by Kate Flora
I might be ignoring my phone, but Andre was working his, getting an update from the hospital, checking that a crime scene team was on their way to our basement, checking on Mrs. Ames, touching base with his boss, Jack Leonard, and with other detectives. As we turned in at the hospital, he disconnected and sighed.
"A vacation is looking really good right now."
"Beach. Warmth. Mai tais." I had the bikini and the cover-up. But I'd have to do some shopping. Without Suzanne's periodic wardrobe replenishments, which she no longer had time for, even my tee shirts were tired.
"You in a bikini," he said. "Oh yes."
That was as far as our planning got. Once he went through the door, he was all business, and I was relegated to a chair in the waiting room. A very dangerous place to be. People around me were bleeding and coughing and moaning. A baby was screaming and its exhausted mother looked like she wanted to throw herself in front of a bus. Across from me, a red-faced toddler in pink overalls was having a meltdown while the woman I assumed was her mother alternately thumbed through a worn magazine and was consoled by the miserable looking man sitting beside her. Neither one of them paid attention to the child.
A sad and skinny old man perched on his chair and rocked, his face a gray mask of pain. Just looking at him made my shoulder ache more. The hateful Randy had landed a serious punch. I hadn't looked at it, but the bruise felt like it was the size of softball. I could hear Suzanne's voice—other people didn't get themselves punched by bad guys—but I couldn't see how this was in any way my fault.
I'd forgotten how much I hated emergency rooms. I've spent far too many hours of my life in places like this, usually when I'm hurting. I've sworn to leave all that behind me. I'd come along because Andre needed to know I was safe, but this swarm of germs and misery didn't make me feel safe at all. It made me feel like a Lilliputian in a petri dish. With Suzanne sidelined, I couldn't afford to get sick.
I also had to fight my "Thea will fix it" impulses. I wanted to rock the baby, pull that weary toddler onto my lap and read to her. Tuck a blanket around the sad gray man and get him a warm cup of tea. Lately, it seemed, I couldn't fix anything. Instead, everywhere I went, chaos ensued.
I tried to take my mind out of here but it was emblematic of my life that there was no place I could go that wasn't almost as bad. Work. The apartment. House hunting. Avoiding my mother. The one bright spot was Jonetta. Seeing her had been a pleasant interlude. Jonetta makes me feel grounded, supported, and safe. Inspired by all that she does. But thinking about Jonetta led to Stafford and that led me to the picture on the bathroom wall. The photograph that looked so much like Ginger and that might be fifteen years old. The timing was right. Fifteen years ago, that could have been Ginger.
In all the commotion, I'd forgotten to send it to Roland and Andre. I'd do that now. Maybe they'd tell me I was crazy. Maybe they'd want to follow up. Even if the photographer decided not to respond to me, he wasn't likely to blow off an official call from the police. It seemed like such a long shot. Why would that be a picture of Ginger? Stafford Academy types didn't generally steal identities and come to live in Maine. But I was generalizing, which was never a good idea, as Andre liked to remind me. Probably Stafford Academy types did all sorts of rulebreaking things. Like selling designer drugs and expecting your parents to bail you out. Or nearly dying from careless drug use.
So much for not checking my phone. Once I took it out to send that picture, I also checked my messages. Anything was better than sitting here aimlessly amidst all this misery. I bent over the screen to see what the end of the day had brought and never got beyond the first message.
Crap. It had brought crap in the form of an urgent message from Jonetta. After she and I left, Alyce Crimmons's parents had started worrying about the effects any suspension, even an on-campus one, might have on their daughter's college choices. Under pressure from them, the administration—that is Joel, since Jonetta thought the board hadn't been consulted—was reconsidering the decisions already made. She'd learned this from a call with Johnny, who'd been talking with Alyce. She had called in to Reeve and Joel, but no one had called her back, and she was worried about everything reverting to some deal using Johnny as the scapegoat. She couldn't take another day off to drive up there and sort them out again. We needed to talk.
My heart sank. I'd had enough conflict today, but this would have to be dealt with. It would take energy and focus when right now I was flattened by the after-effects of adrenaline. When it leaves, it goes like a bad date, leaving weariness and bad feelings behind.
I checked my watch. Jonetta had called me hours ago. Mickey's big hand was edging toward the six and his little hand was halfway between eight and nine. I needed to know if anyone had called her back. I said a prayer to the gods of good sense that they had, that they had stood firm, and that I wouldn't have to make that awful drive again. I kissed my lingering hopes for a decent dinner goodbye. Unless Andre reappeared in the next fifteen minutes or so, our chances of finding an open restaurant were small.
I went outside, where cell phones were permitted, and called Jonetta back.
The first thing she said, when she answered, was, "I'd like to knock their pointy little heads together."
"Does that mean they did you call you back, they called you back with bad news, or they didn't call?"
"Didn't call."
Bad news and very bad form. It meant Reeve was back under Joel's thumb, Joel was using his other thumb to thumb his nose at us, arrogantly demonstrating his lack of good sense, and that what Jonetta feared might happen would happen unless we jointly put some pressure on them. It was also infuriating that neither of them had called me to consult, when we'd spent so much time on the phone and then with the trustees crafting a strategy. Yesterday, Reeve had thought it perfectly okay to call me repeatedly and at any hour when he was desperate for my help. Had they already forgotten that? Did he, or more likely Joel, really believe that smoothing the way for Alyce Crimmons solved all their problems? Could he be that blind and stupid?
I felt like punching something—a very unladylike reaction—but this one had practically been put to bed. I wasn't keen on having it lurch back to life like a Zombie. I kind of liked the notion of Zombie Academy, though. Briefly, because dealing with reality was becoming such a pain, I toyed with the notion of giving up my fun and fabulous consulting career and writing Zombie novels. A fleeting thought. Zombies are pretty much yesterday's news. Most people have already stocked their trunks with anti-zombie essentials in case of the apocalypse and are ready to move on.
"Johnny told you this? He called you?"
"Yes. He's scared. He was fine with the on-campus suspension. Now he's not sure what's going to happen."
"What time was that?"
"Around five."
The wheels were turning. Had Reeve and Joel used me to settle the Crimmons down and get a Board of Trustees decision, then waited for the Trustees to leave and changed the game plan? Was Charlotte Ainsley in the dark? Was this an example of the kind of flouting the chain of command and impulsive decision-making that had led to a lax situation on the campus, or was she a part of this? I couldn't believe she'd okay Joel's unilateral changing of a board decision, however much she liked him. It seemed unlikely, but at EDGE, we've seen things like this happen before—arrogant or careless people under pressure making impulsive decisions without thinking them through.
I was tired of convincing people to act in their own best interest. I was tired of the word tired. I was tired of being so whiny and dull and complaining. Time to stop being such a Debbie Downer and rediscover my inner little Mary Sunshine.
Sometimes a client school went off the rails despite our good advice. When that happened, our concern was the possibility that when things went badly wrong, they'd claim they'd called in the pros to advise them and try to lay off the blame on us. We'd seen it happen before. Schools refusing to take our advice and making their situations worse and then trying to lay the blame o
n EDGE. I needed to make it very clear that couldn't be the case here.
"Have you talked to Johnny since?"
"Of course. No one has said anything to him. About the suspension or anything else."
Feeling a bit like a backstairs conspirator, I said, "Have him call Alyce and see what he can learn. I'll try Joel and Reeve and if they aren't answering, I'll call Charlotte Ainsley."
"Give 'em hell," she said.
"I'll do my best."
"All I can ask," she said. We disconnected.
It was freezing out here. There's little more depressing than a hospital entrance at night. The few people out here with me were sucking on cigarettes like the things were life savers instead of life takers, or huddled over their cell phones delivering bad news or updates to those who were absent. It felt bleak and dismal.
If I'd had my car, I could have gotten in, turned on the heated seat, and made my calls from there. I didn't have the keys to Andre's car and no idea where he'd gone. I dropped down on a granite bench, knowing it would freeze my ass in no time, and dialed Joel's number.
It went to voice mail.
Then I called Reeve and it went to voice mail again. I left messages on both phones and then scrolled back through my call log to see if I had any other numbers for Reeve. Aha! I did. Because I now suspected he might be ducking me, I went looking for that increasingly elusive device—the pay phone. Sometimes that worked. Despite all the modern features on our phones that allow people to avoid each other on devices designed to allow us to reach each other, there's still a hardwired instinct to answer the phone, especially when the caller's identity is unknown. Especially when those calls come late in the evening. No one calls late in the evening unless it's an emergency.
Bingo. He answered. It took willpower not to yell my "aha!" in his cowardly ear. "Just checking in to make sure everything is still going smoothly and there aren't any glitches in the plans we made before I sign off for the day," I said. My nose grew at least an inch.
"Well... we... uh... we've made, Joel has made... a few alterations to... that is, we're not exactly running with that plan. We're thinking more along the lines of taking another look at Johnny's involvement."
My heart sank even as my temper flared. "There's nothing else to look at, Reeve. We already know everything there is to know about Alyce and Johnny's respective involvements, directly from them."
"Yes," he said, "well, we're not so sure that we've heard the whole story."
"What else do you think you need to know, Reeve? And what alterations are you thinking of making?"
There was a long silence. "Suspending her and expelling him."
I counted to ten. Then to twenty, deleting many excellent expletives.
"Listen to me very carefully," I said. "If you do... if Joel goes ahead with this, with or without board approval... between the bad publicity and Johnny's lawsuit, never mind the likelihood of never attracting another quality minority student to the school... he, and you... are making the biggest mistake of your respective careers." I spoke slowly and precisely, making sure he got the message.
I gave it a beat. "You do know that, right?"
"I just... we just... Joel is concerned that this will—"
"Have a negative impact on Alyce's future? Not if you handle it the way we agreed. Reeve, have you thought this through? She's admitted she was the one who bought the drugs and brought them to campus and arranged the deal. All Johnny did was deliver them at her request."
"Yes, but..."
"There is no but." I desperately wanted to tell him to get his head out of his ass, but it would have been unprofessional.
"What about Johnny's future? Have you thought about that? Or doesn't he matter if he doesn't come with a staff of lawyers and assistants? Of course, after all the publicity and the lawsuit, he'll probably land on his feet, which is more than I can say for Stafford Academy."
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. It was unfair that Reeve had to have this conversation. It should have been Joel. Joel ought to have bent over backward to avoid more trouble and ensure he was forgiven. But he wasn't taking calls. As far as I was concerned, they were still in an emergency situation and he needed to be available to handle it. But I thought it likely that he was only not taking, or returning, calls from me and Jonetta. Which was stupid. Only a fool got on Jonetta's wrong side. Especially in a situation involving a minority student. The kind of bad press they would get if they laid this off onto a minority student and let a privileged princess walk? It would be such a disaster.
"Seriously, Reeve," I said. "You have no response? Have you considered the risks? The fairness? Whether this is even consistent with the school's own written policies? And what about going against a vote of the board?"
"Joel thinks it's what we should do." Like someone who can't or won't think for himself.
"Your school. Your decision. Just understand that EDGE can't work with Stafford if you won't listen to our advice. If you go behind my back and change things after the trustees have agreed without even consulting me, it's not just damaging to the school's reputation, it's damaging to mine."
Damaging to our bottom line, too, but if we didn't have standards, and protect our reputation, our bottom line would suffer in bigger ways. EDGE had to be perceived as giving solid, reliable advice to clients in trouble. We couldn't afford the world we worked in to think we'd advised the disastrous course Stafford was embarking on.
I sucked in some air, trying to keep my voice level and calm, grateful that I wasn't in the same room with him right now. Otherwise I might have a second broken nose on my conscience. Two broken noses in one day? And I knew too well what it felt like to have my nose broken.
"If you proceed in the way you've just described, in a manner that is grossly unfair to the minority student involved and that goes against the known facts in the statements of the students themselves—and targeting the one with the lesser involvement with the greater penalty—EDGE will terminate our connection with Stafford and make it clear why we did. And consider yourself on notice that if you make any representations that these new decisions were advised by or sanctioned by us, our denials will be loud, clear, and very public."
I hung up.
Chapter 18
I needed to call Jonetta back. Instead, I huddled on the icy bench. I didn't know what to say. Telling her the school was screwing around and I was pissed wouldn't be helpful. She still had to protect Johnny from their blundering—a real live human being who needed her help—while my job was, or had been, to protect our client's reputation and now was becoming one of protecting our own.
After my endless day, the unpleasant conversation with Reeve left me feeling like someone had drained off most of my blood. I put the phone away and stared out into the parking lot. My shoulder ached. I was so hungry my stomach was singing the blues and a headache was joining my other miseries. It happens when I get overtired and don't eat. Right now, my to-do list was very short: call Jonetta. Find food.
My phone rang as I was reaching for it. Reeve. I let him go to voice mail. If he was coming to his senses, it wouldn't hurt to let him stew a bit. If he'd called back to argue, I wasn't interested.
Behind me, I heard the automatic doors open and the scuffle of feet as two people with lowered voices headed for the parking lot. As they passed me, I saw, just beyond them, a flash of pink. They were oblivious, heads together in some private grief, as the small girl from the waiting room streaked past them toward the parking lot. She was moving fast, bent on escape, too little to pay attention to the ambulance that was flying toward her, sirens on and light flashing.
I jammed the phone into my pocket as I streaked to my feet, dashing past the slow-moving couple and into the street. I grabbed the child with no seconds to spare, swinging her out of the way and landing hard, my hip slamming into the curb, as the ambulance finally came to a stop fifteen feet away. A man's furious face glared at me from the passenger window. Despite obviously being some kin
d of medical professional, his words were not "Are you okay?" or "Is she okay?" but "You stupid bitch. You nearly got your child killed." He didn't bother to exit the vehicle to find out if we were okay.
I was blinking away tears from the pain as I tried to comfort the terrified child when a familiar voice from behind me exploded, "And if you hadn't been driving too fast, my wife wouldn't have had to rescue the child. Who... is... not... hers!"
My knight in shining armor. As he bent over me, words of concern pouring out, I handed him the little pink bundle. He had many nieces and nephews and far more experience with children. Despite her wails and angry red face, she was a tiny, adorable creature with sweaty blonde curls and deep brown eyes.
"Her parents are in the waiting room."
The image of my handsome husband, who so desperately wanted a child, holding this one brought on the tears I'd been holding back.
"Thea. Are you okay?" He extended his free hand and pulled me to my feet.
"My hip hurts. I think it's just bruised."
It had better be just bruised. I didn't have the time or inclination to submit myself to medical ministrations. The attitude of the guy in the ambulance pretty much summed up my experience with emergency rooms and medical interventions. All sweetness and light and reassurance. All care and comfort and billing a thousand dollars for a bandage. In my short, sweet life I've had more stitches than a baby quilt.
Self-diagnosing, I concluded that I needed a good meal, a soft bed, and at least eight uninterrupted hours of sleep. Maybe a couple of Advil. A shot of strong whiskey. Somewhere on the prescription pad there was also Andre and chocolate cake.
Andre looked like he wanted to drag me into the ER. I wasn't going. "Are we done here?" I asked.
"Almost."
I hoped his 'almost' referred to handing off the little runaway, and not further business with the evil Randy. I knew Andre would want to take a minute to ream the ambulance guy and hoped he wouldn't. Reaming might be in order, but I wanted to be out of here. Right. Now.