  “Jordan Ippel, the artist who painted Twigs.”

  “Twigs?” Her frown deepened.

  “The painting you’re looking at is called Twigs.”

  She pursed her lips. “Jordan Ippel sounds familiar.”

  Stifling a sigh, I said, “He was my second husband, Mom.”

  She exhaled loudly and tossed her pocketbook on the couch. “I can’t remember all the men you’ve married as an Abishag. Isn’t Sebastian Crowder your seventh or eighth?”

  “Fourth.”

  She shrugged and moved into the dining room, straightening Dad’s lapel as she passed him. “You’ve shown little circumspection in husbands, Leslie. I hope it doesn’t cost your father the election.”

  I didn’t respond, but it was rather mean of her. She was the one who authorized my first three marriages and leveraged each for Dad’s campaign. Kat threw me a sympathetic look and, with great sacrifice, seated herself next to Mom at the table.

  I moved the pitcher of orange juice next to Dad and put the pitcher of ice water with slices of cucumber close to Mom. Then I sat as far from her as I could. The short table sat six if you didn’t mind elbows touching.

  Catching my attention, Kat narrowed her eyes. We’d talked earlier about letting her do all the talking. I didn’t need a warning. I didn’t want a sliver of attention from my parents.

  I layered the veggies on one of Carol Crowder’s fine crystal platters and decided to stick to the dip and carrots. Dad took more than his share of rumaki which was fine with me, not being a fan of either bacon or chicken liver especially served a day later cold. Mom loaded her place with crudités and no dip, and one tiny quiche. While sizing up my parents, Kat took a random assortment of spring rolls, wontons, and teeny apple pies.

  “I understand Richard Lau with the Aliso Gazette has asked to interview you about campaign finances.”

  “Yes.” Mom smiled at Kat’s left ear. She disapproved of Kat’s dreadlocks, tattoos, and piercings, but to strangers she would be unfailingly polite even if she couldn’t look at them. “The interview will be quite the coup for us. Gerry has strong views about campaign finances and is passionate about sharing them.”

  Dad glanced up from peeling the bacon from the asparagus. “Strong views, very strong views. I look forward to talking to Mr. Lew.”

  “Richard Lau, Daddy,” I said. Kat shot me a warning look, and I subsided.

  “Lau.” Dad cleared his throat. “That’s what I said.”

  “Mr. Lau is known for his exposés,” Kat said. “Since taking over your campaign accounts, I found some irregularities. He may accuse you of fraud.”

  “I’ve nothing to hide,” Dad said. “Open the books and let’s dialog, is what I’ll tell him. I’ve strong views on campaign finances.”

  “What do you mean by irregularities and fraud?” Mom asked cautiously.

  “Nell.” Dad patted her hand and left a spot of bacon grease. “Newspaper boys make mountains out of molehills. I say we open the books and dialog. Let the people decide.”

  Ignoring my father, Kat said, �
�I mean, Mrs. Greene, that I’ve found large donations made by holding companies that may be using your campaign to launder money.”

  “Nonsense,” my mother said.

  “So what if they are?” Dad said. “People should be able to donate as much as they want. When I’m elected senator, I’ll raise the limits if not remove them altogether. Why not be generous with your candidate? Let’s talk about it, is what I say.”

  “Dad,” I said. “You didn’t approve of letting a contributor donate money for the purpose of laundering it, did you?”

  Behind my mother, Kat scowled, but I stayed focused on Dad.

  “I don’t talk details, Leslie. You know that. I’m all about the big picture. You’d need to talk to Sebastian about individual contributors. He talks to them.”

  “Dad, you remember that Sebastian was, is, in a coma, right?”

  He snapped his fingers. “Of course, I remember. Poor fellow. The minister mentioned him at the prayer breakfast yesterday.” He squinted at Kat. “You’re doing the books now, you say?”

  She nodded. “Unfortunately, we can’t talk to Sebastian about the contributors, and I haven’t been able to find person now responsible at Vote Greene. I was hoping you could give me a contact.”

  He chuckled. “Told you I was a big picture guy, right? Someone else knows the details.”

  Kat closed her eyes in frustration, and Mom’s brow furrowed. “Is this a problem?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Greene. Rumors could cause your husband to lose the election. A conviction could mean a prison sentence.”

  Dad choked on some chicken liver.

  Mom’s eyes widened. “Ridiculous. Your father is not a criminal.” Her glance darted past Kat.

  “Mrs. Greene …”

  Kat stopped talking, and I heard the refrigerator and pantry doors opening and closing in the kitchen.

  Connor poked his head around the corner. “Sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Crowder has asked for some dinner. Is there anything besides cereal and almond milk?” He stared interestedly at the canapés on the table.