Dead Sexy

by Samantha McCabe

  Chapter 7

  I used my one phone call to call Spence, who said he was already on his way. “How did you know I was in jail?”

  “Well, I just figured...with the way things were going.”

  The automated voice on the line said 1 MINUTE REMAINING.

  “No really. Your neighbors saw everything. They told me when I showed up. After you screaming into the phone about blood and stabbing and then hanging up on me, I thought I should make sure everything was okay.”

  “Everything is definitely not okay. What about Marilyn? Was she okay when you got there?” That was what I really cared about. The vision of that TV doctor with his arm around Marilyn was burned into my brain. I didn’t care how good her skin looked. There was something horribly wrong with her.

  “Um. Marilyn wasn’t there. That nosy neighbor of yours said she drove off in a Lamborghini with that doctor from the TV commercials. According to her, Marilyn was looking great. I thought you said that she’d been stabbed.”

  “Just get me out of here so we can find Marilyn,” I said in a strangled voice.

  “On it, buddy.”

  I was all for storming the doctor’s house again, but Spense leaned against his Volvo station wagon (because, as he says, chicks dig safety features) and refused to drive me anywhere.

  “We need to talk about this, Rick,” he said.

  “No. We need to drive. To that dermatologist’s house and get Marilyn back.” I was pulling on the door handle, but Spense beeped the car locked again for emphasis.

  “We’re not going anywhere. I went by your house and the neighbors said you were screaming about Marilyn being stabbed and then not being stabbed. They said you rushed a cop with a sushi knife.”

  I kicked at Spense’s unnaturally shiny tire. “Actually, it was the doctor I rushed with the sushi knife.”

  “Yeah, cause that’s a lot less of a felony. Come on, Rick. Let’s be honest. You’re the one who’s been acting weird.”

  “I know it must seem like that, but Spense you have to trust me. I’m not crazy. That doctor did something to Marilyn the night we followed her.”

  “We don’t actually know that was Mari—”

  “—I don’t care what the cops saw. Or didn’t see. She was there. And if she wasn’t, why did Dr. Chatsworth show up at our house?”

  “Well, you were in his swimming pool.”

  “He told the cops that he was her dermatologist,” I countered. “He obviously knows her.”

  Spense shrugged in acknowledgement of my point. “Okay, maybe. So what did he do to her? Drug her?”

  I paused, trying to find the right words. “I thought about that, but that doesn’t explain everything. The raw chicken, the dirt in our bed.”

  Spense smirked. “Well, I explained that.”

  I shot back, “Well, how do you explain the knife wound?”

  Spense didn’t look particularly convinced. “The one that everyone says wasn’t there.”

  “It was there!” I was practically shouting at him now. Cops walking out of the building were starting to stare.

  Spense glanced at them, giving them an “everything’s okay here” double thumbs up, but said out of the side of his mouth, “Dude, chill out.”

  I forced myself to take a step back and calm down as the cops drove away. I could see that my friend was genuinely concerned, uncomfortable even, at the direction of the conversation.

  “Are you sure there was a knife wound?” It was the voice Spense used when he had to deal with irate bank customers. “You’ve been kind of stressed lately—”

  “—And so I’m imagining things that aren’t there?” Spense’s condescending tone was making me angry. “It was the sushi knife that we got for a wedding present, and it was sticking out of Marilyn’s stomach. I didn’t make that up because of stress.” I hissed at him, “I need you to believe me. Just a little while longer. I need your help.”

  Spense nodded. He wasn’t the kind of guy who’d turn down his oldest friend when he needed him most. Because over a decade of friendship buys you a little bit of leeway. But he clearly wasn’t buying it. “Okay, so what do you think is going on? And what do we do about it?”

  “This might sound far fetched—”

  “—It might?”

  I ignored the dig. “Drugging doesn’t explain the knife wound. You weren’t there. There wasn’t even a scratch. It just healed up—like magic.” I realized that didn’t exactly make me sound less crazy. “—like something that wasn’t natural.”

  Spense rolled his eyes. “So what? That doctor cast a spell on her?”

  “Maybe—”

  “A spell that makes Marilyn shamble?”

  “Look, how am I supposed to know!” I tried changing tactics. “Fine. Don’t believe me, but you have to admit that doctor is creepy, and something is wrong with Marilyn, and she doesn’t need to be with him. We need to go get her. ”

  I must have been getting more convincing. Spense was jingling his keys in his hand like he was thinking of unlocking the door.

  “Come on, buddy.” I wasn’t above begging. Or ultimatums. “If you don’t drive me, I’m just going to take a cab, and then who is going to be there to make sure I don’t get arrested again?”