Safe from Harm (9781101619629)

by Evans, Stephanie Jaye

  Mark gripped the side bars of the bed and his knuckles were white. He was in real distress. He wasn’t putting this on—I would have been able to tell. I hoped Wanderley was taking this in.

  “I said, ‘Liz, we passed a hospital on 59, I’m going to get you there, you’re going to be okay.’ She shook her head. She couldn’t answer me. She was having trouble breathing. She pulled at her seat belt, the shoulder strap, like it was pressing on her, choking her. So I held the strap away from her with one hand. I’m driving with the other. Her eyes got so puffed up she could hardly see—looking out at me through these slits. She clawed at her throat. Then my damn seat belt alarm set itself off. I couldn’t buckle up, I had one hand on the wheel and one holding the shoulder strap off her neck and that alarm is going off bong, bong, bong like a countdown. I let go of the shoulder strap and tried to buckle up and I hit a tree. The air bags exploded.” Mark leaned his head back on his pillow and closed his eyes on tears. Wanderley didn’t say anything snotty.

  After a moment, I asked, “Can I get you anything, Mark?”

  “There’s some pills on the tray.”

  I didn’t see any.

  “On a napkin.”

  I remembered and pulled the tissue from my pocket and unfolded it to find two white pills. I gave them to Mark and he took them, drank some water and leaned his head back down again on his pillow.

  “She was dead.” Mark’s eyes stayed closed. “When I came to.”

  Wanderley waited as long as he could. Finally he got off the chair, put it against the wall with a whack and stood next to the head of Mark’s bed. He examined the man’s face.

  “But you hiked out for help anyway, and on a broken leg,” said Wanderley.

  “Yeah.”

  “Even though you thought she was dead.”

  “I had to do something. She was so still, and covered in powder. There’s powder in the air bags.”

  “You think the sandwich caused the reaction?”

  “Yeah. The tuna sandwich.”

  Wanderley and I both did a double take.

  “She ate tuna? She’s allergic to fish and she ate tuna?” Wanderley said at the same time I said, “What about the hard-and-fasts?”

  Mark nodded. “A bite. That’s all it took.”

  “How do you think that happened?” Wanderley was incredulous. I was feeling some of that, too.

  “I think she got the sandwiches mixed up.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “She had chicken salad. I had tuna. I think she got them mixed up.”

  Wanderley shifted his weight. He danced the guitar pick between his fingers. “Let me make sure I have this straight. You went for a picnic with your wife—”

  “Yeah.”

  “Way the hell out there by the George Ranch, down a private road no one hardly uses—”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you brought tuna sandwiches, despite knowing your wife has a life-threatening allergy to fish.”

  Mark opened his eyes. “The tuna was for me. She had the chicken.”

  I said, “Mark, you’re telling us you knew you had a tuna salad sandwich in that picnic bag?”

  “Oh, right,” said Wanderley. “So then your wife somehow mistakes tuna salad for chicken salad.”

  “They look alike, but they were marked.”

  “They were clearly marked yet she ate tuna anyway.”

  “You know, I didn’t stop and check out the sandwiches,” Mark said in frustration. “Liz was having a reaction. I was trying to get her to the hospital. For all I know, a bee stung her.”

  “She was allergic to bees, too?”

  “Not that I ever heard of.”

  The dancing guitar pick stilled. It went back in Wanderley’s mouth and I heard it click against his teeth as his tongue worked it back and forth. I had long since given up worrying about James Wanderley’s tooth enamel.

  “Mr. Pickersley, if I were a suspicious man, do you know what I’d think?”

  The door to Mark’s room slammed open so hard it smacked the wall. Liz’s sister, Sue Ellen, burst in like all three Furies. I was standing in her way and she pushed me to get at Mark. With one foot she shoved the recliner I’d pulled up to the bed so hard it bounced against the wall. She had her fingers around Mark’s throat before I knew what she was up to.

  He screamed. I grabbed Sue Ellen around her waist and picked her up off her feet, moving away from the bed. She held on to Mark, nearly yanking him out of the bed before she had to release him. Once her hands were free, she reached back and clenched them in my hair. She dang near pulled my scalp down to my chin. I gently bumped her into a wall to get her to let go. She let go of my hair when her head clunked against the wall, reached between her legs and fumbled for my crotch. I found the door and threw her out and got it closed right before she flung herself at it. I braced my back against the door, all 230 pounds of me, and she still managed to pop it open an inch each time she threw herself against it.

  Mark was moaning, curled over himself, cradling his arm and shoulder. Wanderley, stalwart lad that he was, was talking on the phone.

  “You want to lend your weight here?” I asked him.

  Wanderley held one finger up, letting me know he’d be done in a minute. He mouthed “security.” The door popped open again behind me.

  “Now?” I said.

  Wanderley came over, not hurrying any, and put his shoulder against the door.

  “That’s a nice healthy woman you’ve got on the other side of this door, Bear.” The door popped, only half an inch now that there were two of us struggling to hold it closed. “Is she a random nutcase or someone special to you and Mr. Pickersley?”

  “Liz’s sister, Sue Ellen. Dang!” She took another run at the door.

  There was a scuffle in the hall. I looked out the narrow window. Two good-sized orderlies had hold of Sue Ellen. I waited until I was sure they had a firm grip, then opened the door. A nurse hurried into the room to tend to the groaning Mark. Sue Ellen was struggling like a demented warthog. The stream of words from her mouth was foul but unimaginative. She tried to spit at me but spattered her own shoes, black cotton Mary Janes with flimsy rubber soles.

  “This lady is Junior League. All the way,” commented an orderly.

  Wanderley pulled something out of his jeans pockets. “If you gentlemen will hold her still a moment longer, I’ll cuff her.”

  “What you going to cuff her with?” I asked.

  Wanderley held up some plastic strips.

  In terms I won’t repeat, Sue Ellen inquired into why she was being cuffed.

  “I’m arresting you. I’m expecting some uniforms here in—there they are! Hey, Craig! Who’s your friend? Ah. Officer Khan. Thank you for coming so promptly. Will you please cuff this good citizen for me? You’re better with the plasticuffs than I am. It’s assault. Put me and the preacher here down as your witnesses.” He turned to Sue Ellen, who was trying to head butt anyone in reach and instead caught the wall for a much more solid clunk than I had given her. “How’s that? When you go to trial, you’ll have a cop and a minister testifying against you.”

  Sue Ellen let fly with another gob of spit.

  “Whoa! Is that nice? Is that nice? Craig! You got a muzzle or something? This is a very nasty subject.” Wanderley took a roll of paper towels off a cart and wiped the front of his shirt. “I’m giving this shirt away. Tide can only do so much.”

  I ducked my head in Mark’s door. “Is he okay?” I asked the nurse.

  “No. That collarbone is pulled out of whack again. His doctor is on his way.” She seemed mad at me personally.

  I said to Wanderley, “Did you hear that? Mark has to have that collarbone set again.”

  Wanderley said to his officers, “Can you cuff her feet together, too? Hey, Sue Ellen, that’s your name? On
behalf of myself and my officers, we want to thank you for choosing the Chinese house shoes over your biker boots this morning. You do have biker boots, don’t you?”

  Sue Ellen lowered her head, exhausted and finally subdued, and then with no warning, thrust herself forward at Wanderley’s upper thighs. I snatched him back a fraction of a second before he would have had to give up the idea of fathering brothers and sisters for Molly. Sue Ellen crashed to the floor on her face. Craig and his fellow officer made another attempt at the flailing legs.

  Wanderley bent down to look in her face. “Sue Ellen, right now you’re looking at assault and battery and attacking an officer and resisting arrest. If you keep this up, I’m going to ask Craig to go get his Taser and I’m not going to be too picky about what mode he uses. Are we clear?”

  Sue Ellen, her ankles tethered together, struggled to her feet with Craig and the other officer helping her. I was watching her mouth. They hadn’t done anything to disarm those teeth.

  She shook her lank hair from her face. Sue Ellen was going to have a bump on her forehead. I couldn’t decide if her nose was beginning to swell or if it had always been that shape. Okay, I take that back. I’m being mean. But keep in mind the woman did try to neuter me.

  “You’re arresting me, not him?” UNCLEAR ON CONCEPT lit up and blinked on her forehead.

  “You. Are. Under. Arrest.” Wanderley was calm and smiling and, I swear to you, seemed amused.

  Not me. I wasn’t amused. I had never in my life seen a woman behave that way, and keep in mind that as a University of Texas football player, I had, in my days, dated a good number of Zeta sorority girls. But, my word—nobody like Sue Ellen Smith.

  “You’re gonna arrest me, but not him.” She tipped her head toward the room where the two helpful orderlies were moving Mark to a gurney. His doctor was very cross about having to reset that collarbone.

  Wanderley hesitated. “What would you have me arrest him on?” The orderlies wheeled Mark to the door. “Hey, Craig, let’s move on down the hall so Sue Ellen here isn’t tempted to add to her list of violations.”

  “You’re not going to arrest him for murdering my sister?” She yanked herself away from Officer Khan. He’d been unprepared, let her go, and because her feet were bound together, she fell into Officer Craig. They would have both fallen to the ground if one of the passing orderlies hadn’t grabbed Sue Ellen’s elbow and steadied her. Once she was on her feet, the orderly slipped a card into her jeans pocket.

  “When this mess is over, you give me a call. I like feisty women.” He winked and went on down the hall. Sue Ellen and I both watched him go with open mouths.

  “Do you have proof that Mark Pickersley murdered your sister?” Wanderley sounded hopeful, but I could have been reading that into his tone of voice.

  “I have the good sense God gave a goose!” Sue Ellen hadn’t thought through her last sentence.

  “I don’t doubt that, Ms. Smythe—”

  “Smith.”

  “But if you have evidence that your brother-in-law murdered your sister, the thing to do would have been to call the police. Nine-one-one? You can still do that. You have a ride ahead of you with Officer Craig and Khan. They’ll be glad to hear anything you have to tell them and they will report to me.”

  “Let’s see what the autopsy finds out,” Sue Ellen countered. I’d say she spat the words out, but I’d seen real spitting in action from the woman.

  Wanderley gave a regretful sigh. “Unless Mark Pickersley requests an autopsy, there’s not going to be one. There isn’t any question about the cause of death. You sister had a history of allergic reaction to fish, Mark says there was tuna fish at the picnic, and your sister apparently displayed all the signs of anaphylaxis. There was no indication of a struggle or altercation.”

  “And you believe that? You must have a baboon’s bottom instead of a brain.”

  Big grin from Wanderley. “That’s a colorful turn of phrase, Sue Ellen. I hope you won’t mind if I borrow it. There are so many occasions when I’d find it useful.”

  “Where was her EpiPen? Huh? She always carried an EpiPen in her purse. She’s done it for years.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it fell out. Maybe she changed purses and forgot to switch the EpiPen over to the new purse.”

  “How do you know Mark didn’t take her EpiPen away from her? Fling it off over in the woods? How do you know he didn’t trick her into eating that tuna fish sandwich?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible he did just that. But, Ms. Smith, how do you know he did? Because in America, we don’t arrest people on suspicion. We arrest them when we have evidence. I don’t have any evidence here.” Wanderley put his hands in his pockets. “I’m going to let these officers escort you downstairs, now. I’m sorry for your loss. I am. But if bereaved people were allowed to attack any and all, funeral homes would have to install wrestling rings.” He leaned in close to her. “Normally I would have cut you some slack—I’m not happy with Mark Pickersley, either. But spitting? That’s nasty. That’s a no-no.”

  • • •

  Wanderley and I walked out to the parking lot together. It was evening and a cold front had come in while we were in the hospital. I can remember when the night sky in Sugar Land was blanketed with glittering stars. Now, between the mall and theater and hospital, and the hundreds of new homes that had been built since I was a kid, the sky was bright with neon light and the stars had receded. It’s handy having the mall and hospital so close. But I do miss the stars.

  Wanderley beeped his car and pulled out a coat. He shut the door to the car and shrugged on a long, camel-hair coat that looked like it was from the fifties. It smelled of pipe smoke. This would be another of his grandfather’s hand-me-downs.

  “James,” I said, “do you think Mark Pickersley killed his wife?”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, yeah. Definitely. We’re not going to be able to touch him for it, though. We couldn’t touch Liz for what she did, and unless Pickersley did something really stupid—like if, when I look into it, I find out his cell phone isn’t broken and he hasn’t ordered a new one—if he hasn’t made a mistake like that, then your God is going to have to handle this one. Probably even if he did make a mistake. That happens sometimes.”

  “You don’t think it could have all happened the way he said it did?”

  Wanderley rested a booted foot on his bumper.

  “It could have. But I don’t see a loving husband bringing a tuna salad sandwich on a picnic with a wife who is allergic to seafood. I mean, tuna salad and chicken salad do look the same. But we don’t convict men for not being loving husbands.

  “And I could see the EpiPen somehow getting left behind. The car accident? Even a cold-blooded man could be shaken at the sight of a person having an allergic reaction like that. They’re bad, I’ve seen it—we had a prisoner once try to commit suicide via peanut butter sandwich. We got epinephrine in him before he could die, but it was close. It happens fast and it’s not pretty. So if you’re driving a country road and dealing with an anaphylactic attack on the seat next to you, yeah, I could see the accident being legit.

  “Now, both phones going out? That was pushing it. That was a step too far.”

  Wanderley rubbed his jaw and I heard the scritch of his whiskers. “You know what really creeps me out? That picnic. Him going through all the details about the food and the wine and the strawberries. What did that make you think of?”

  I knew what he was thinking. I wasn’t going to say it.

  “A last meal, that’s what he said. I think he had gathered up all her favorites, because this was going to be her last meal.”

  “But it could have happened the way he said.”

  Wanderley put his foot down and leaned against the hood of his car. “Bear, yes. It could have. That whole awful sequence of events could have been coincidence. If Pickersley had
n’t added one more coincidence on top of it, then, maybe.”

  “You lost me.”

  “The date, Bear. Today is January twelfth. Lizabeth Pickersley-Smythe died on January twelfth.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Today is Phoebe’s birthday. She would have been nineteen. Her stepmother, the one who got caught on tape doing everything she could to get her stepdaughter to kill herself, because let’s not pretend that’s not what we heard—the woman your daughter exposed to the world, died on Phoebe’s birthday. And that last ‘coincidence’? Well, I’ll accept Dan Brown’s albino, self-flagellating, assassin monk before I’ll accept that one.”

  Twenty-three

  I was sick about what had happened. I was sick about what part I, or my daughter, or my family, or my church, had played. I should have reached out to Mark and Liz as soon as they joined the church. Rebecca warned me something was off—I should have listened. Liz had told me there were issues with Phoebe and I’d handed her a phone number. I passed the problem on and I hadn’t followed up. Jo had cut Phoebe out of our family, and I hadn’t been sorry—that’s the truth. It had been wearing having Phoebe there all the time, and I was relieved when it stopped. And my daughter had made a very, very public scene between Liz and Phoebe that probably precipitated Phoebe’s suicide. And that may have precipitated Liz’s death.

  When I returned home, Jo was out with Baby Bear and Rebecca’s pugs, whom we were sitting for yet again. Annie greeted me at the door and put her soft arms around me and hugged.

  “Sit down, Bear. I’ll get you a beer.” Annie said she had kept my dinner warm for me, and I could have it on a tray. I took my tray into the family room and sat in my good chair.

  Annie let me eat in peace. She waited to ask me what had happened until I’d come back into the kitchen and rinsed my plate and put it in the dishwasher. Before I could tell her, Jo and the dogs made their entrance. Jo confirmed for Annie that all the dogs had done their business, got their leashes untangled and refilled water bowls, and then came over to give me a kiss.

  Her lips an inch from my cheek, she stopped and drew back, looking at me.