TELEPHONE LINE

by Julie Mulhern

  “Your friend may have been poisoned.”

  Six

  I sat at the hospital for hours. What else could I do?

  The labs ran tests as the doctors struggled to save Winnie’s life.

  I stared at a faded print of a bad painting of a beach and a setting sun and thought how remarkably inappropriate the art (word used loosely) was.

  I wasn’t looking for sunsets. I was looking for dawning hope.

  I drank bad coffee.

  I sipped the tar in the Styrofoam cup, shifted my weight in the uncomfortable chair, and gave up. The coffee went in the trash and I paced.

  I checked my watch and marched to the nurses’ desk. “Where’s the nearest payphone?”

  “You can use ours, Mrs. Russell,” said a pretty nurse with a helpful smile.

  “Isn’t that against the rules?”

  “No one will mind if it’s a quick call.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What’s the number?”

  I gave her my home number.

  She dialed and handed me the receiver. “It’s ringing.”

  “Hello.” Aggie’s no-nonsense voice was like a gift.

  I swallowed around the fist lodged in my throat. “I’m stuck at the hospital. I don’t know when I’ll make it home.”

  “I already told you—I’m here all night.”

  I could always count on Aggie. “Thank you.” Words that failed to convey my gratitude.

  “You’re welcome. What happened?”

  I glanced at the nurse. “It’s a long story. May I tell you later?”

  “Of course. You’re all right? You sound tired.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’ll let Grace know you’ll be late.”

  I pictured them safe in our comfortable kitchen then glanced at the raw oatmeal color of the hospital walls. “Thanks again, Aggie. I’ll be in touch.” I handed the receiver back to the nurse. “Thank you.”

  She smiled at me. “Can I get you anything? Coffee?”

  “No,” I spoke quickly. “But thank you for offering. I’ll just head back to the waiting room.”

  If Anarchy was right and Winnie had been poisoned, how had she ingested the poison? Was there a poison that acted faster than a quick trip to the ladies’ room?

  I resumed glaring at the bad print in the waiting room.

  “There you are.”

  I turned and saw Libba. “What are you doing here?” She wasn’t dressed for the hospital. Not in a saffron yellow chiffon dress with red, green, and gold thread woven into a Boho pattern. Not with a matching scarf tied around her head.

  “Anarchy called and said you might need some company.”

  “He did?”

  “He did.” She regarded me with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. “He said you wouldn’t leave.”

  “I can’t.” Winnie and Lark’s children were in New York and London. They weren’t here to sit and pray and hope. “Winnie’s all alone.”

  “What do the doctors say?”

  “Nothing, yet.”

  “Do you want some coffee?”

  “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

  “Could be you have a slight problem with addiction, and everyone wants to keep you happy.”

  “Me? Addiction? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You talk to your coffee maker.”

  “I—” I couldn’t deny it “—I do not.”

  Libba smirked. “If you don’t want coffee, let’s sit down.”

  She sank gracefully into one of the Naugahyde chairs and crossed her ankles.

  Libba looked up at me expectantly.

  With an annoyed huff, I sat.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  I told her everything.

  “That’s why you’re carrying two handbags.”

  Winnie’s Coach bucket bag was about the same size as my Gucci Jackie but three times heavier.

  “She’s still in ICU. She doesn’t have a room yet.” I eased the strap off my shoulder and rested the bag on the chair next to mine. “There was no place to put it.”

  “It looks heavy.”

  “It is.”

  “What does she have in there?”

  “No idea.”

  “You haven’t looked?”

  I gaped at her. “Of course not.”

  Libba reached across me.

  I slapped at her hand. “Stop that.” The privacy of a woman’s purse was sacrosanct. I locked my gaze on Libba’s Kelly bag. “How would you like it if I dug through your handbag?”

  “Pffft.” Not her best comeback.

  We sat in silence for all of thirty seconds. “Well—” Libba crossed her arms “—this is dull.”

  “It’s a hospital not a Broadway show.”

  “Where are the good-looking doctors? Anarchy promised me handsome doctors.”

  “He did not.”

  “You don’t know that. He could have.”

  Being contrary was Libba’s way of distracting me. Sometimes it worked. Not today.

  “He could have promised me—” Libba’s jaw dropped.

  I looked over my shoulder.

  Libba was gawping at a fireman. His cheeks were blackened with soot. His tired gray t-shirt was torn at the collar. He had more muscles than I’d ever seen on a man.

  Libba reached for my hand and whispered, “Yum.”

  “Stop it,” I whispered back. “He probably has a friend in the ICU, and he’s too young for you.”

  “Pfft.”

  The fireman smiled at us, his teeth a brilliant white against the darkness on his cheeks.

  “Double yum.” Libba sat straighter. She pulled her shoulders back. She smiled at him and whispered at me, “Do I look okay?”

  My smile, not nearly as bright as Libba’s, hid a whisper as well. “He’s ten years younger than you.”

  Libba’s eyes narrowed but her smile remained fixed. “That’s not what I asked.”

  “You look gorgeous and he’s still ten years younger than you.”

  “When did you get so conventional?”

  Conventional? The smile dropped off my face—which was okay—my cheeks had begun to cramp anyway.

  “Mrs. Russell?” A doctor stood in the doorway to the waiting room.

  I stood. “Yes.”

  “A word?”

  With a quelling look at Libba, I collected the two handbags and followed the doctor into the hallway. “How’s Winnie?”

  “Mrs. Flournoy’s condition is serious.”

  “What can I do?” It was a stupid question.

  “Mrs. Flournoy is most concerned about her cat.”

  I blinked. “Her cat?”

  The doctor nodded. “We think if we tell her that you’ll check on the cat and feed it, she might settle down.”

  “Of course. May I see her?”

  “For just a minute. She’s very weak.”

  I followed the doctor to Winnie’s room.

  She was a wisp on the hospital bed, as white as the sheets. She turned her head as I walked in.

  I hurried to her side. A plethora of tubes prevented me from taking her hand. “Winnie.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Have you heard anything about Lark?”

  “No.” I glanced back at the doctor.

  He shook his head. He had no updates.

  “I’m sure he’s doing okay. If he wasn’t, I would have heard.”

  “You’ll take care of Beezie?”

  Beezie? “Who’s Beezie?”

  “My cat. He’ll be worried when I don’t come home.”

  I doubted that. My limited experience with cats had taught me they were more like stand-offish roommates than pets.

  “Will y
ou stop by the house in the morning and feed him?”

  “Of course. Can I bring you anything? Your hairbrush or lipstick and powder or a fresh gown?”

  She shook her head. “Just take care of Beezie. Feed him. Pet him.”

  I was more of a dog person and cats sensed that—they seldom were interested in letting me pet them. “What do I feed him?”

  “There’s 9 Lives in the kitchen. Tuna is his favorite.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Ellison—” her voice was weak “—hold him.”

  “You’re sure you don’t need anything?”

  “Just take care of Beezie.”

  “Of course. You rest. I’ll take care of the cat and come see you afterward.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I backed out of Winnie’s room with its antiseptic smell and miles of tubes and returned to the waiting room with its brilliant smiles and miles of teeth. “Libba.”

  She turned her head slowly as if shifting her gaze away from the fireman required effort. “What?” Annoyance at my interruption lent a sharp edge to her voice.

  “I’m going home.”

  “Okay.” She leaned back in her chair as if she had no intention of moving. “You go ahead.”

  “I told Winnie I’d stop by her house in the morning. I thought you might come with me.”

  “Why?”

  “To feed her cat.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t like cats.”

  “I’m not wild about them either.”

  “I think cats are great,” said the handsome fireman. “Except in trees.”

  Libba shifted her expression from stubborn mule to coquette. “Really, you like cats?”

  “I do.”

  Libba rubbed her chin, reconsidering her anti-cat stance.

  “You’ll come?”

  “Winnie asked you.”

  “She didn’t know you were here.”

  “No one trusts me to feed their pets. I forget.”

  “Presumably you won’t forget if you go with me.”

  “You can’t feed a cat by yourself?”

  “I don’t want to go back there by myself.”

  Libba’s expression softened. I’d won.

  “I’ll see you at nine.”

  “Nine?” Her brows lifted.

  “Would eight o’clock be better?”

  “I think it’s nice how you’re helping your friend,” said the fireman.

  “Nine.” Libba scowled at me. She’d removed the scarf from her head while I was visiting Winnie and her dark hair framed her cheek bones in flattering waves. Oh-so casually, she pushed away a lock and shifted her gaze to the young man sitting next to her. “I’m always willing to help a friend.”

  He blinked. Rapidly. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Oh dear Lord—the boy never stood a chance.

  Libba leaned closer to him.

  He leaned closer to her.

  I blinked. All those muscles really were a bit overwhelming. Not to mention, he was handsome (if you liked fresh-faced youth). And he saved people for a living. If Libba wanted a young fireman in her life, who was I to judge? “I’ll see you in the morning. Nine o’clock. Sharp.”

  The Libba who rode with me to Winnie’s house looked as if she’d arrived home at five till nine. She still wore last night’s dress and her hair had seen better days. “I didn’t even know Winnie had a cat.”

  “I didn’t either. It must be shy.”

  “How often do you feed it? And for how long? Until she’s out of the hospital?”

  “I’m sure she’ll find someone to take care of the cat.”

  “She did. You.”

  “For today.” I wasn’t the best person to take care of Beezie. I knew nothing about cats—according to television commercials they were finicky. But Grace—Grace loved all animals. I could pay her to take care of Winnie’s cat. “Tell me about him.” No need to explain who I meant.

  Libba sighed and leaned her head against the seat. She closed her eyes and a secret smile touched her lips. “His name is Jimmy.”

  Jimmy? Ten-year-olds were called Jimmy. Men who played tennis for a living were called Jimmy. Teamsters were called Jimmy. Responsible, dateable men—not so much.

  “Don’t say it,” she snapped.

  “Say what? I didn’t say a word.”

  “I can hear you thinking.”

  How could I argue with that? We drove the rest of the way to Winnie’s in silence.

  I parked in the driveway and thrust my hand into Winnie’s purse, searching for keys. Pack of gum. Pack of cigarettes—those were a surprise. Pack of—it couldn’t be. I pulled my hand out of the bag and stared at the item in my palm.

  Why was Winnie carrying condoms? Not just condoms but King Cobra condoms manufactured by my brother-in-law in Ohio (twenty years since his marriage to my sister and Mother wasn’t over the rubber shock).

  Libba looked at the packet in my hand and snorted. “Winnie is more interesting than I thought.”

  I shuddered and returned the King Cobra to the depths of the purse. My fingers found the keys and closed around them. “Let’s get this over with.”

  I held onto Libba’s elbow as we climbed the front stairs (bricks and her high heels didn’t mix).

  She shook me off. “I’m fine.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “He’s really very intelligent.”

  That’s why she liked Jimmy. His intelligence. I swallowed a sassy retort, jammed the key in the lock and turned it, pushing open the front door. I pulled on the key. It was stuck in the lock. I turned it again. Side to side. Finally the lock turned, and the door opened. “That’s what attracted you? His intelligence?” Some retorts shouldn’t be swallowed.

  “Well, he’s very smart.” Libba brushed past me and marched into the house.

  Yeah, right. Libba hadn’t seen beyond that smile or those muscles. I was sure of it. The keys were stuck in the lock. I pulled on them. Nothing.

  “Eeeee!” The scream was blood-curdling.

  I abandoned the dangling keys and dashed into Winnie’s dim foyer.

  Libba was running in circles clutching her head. “Eeeee!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Eeeee!” Libba ran another lap around the foyer. “Get if off!”

  I flipped on the lights. There was a cat attached to Libba’s head. And if the way its paws were sunk into her hair was any indication, the cat didn’t plan on moving.

  “Yeow!” The cat sounded every bit as unhappy as Libba.

  “Stop running!”

  “Get it off!” She didn’t stop running.

  “Yeow!”

  “Stop! Running!”

  She stopped. Dead in her tracks. The cat kept going—flying through the air like some four-legged UFO. It landed on a settee, arched its back, and hissed at us.

  We were exceedingly lucky the animal was small, or we’d be dead. I’d never seen a cat so angry. There was no way—no way—I was holding or petting Beezie. Not if I wanted to live.

  “Yeow!” Beezie wanted us out of his house.

  That made two of us. I inched past him and hurried toward the kitchen.

  Libba, who still clutched her head, followed me.

  “Do you want some ice?” I asked.

  “I want some scotch.”

  There were better ways to kill germs. “I bet they have a tube of antiseptic cream around here somewhere.”

  “To drink, Ellison.”

  Of course. How silly of me. I opened a cabinet and found plates. A second cabinet held glasses. I opened a louvred door and found a pantry. There I found umpteen tins of cat food. I found no scotch.

  I emerged with a tin and opened a drawer, looking for a can opener.

  “You�
�re taking care of the cat first?”

  “I’m hoping if I feed the cat, he’ll let me sneak past him into the living room. I bet that’s where they keep their liquor.”

  Seeing the sense in my plan, Libba opened a drawer. “That thing isn’t a cat. It’s the devil.” She let go of the drawer handle and pointed a shaking finger at me. “The devil, I tell you. All I did was walk inside and it launched itself at my head.”

  “You probably scared it.”

  “Me? I scared the cat?” If looks could kill, the one Libba was giving me would send me to an early grave. “That demon took five years off my life.”

  Laughing would be bad. Maybe even unforgivable. I turned my back on my friend (my quivering lips would not be good for our friendship) and took a cereal bowl from the cabinet. Undoubtedly, Beezie had a bowl of his own—somewhere—but I wasn’t in the mood to search for it. “Have you found the opener?”

  Behind me, Libba slammed something onto the counter. “I could be with Jimmy right now. Instead, I’m here with you and the cat from hell.”

  “And I appreciate that.” I opened the can and spooned Beezie’s food into the bowl. I also wrinkled my nose—cat food smelled.

  “Are you done?”

  “Just a sec.” I rinsed the can and threw it away. Then I put the bowl on the floor and cracked the door to the front hall. “Beezie, are you hungry?”

  Beezie didn’t answer.

  Slowly, carefully, ready to repel any animal that leapt for my head, I tiptoed into the hall.

  No Beezie. But there was an open front door.

  “Hell!”

  “What?” Libba dared to exit the kitchen.

  “We left the front door open.”

  “And?”

  “And the cat’s not here.”

  “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

  “I told Winnie I’d take care of that darned cat. Instead, you traumatized it. Now it might be roaming the neighborhood.”

  “I didn’t want to come in the first place.”

  I closed the door. “Let’s see if Beezie’s inside.”

  “Find that beast? On purpose?”

  “Get yourself a scotch first.” I could be magnanimous. After all, I needed her help.

  With her chin held high, Libba swanned into the living room.

  I poked my head into the dining room. There was no place for a cat (or a demon) to hide.