I couldn’t see much, but there wasn’t much on the first floor to see. The carpet smelled of damp and fungus. The embedded nicotine smell was strong as I slowly made my way up the stairs. Up stairs was pitch dark, and although I was not having good luck with anything I found at the top of a stairway, I stepped forward anyway. There was one door at the end of the long hallway, two doors on the left wall. I rattled the first one – locked, and marched to the second.
“Carrie?” I called, cautiously. “Cyndi?”
No sound. By now, Patrick was right behind me, breathing on my neck. It was not as sexy as it sounds. “Is she in there?”
“How the hell do I know?” I opened the second door and hit something. I pushed the door with a smack of my fist and opened it all way. And almost stepped on my best friend.
Sirens, questions and Patrick looking so bad the EMTs offered to strap him to a gurney and take him to the hospital along with his girlfriend. That suggestion inspired him to get it together and he opted to drive to the emergency room himself. I took my own car. I couldn’t lock the office door on the way out. Too bad.
I muscled through to the hospital admitting desk and asked for Carrie Eliot’s room.
“Are you family?” The nurse eyed me dubiously.
“Yes.” I said without a moment’s hesitation. Don’t hesitate, and you are often believed.
She gave me the room number, too busy to quiz me further.
“Excuse me.” I pushed aside a disheveled woman hovering by Carrie’s room.
Patrick was already in the room, white faced, and as close to her bed as he could get without actually crawling into it.
Carrie was still unconscious. Her long lashes were dark flutters against her pale and bruised skin.
“Who did this to her?” Patrick demanded.
“I don’t have a clue,” I said honestly. If it was our holiday murderer, Carrie wouldn’t be here at all. She’d be spread, oh, I couldn’t think of it.
I leaned over and kissed her forehead.
“Allison.” Carrie’s eyes fluttered open.
I studied her face, black and blue. Her arms were a mess of abstract brown and black marks. A blanket covered the rest of her body, hiding any additional damage, for which I was grateful.
“Why didn’t he kill you?” I asked quietly.
“Maybe I’m not newsworthy enough.”
“I don’t think so.” I disagreed.
“Thanks.” She brightened up.
“Carrie.” Patrick butted my head like one of the famous happy Cooper milk cows. “Carrie, how are you? Are you hurt? Do you need anything?”
“Patrick.” She exhaled, clearly in some pain. “I’m fine. I’m sorry I missed our dinner.”
Of course she was fine. She was bandaged up, bruised beyond recognition, probably harboring internal injuries and laying prone in a hospital bed with a half dozen tubes and wires attached to her slender body. Totally meets my definition of fine.
Did she have enough pain medication? If not, I was fully prepared to make a scene a la Terms of Endearment to make sure she got some more, now.
“Did you see who did this?” I asked.
She shook her head, a painful gesture. She flinched and closed her eyes.
“I went to the office.” She whispered. “I walked straight in, Anne and Harold were already gone, but I heard someone upstairs, so I figured it was the President, and I went up.”
Patrick sucked in his breath and looked desperately for some part of her he could touch, squeeze or kiss. He gingerly picked up her hand and kissed it. My, that boy really had fallen in love. And I knew she loved him, too. Carrie had begun her quest for a man with the intent of looking after herself, but to my great relief, there was more to it than that. Call me romantic. I want people to fall in love for the right reasons.
“I didn’t see him. I was hit on the head, then kicked.”
Patrick moaned. Carrie squeezed his had reassuringly. “Hard.” She admitted. “By very pointed boots or something.”
“Or shoes.” I said. “You didn’t see anything?”
“No, and the person.”
“Assailant,” I supplied.
“Didn’t say anything, just, left me.”
My heart twisted in my chest. Who would be at the office after hours? And who would be un-happy with Carrie? Yes, that would be the mysterious Miss Cyndi, part time secretary to the President and CEO, and the one person who resided in the office on a full time basis. The woman with pointed toe, designer shoes. The woman who, for once, didn’t cut up her victim. It made me dizzy to think about it.
“Stay.” I ordered Patrick. “And don’t let anyone in.”
“Don’t worry, Conner will have to stay outside all night.”
“Oh, is that who that is?”
He nodded. “She loves to think she’s a hard hitting reporter, but she’s small time.”
I touched Carrie lightly on her shoulder, and stepped out, mostly so I didn’t faint right in front of her. That would distress her more than her own condition. Remember, this is a woman who rescues kittens on her days off.
Patrick did not listen to my directive and followed me out. He glared at Chris Conner, now camped out on an uncomfortable chair in the hallway. How she scored a chair was a mystery. She mumbled something about needing more coffee and scurried away back down the hall.
“I’m impressed.” I said out loud.
“We’re a big advertiser.” He replied.
“I thought advertising and editorial were completely separate.” I said, innocently.
“Don’t kid yourself.” For a moment he was the CEO of one of the largest manufacturers in Sonoma County. He stayed upright, and in charge, but as soon as the reporter was out of sight, he sagged against the cold wall.
“What can I do?” He rubbed his hands over his cheeks and buried his face for a moment, to block everything out.
“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” If this was real estate, I’d have two forms for him to sign confirming such a relationship.
“This is my fault. I got her into this. I made her join the board. It’s my fault.” He moaned.
“Give her some credit.” I pushed on his chest to make my point. “She’s a grown-up, she makes her own decisions.”
“Okay, okay.” He held up his hands palm out, a gesture of my superior grasp of the intent of his girlfriend. “What can I do to make it up to her?”
“Diamonds are usually a help.” I snapped.
“Okay.” He nodded.
Chapter 15
“Everyone has an alcoholic the family,” Ben pulled off the freeway and began negotiating the maze of cul de sac that made up my brother’s neighborhood.
“Really, Allison, think about it. Have you ever head of any family that doesn’t have a member who is addicted to something? We always say that alcoholism runs in the family, but if all families have one uncle or a brother, or a nephew who is alcoholic, then it stands to reason that perhaps alcoholism runs in the human race.”
Ben was right, but I was still more comfortable around my brother in controlled environments. I try to ignore the situation, but it’s difficult to ignore your family during the holidays.
For my sister-in-law, Debbie, the annual Little Party was not just a gathering of friends, it was defiance in the face of my mother’s complete control over the family. To me, Debbie is Custer, defending her last stand. Oh, and showing off to the neighbors, that was another driving reason for the party.
“What would you normally do?” Ben asked.
“We have Christmas at the Club. It’s more controlled there, and mom refuses to pay for an open bar. We pay for our own drinks. It keeps Richard, more or less, on the straight and narrow, a path my mother favors. Take a right.”
The last Claim Jump Christmas was about seven years ago. Richard got drunk, Allen got mad and Richard threw all of Allen’s gifts, shoes, into the fire. I don’t remember if it was an accident or not, but it certainly was the las
t straw.
My mother not only keeps the boys away from the bar, but from open flames as well.
“And tonight?” Ben prompted.
We pulled into Richard’s neighborhood. Every other yard was stuffed with enormous blow up Santa’s riding various vehicles; motorcycles, helicopters, speed boats. They all swayed invitingly in a soft breeze.
“Quite cheerful.” Ben nodded to the lawn displays.
Some lawns also hosted plywood cut outs of either the holy family or the Little Mermaid. Some homes were simply strung with lights.
“It’s the house with the helicopter Santa.”
My brother Richard, indulged in all three forms of holiday decorating. On his lawn a Santa in a helicopter was ready for take off with a few inflated gift boxes at the ready behind Santa’s cockpit seat. The three princesses, Ariel, Belle and Cinderella, stood by the driveway, illuminated from below. Multiple strands of lights framed the house, the roof and the front door. It was an overwhelming effect. Ben whistled in appreciation.
Because he can’t play with fire, Richard is a master with lights. He love colored lights, he loves white lights. He loves icicles and the big old fashion light bulbs now back in fashion. Loves it all. He spends hours perched on the roof, making sure every string is hung perfectly and aligned exactly equidistant to its neighbor. He spends hours decorating. He cut out the princess figures himself, from a kit. Richards gauges the success of Christmas by how many new strings of lights he can fit onto his home before blowing a fuse. He considers National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation a training film.
“Oh, Allison.” Debbie answered the door. The kitchen/family room was already crowded and the party was in full swing; I try for fashionably late.
“You wore that, again.” Debbie wrinkled her nose, a gesture, which, much as Cyndi of the Homeless Prevention League, was in its final useful phase. Debbie was once pert, bouncy, and blond. She was one of the last Home Ec majors in our high school. Richard was fully distracted by her, and her novel culinary abilities. And yes, like most Singletons (my mother’s side), they produced their first child by age eighteen.
But the marriage seemed to be working out. I wouldn’t have the specifics mind you, my brothers are not inclined to sit down and hold deep, heart to heart conversations with me. Although, I’m pretty sure that the propensity for avoidance is not only a quirk of my brother’s.
I glanced at Ben, who was dutifully smiling at Debbie.
“This is Ben? It’s nice to finally,” she glanced at me, her face still squished. “Meet you. You’ve been dating long?”
I held my breath, because I knew what would come next, Debbie would demand an explanation as to why Ben hadn’t been introduced to the family earlier? Why are you hiding him from the family Allison? What is wrong with the family? Hmmm? Are you embarrassed because we aren’t a sophisticated, and worldly as you?
See? I project so easily; my family doesn’t have to say anything at all.
“Not long.” Ben lied easily. “And we both have such busy jobs, that this is one of the few times we’ve able to be together, socially.”
That was the confident Ben I knew.
Debbie narrowed her eyes. She had heard of Ben, probably from my mother, and probably over the summer when Ben and I met. But she didn’t say anything more.
“Well, come in.”
I cautiously stepped over the floor mat at the door, but Ben hit it squarely in the center setting off a loud atonal chorus of Jingle Bells.
“It’s a musical welcome mat.” Debbie explained over the noise.
Ben did not look at me. I was grateful for that.
“Give the wine to Richard.” Debbie instructed. The doorbell rang, she stepped on the mat, setting off the song again, and greeted more party guests.
We moved past dozens of stuffed Santa’s from mail order companies around the world. Debbie had collected so many figures that Richard built a shed in the back to house them during the off-season.
Their Christmas tree was of National Forest proportions and dominated the living room to the point that no one could comfortably sit in the room.
“Your sister-in-law must love Christmas.” Ben whispered.
“Yes.” I scanned the crowd, looking for my parents, I wanted to pinpoint where they were so they couldn’t sneak up and surprise me. I didn’t see my mother.
Richard’s bar, like his house, is a thing of beauty, one could say a shrine, but one would not say that out loud. This is a touchy subject. The bar is built into a niche in the family room and features running water, a back splash of gold mottled, mirrored tiles, a bridge hanging from the ceiling that holds every kind of cocktail and highball glass, and a space for Richard to stand behind the bar, so he looks more official.
Nine strands of icicle lights illuminated seventeen different bottles of expensive liquor stacked on the shelves behind Richard. Ben and I had two kinds of wine to choose from: red or white.
Ben politely turned down Richard’s offer of an Appletini and took a glass of the white wine, instead. I ordered a vodka martini and Richard shook it up with panache.
Allen wandered over for a refill of something clear from a glass pitcher, and introduced himself to Ben. The three men fell to discussing the construction of the bar, and how Allen helped with advice and a soldering iron. My brothers still love playing with fire. The Fourth of July can be quite dangerous for our family.
I stepped away from the bar, clutched my drink, and ventured into the maw of the party.
“So!”
I jumped, and almost spilled my martini.
“Mother, merry Christmas.” I leaned in to lightly kiss her cheek, and she politely allowed it.
“Merry Christmas. Did you bring Ben?”
I gestured to where Ben was standing.
“I’ll say hello.” She announced briskly. “Have you spoken with Claire? She was asking after you.”
“I’m sure she was.” I muttered. Claire was one of my mother’s golf/bridge/garden club cronies and always asks after me because her own daughter, years younger than me, is married, with three adorable fluffy grandbabies, and lives here, in Richard’s perfect-for-children-neighborhood. Understandably, Claire’s bragging makes my mother crazy. I knew mom expected me to tell Claire all about Ben. And I knew Claire would need to hear it from me, because it is quite possible that out of desperation, somewhere at the 16th tee, my mother was fully capable of inventing a boyfriend for me.
Mother pointed to the matronly woman dressed in a velvet pantsuit that was a size too small.
My mother was dressed in a St. John twin set in pale blue teamed with pressed white wool slacks. My mother does not own brightly colored holiday sweaters, even though my grandmother finds them at the dollar store, and sends them to Mom every Christmas. The sweaters always disappear right after Christmas morning. I suspect fire.
“Allison.” Claire greeted me enthusiastically. I understand from my mother, that Claire’s daughter, Jennifer. I think, is, even after three children, quite slender. “How are you? Are you married yet?”
“No.” I smiled, and took a large gulp of my drink. “Claire, I am not married yet, but my boyfriend, Ben is right over there.”
Claire glanced suspiciously in Ben’s direction, not sure if I was telling the truth or not. I followed her gaze. Ben had run his fingers through his blondish hair and it was now standing straight up even though I was pretty sure he hadn’t arrived at the party covered in Gorilla Glue. Fortunately, his broad shoulders and stature made up for the wild hair.
Claire raised a thin, plucked eyebrow and regarded me with the superiority that is rooted in years of her always winning the blue ribbon at the county fair, and you, always second place. She may or may not believe the handsome man across the room was my boyfriend, but she had to accept the evidence as presented. Claire had always struck me as a woman who made her own jams. “So, what are your plans?”
“No plans.” I said cheerfully, because, suddenly, I did feel cheerf
ul. I finished off my martini. “Have you tried the stuffed mushrooms? They are divine.”
She obediently trotted to the buffet line and I escaped back to the comfort of the bar.
“How is your friend? Is she all right?” Mary, my quiet sister-in-law (married to Allen), blinked sympathetically.
“She’ll be okay, but she couldn’t make it to the party.” I explained.
“I think Debbie understood.” Mary said unconvincingly. We both knew Debbie; maybe she forgive Carrie for not making the most important event in the Little year, or maybe not.
Ben reached across me for the white wine and nodded to Mary, who smiled back and headed back to stand with Allen. Mary never really got into the swing of the holiday party. But in Mary’s case, it was because she was nervous leaving her three boys with a baby sitter. I think it has something to do with their home insurance, and whether it covers injuries sustained by a paid worker. Allen’s boys are quite rambunctious. And Richard’s girls have moved into the teenage sullen stage. I could hardly wait for Christmas Day.
“This is the dreaded Christmas party.” Ben smiled, encompassing the whole room with his happy expression, in case anyone, say like my mother, was staring at us.
“I was asked about our plan.” I said.
My mother waved to Ben, and because I was standing close by, me.
We waved back. Ben toasted her with his wine glass. “There is no plan.” he confirmed, still scanning the room and grinning like a game-show host.
“That’s what I told her.”
“Who is that group?”
“The guys wearing the holiday sweaters? Dad’s golf group. Debbie tries to invite a least a couple of our own friends, just to mix up the conversations.”
“Where then, are your friends?” He asked.
“In the hospital.”
He put his arm around me, and squeezed. “I’m sorry, do the police have anything?”
“They can’t even find Cyndi, the most likely witness.” Or perpetrator, Cyndi was still my favorite suspect. However, I’m sure the police needed more information for an investigation than my observation that the woman routinely wore pointy toe shoes.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith Page 18
