Body Wave

by Nancy J. Cohen

  Elise shrugged. “That’s not my concern.”

  “Did Kimberly confide her plans to you?”

  “What, to leave Stan? As though I couldn’t guess what was on her mind.” She jabbed her forefinger at Marla. “Don’t tell the cops this, but I’m glad she’s dead. Cliff has been spooked by the whole thing. I think he’ll straighten out now, since that vamp doesn’t have her clutches in him anymore.”

  Marla kept her expression bland. “Well, thanks for your information. If you remember anything else, please give me a call. Can you tell me where the Shpritz family lives?”

  “Jessica’s house is number seven six oh six, one block south.”

  Mrs. Shpritz reminded Marla of a willow tree with her long limbs, graceful movements, and enveloping kindness. After studying Marla’s business card, she gestured for her to enter.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware of it,” Jessica said after offering Marla a seat, “but Stan and Adam had a falling out. Stan’s legal group is representing a malpractice case against my husband. Adam thinks Stan should intervene. You have no idea how upset we are about this lawsuit.” She patted her swollen belly. “In my condition, I shouldn’t have extra aggravation.”

  “I agree.” Seated at a kitchen table, Marla watched Jessica remove a batch of chocolate chip cookies from the oven. “Do you have any ideas about who killed Kimberly?”

  “I can’t say.” Placing the cookie sheet on a rack, Jessica proceeded to remove her oven mitts.

  Can’t say, or won’t? “Had you spoken to Kim recently?”

  “We kept in touch. I felt she could have done more to influence Stan. I got annoyed when she wouldn’t bring up the subject to him, but Kim had her own problems.” Jessica rinsed out two coffee mugs, filled them from a freshly brewed pot, and handed one to Marla. “Cream and sugar?”

  “Yes, please.” Jessica must be a paragon of housekeeping, she thought, surveying the spotless countertops, gleaming tile floor, and array of appliances with surfaces that shone like mirrors. Wanna come do my house next?

  Jessica sat opposite her. “Kim was very unhappy, in case you weren’t aware. How did you say you knew the Kaufmans?”

  “I was Stan’s first wife. I’ve helped the police solve cases before, so he came to me for help.”

  “I think he knew.” Jessica lowered her voice to a whisper. “She was seeing some older guy. You know, the rich man who drives a Porsche.”

  “So you saw it, too. Elise mentioned his car.”

  Jessica stiffened. “You talked to her?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Elise must be upset. Now she’ll have to find a new tennis partner.”

  The phone rang, and Jessica picked up the receiver. Marla caught the deep tones of a male voice on the other end.

  Her face reddening, Jessica glanced at Marla. “I can’t talk now. I have company. She’s a friend of Stan’s…Yes, I’ll be there. Adam thinks I’m going to a bridge game. See you later, snook-ems.” Hanging up, she grinned at Marla. “Where were we?” Her smile was a bit too bright.

  “You were telling me about the rich man who visited Kim. I understand his name is Jeremiah Dooley. Kim called him Uncle Jerry, but Stan doesn’t know anything about him.”

  “If you believe he was her uncle, I’ll sell you a piece of land in the Everglades. Kim told me she planned to leave Stan, and this Uncle Jerry was her ticket out the door.”

  Chapter Nine

  “I’m on my way to Miriam’s house,” Marla told Dalton, after dialing his number on her new cell phone. She’d already activated the device and transferred her data. She put the phone in a cradle by the driver’s seat and pushed the wireless button on her steering column.

  Traffic wasn’t bad heading east on Broward Boulevard at 5:45 pm, while long lines snaked in the opposite lanes. The sun had begun its daily descent, darkening the eastern horizon while awing visitors on the Gulf Coast. Marla hoped the snowbirds appreciated their balmy winter evenings, especially since the temperature had hit seventy.

  “What happened with Stan?” Dalton’s gruff voice said from the car’s speakers.

  She’d reached him at his office and imagined him at his desk in his work shirt and tie. A wave of longing shot through her. She’d rather spend the evening sparring verbally with Dalton than fawning over Miriam.

  No, that wasn’t true. She looked forward to bringing some cheer to the old lady.

  “Stan showed me the Pearl family albums. I found a space where your photograph belonged. The man in the picture is Jeremiah Dooley. A woman is with him in another photo, but Stan couldn’t identify her.”

  “Good work.” His smooth tone held warm approval.

  “I mentioned him to the neighbors. They said Jerry drives a Porsche and runs some type of ministry. I have a phone number, but my purse is in the backseat.”

  “Tell me about the neighbors.”

  She waited until she’d crossed Federal Highway. “Elise Addison suspected that her husband Cliff was interested in Kim. She didn’t shed any tears over Kim’s death. Jessica Shpritz, on the other hand, believed Uncle Jerry was Kim’s ticket to freedom. She implied they weren’t blood relatives, either. So according to the neighbors, Kim was fooling around with either Cliff or this Jeremiah guy.”

  “I’ve got news for you; they’re both wrong. Kim was fooling around all right, but with her former flame, Gary Waterford.”

  “I’d wondered about them.” She veered left to a banyan-lined street in an older section of Fort Lauderdale. Flowering hibiscus and bougainvillea added splashes of crimson and pink. “Gary lied about not seeing Kim since her marriage to Stan. Their mutual friend Lacey clued me in. She gave me the impression that Gary is her territory, but maybe I’m wrong.”

  “What else did Stan tell you today?”

  “He misses Kimberly. I actually felt sorry for him.”

  “Is that all you felt for Kaufman?”

  “Dalton, you’re not still jealous, are you? I told you there’s nothing to worry about. Why don’t I prove it to you by having you and Brianna come for dinner like I promised? We can talk about her birthday party. Do you have plans for tomorrow evening? I get off work at six, so you could come around seven. I’ll whip up something special.”

  “You’ve got a date. Oh, there’s something else—”

  “I gotta go. Here’s the road to their compound. Call me tomorrow.”

  She put the cell phone in her purse before emerging from the car in front of the Pearl mansion. A cloyingly sweet fragrance filled the air. She stretched her limbs, feeling strange wearing a white nurse’s outfit. She’d chosen a tunic top and matching pants at the uniform store. On her feet, she wore a pair of sturdy New Balance walking shoes.

  Juggling her sack of supplies and her purse, she trudged up the steps to the front door. Raoul swung it open before she rang the bell.

  “You’re late.” Morris greeted her with an annoyed frown in the mirrored foyer. “Agnes left a half hour ago. Stella is keeping Miriam company upstairs.”

  “I was coming from—” She stopped herself, having almost said from my salon. “From West Broward,” she amended. “Traffic was heavy. I’ll leave earlier next week.”

  “See that you do.” He eyed her canvas bag suspiciously. “What’s making that bulge?”

  “I brought a few supplies.” Curling iron, hair spray, brush, teasing comb, shears—all the essentials. Plus, she’d brought snacks and reading material in case Miriam fell asleep. “When do you expect Agnes to return?”

  “Around ten.” He paused, scrutinizing her. “Tally spoke very highly of you.”

  “Who?” Turning, Marla headed for the stairs. Her foot had reached the fourth rung when Morris replied.

  “Tally Riggs, the woman whose mother you care for during the week. I called her when I checked your references.”

  “Oh!” Startled, Marla tripped on a fold in the carpet. Tottering backward, she lunged for the banister as her purse and canvas bag sailed through the a
ir. Breath rushed from her lungs, but she managed to grab the rail and haul herself upright.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, shaken. Her face reddened at the contemptuous look he gave her. Why am I such a klutz whenever I come here?

  “You’re not hurt, are you?” he asked without an ounce of genuine concern.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Her purse contents had spilled onto the marble tile. Before she could retrieve her things, Morris stooped to gather the makeup items, pens, breath mints, and travel brochures for Tahiti she kept in her handbag. Not that she’d ever get there, but it was fun to daydream. Her throat tightened when Morris picked up the paper with Jeremiah Dooley’s name. His gaze narrowed imperceptibly before he stuffed it into her purse along with the rest of her belongings.

  “Tally said to tell you hello,” he continued, regarding her with a stony expression.

  “Thank you.” So he’d checked with Tally to confirm Marla’s story. Thank goodness Tally remembered their ruse. “I’ll go see Miriam now.”

  Toting her bags, she proceeded upstairs and entered the matriarch’s bedroom.

  Stella, who’d been sitting in a bedside chair, rose at her arrival. “It’s about time! I have to get ready for dinner. At least we’re conscientious about watching the clock. Morris has a fit if any of us hold up the cook. What was all that ruckus in the hallway?”

  Marla felt like a schoolgirl confronting her teacher. “I tripped on the stairs.”

  “Figures. Hereafter, I won’t wait around for you. You’d better be on time when you come next week. Mother needs help with her meal. See to it.”

  Marla turned her attention to Miriam. “Why are you in bed and wearing a nightgown already? It’s just after six. And what is that awful stuff you’re eating? It looks like baby food.”

  “Nice to see you again, dearie. This is my usual dinner. Can’t chew well, you know.”

  “Nonsense, you can do better than this. No wonder you’re so thin. Why don’t you join the family downstairs?”

  “I’m too weak.”

  “I’ll help you get up. Does Agnes feed you in bed every night?” she asked, appalled.

  “Of course she does. Agnes knows what’s best for me.”

  “What time do your children gather for dinner?”

  “Seven-thirty.” Miriam’s sad eyes regarded her from behind a pair of round eyeglasses. “I haven’t made it down there in ages.”

  Marla cast a quick glance at Miriam’s disheveled gray hair. “How about if we give it a try? If you get too tired, I’ll bring you back to your room. Let’s get you dressed, and then I’ll fix your hair.”

  “I don’t know. Agnes said I may be getting sick. I’ve been coughing ever since Sunday when you took me outside.”

  “You sound fine. What you need is some decent food and a change of scenery.”

  “You’re a stubborn girl, aren’t you? My teeth are in a cup in the bathroom. You’ll have to clean them.”

  The things I do to gather information. How could she broach the topic of Jeremiah Dooley? Maybe by asking about Kim’s relatives on her father’s side. But how to get started?

  In the lavatory, Marla discovered a set of false teeth soaking in a glass. She brushed them with toothpaste and rinsed them under cold water.

  “Here,” she said to Miriam, handing her the bridge.

  “You’d better check my temperature before going to all this trouble,” Miriam advised after fitting in her teeth. “You wouldn’t want me getting worse sick by going downstairs.”

  “It can’t do you any good to stay in bed all day,” Marla muttered. She noticed the disapproving look on Miriam’s face. “Oh, very well. Where’s the thermometer?”

  “Look in the bathroom, top right drawer.”

  Marla hadn’t seen an old-fashioned mercury thermometer in years, but then she rarely took her own temperature. “Open your mouth,” she ordered the old lady when she returned.

  “Don’t you know anything? That’s a rectal thermometer.”

  Marla’s nerveless fingers nearly dropped the instrument on the floor. “Excuse me?”

  “You have to shake it down first. Look at the silver bar to get a reading.”

  Marla shook the thermometer then peered at the instrument, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure it out.

  “Where’s the lubricant?” The old lady gave Marla an exasperated look.

  “Huh?”

  “You need to put some K-Y Jelly on first. You’ll find it in that same drawer.”

  “Oh, right.”

  While Marla scurried to comply, she heard Miriam mumble, “If that gal is a trained nurse’s aide, then I’m twenty years old.”

  Back in the bedroom once again, Marla squeezed the petroleum jelly around the thermometer’s tip. Uh-oh, I should have brought a tissue, she thought when it dribbled onto the bed linens. This is worse than that bikini wax I did in my first job as a beautician. She’d never forget the customer who’d demanded that particular wax job, and Marla had vowed never to repeat the experience. This holds a close second, she thought, perspiration beading her brow.

  “Look, I can’t do this,” she confessed. “There has to be an oral thermometer in the house. They make those digital ones now.”

  “Oh, forget it, dearie. I wouldn’t be getting so riled if I was sick. It makes me wonder, though, where you received your education.”

  Marla straightened, squaring her shoulders. “I learned on the job. What I do doesn’t require formal nurse’s training. I’ve had plenty of experience caring for elderly ladies.” That’s it, girl, the truth is always best. “We’ll get you dressed, then I’ll do your hair,” she added in a firm tone. She’d spiff the old lady so that she’d look good, and that in turn would make her feel better. It was amazing what proper grooming could do for a person’s sense of well-being.

  After helping Miriam change into a royal blue pants outfit, she transferred her patient to a wheelchair and rolled her into the bathroom.

  Within fifteen minutes, she’d curled, teased, and sprayed the old lady’s hair. “You need some color on your cheeks,” she added, applying some cosmetics found in a drawer. They were dried from disuse; she’d have to take the woman shopping to buy a new supply.

  Satisfied with the results, she turned Miriam to face the mirror. Pride swelled as a look of stunned surprise spread on Miriam’s face.

  “I can’t believe it! You’ve made me look years younger.”

  “You’ll look even better after I give you a perm on Sunday. Let’s go down to dinner. You don’t want to be late.”

  “Hmph! I must say you’re a better hairdresser than you are a nurse, dearie.”

  Don’t I know!

  The surprise Miriam had exhibited at her new appearance was nothing compared to the shocked glances in the dining room. Six family members, seated around a rectangular dining table covered with a lace cloth, gaped at the matriarch.

  “Mother! What are you doing out of bed?” Stella shrieked.

  Morris, at the head of the table, shot to his feet. “You aren’t well enough to join us.”

  “What happened to your hair?” Florence chimed in.

  “Sit down, all of you. Kathleen,” Miriam addressed the maid, “set an extra two places for us.”

  “Aye, madam.”

  Marla hadn’t expected to be seated at the family dinner table. Swallowing hard, she sat next to a brunette at Morris’s left side. Across from them were a couple of teenage boys. Miriam introduced everyone. Barbara, Morris’s wife, gave her a friendly smile. It was a much warmer welcome than the frosty glares she got from the two sisters.

  “Mother, are you sure you’re up to this?” Morris asked, concern etching his features. “Agnes said you were ill.”

  Miriam raised her eyebrows, darkened with the help of a cosmetic pencil. “Do I look sick?”

  “You look wonderful,” Stella gushed. “I love your hair that way, and you must be feeling good enough to put on makeup.”


  “Marla deserves the credit. I was feeling low before she came, but now I’m much better.”

  “You’ll be stronger after a real meal,” Marla inserted.

  Their gazes swung to her in silent scrutiny, and she flushed. Wearing a white uniform made her self-conscious, especially when the others had dressed for dinner. Stella wore a satiny jacket dress that slenderized her stout figure. Its leaf green color enhanced her auburn layered hair and fair complexion. Not to be outdone, Florence had encased her tall, svelte shape in a silk sheath tiger print. It matched her dyed blond hair swept into a French twist. While her sister wore minimal cosmetics, Florence had applied enough foundation to cover every wrinkle. At least Barbara wore a less pretentious pants outfit, Marla thought, instinctively liking the woman.

  During the soup course, she chatted amiably with Morris’s wife, careful not to reveal too much about her background.

  “They own coffee plantations in Costa Rica and South America,” Barbara explained in response to Marla’s question about the family business.

  “Harris’s father bought the plantations in eighteen-ninety,” Miriam announced proudly, listening in on Marla’s other side. “I reviewed the accounts yesterday with Agnes, and I noticed severely reduced profits. Morris, you didn’t tell me we were having a problem.”

  Her son straightened his tie. “Prices are higher due to frost damage in Brazil. Our warehouse inventories are one third of last year’s level.”

  “What are you doing about it?” the matriarch demanded, pinning him with her penetrating gaze.

  “Not much we can do. The frost damaged nearly half of the country’s three billion coffee trees. Our prices have gone up almost two dollars a pound since this time last year.”

  “Soon your product will match the cost of gourmet shade-grown coffee,” Barbara commented. “Didn’t I tell you to invest in some of those farms?”

  “What’s that, dearie?”

  Barbara addressed her mother-in-law. “I belong to a bird conservation group. We’re concerned about migratory birds who seek refuge for the winter in tropical tree canopies. More than one hundred and fifty species of songbirds nest in those trees, and the coffee plants that grow beneath them mature in the shady habitat. Unfortunately, the rain forests are being razed, so coffee growers resort to pesticides and fertilizers to produce higher-yield crops.”