by Nic Saint
“So he might have kept tabs on me,” said Bellinowski with a shrug. “What can I say? The guy loved his celebrities.”
“And you consider yourself a celebrity, is that it?”
“Something like that,” the mobster said with a grin.
“I sure would like to know what was in those files, Yasir.”
“I couldn’t tell you. Probably a bunch of made-up stuff.”
“There’s also a rumor—”
“Don’t believe everything people tell you, Detective.”
“—that you once loaned some money to Van Wilcox. And when he wasn’t able to pay you back at the rates you like to charge he turned to Dickerson who decided to lean on you with some of the information he collected over the years. So you wiped Wilcox’s slate clean, even if that meant taking a huge loss yourself, and you’ve never forgiven Dickerson.”
“Rumors, rumors,” murmured Bellinowski, looking bored now. “What else have you got?”
“Does this man work for you?” asked Chase, placing a picture of a short guy with a strawberry nose and a purple spot on his upper lip on the table in front of Bellinowski.
He glanced at it. “Possibly. You’d have to ask my personnel manager.”
Bellinowski ran a few clubs in town, one of which, the Club Couture, was currently in vogue with the weekend crowd. He also organized the popular Beach Beats Festival in the summer, which attracted thousands of dance fans.
“What about this guy?” asked Chase, placing down another picture, this one of a tall man with a wispy little mustache.
“Did you really drag me in here to ask me about my staff, Detective? Cause quite frankly I’ve got better things to do.”
“What about this picture?”
Bellinowski glanced at the picture, then frowned. “A rose?”
“You are the current owner of the Happy Petals flower store on Grant Street?”
“You know I am.” For the first time he was looking a little flustered. “Why?”
“I think you know why, Yasir,” said Chase, leaning in. “I don’t know what Dickerson had on you but it must have been enough to make you go after him. So you hired two of your goons to steal a tanker full of duck poop from the Potbelly farm, empty out Dickerson’s safe to make whatever he had on you disappear forever, and then you made him go away forever as well. But not before you made it perfectly clear to him that you were the one that did this, by putting this picture in his safe. So he could have a good think before he died.”
Bellinowski arched an eyebrow. “This is all you got?” He picked up the picture and flicked it from the table. “A picture of a flower? Come on, dude. You can do better than that.” He got up and smoothed out his suit jacket. “Next time you call me in make sure you’ve got a real challenge for me, Detective. This?” He gestured at the file. “Not even the National Star would print this garbage. No, don’t get up. I’ll let myself out.”
Chapter 37
Scarlett Canyon was playing a game of Solitaire. It was the only game installed on the computer in Dr. Tex’s office, and what Vesta must have been playing all these years while she pretended to be hard at work.
Frankly Scarlett was bored. The waiting room was empty. The phone hadn’t rung in ages, and Dr. Tex was ensconced in his office. When she took this job she figured she’d have some fun at Vesta’s expense. But dealing with patients all day long and listening to their sob stories and the details of their illnesses was so tedious she sometimes wanted to scream.
And then there was the fact that she’d been so dumb to volunteer for the job, so she didn’t even get paid to sit here and do the worst and most boring job in the whole world. She’d raised the topic of giving her a contract to Dr. Tex but he seemed immune to her promptings, pretending he didn’t understand.
A part of her had figured that working for a doctor she would get to meet a lot of great guys, that she would flirt a bit and maybe date some of the eligible ones but that hadn’t materialized either. So far all she’d gotten were a bunch of old coots who thought they were God’s gift to women and who ogled her boobs so brazenly she sometimes wished she could punch them in the snoot. But a receptionist didn’t punch patients in the snoot. A receptionist just sat there and beamed and entered appointments into Dr. Tex’s calendar.
No wonder Vesta looked like a shriveled old prune. Sitting in this dumb chair behind this dumb desk listening to dumb stories from dumb sick people would make anyone shrivel up and turn into an old hag. It was happening to her, too. She could feel it. Her face was drying out and new wrinkles were popping up each time she looked in the mirror.
It was bad for her karma, too. All this sickness and disease. Soon it would start to rub off on her and she would get sick herself. How Dr. Tex could stand it she didn’t even know.
The door opened and a new patient walked in. This one looking even more hopeless than the others. She had a bandage wrapped around her head, walked with a distinct stoop, had a pair of sunglasses firmly placed on her nose, and a scarf wrapped around the lower portion of her face. As she approached the desk, she even seemed to stagger.
“Can you please help me?” the woman asked in a weak whisper.
“Do you have an appointment?” Scarlett asked, barely managing to keep the annoyance from her voice.
“I want you to help me,” whispered the pathetic creature.
“Just take a seat and I’ll call the doctor,” she said.
Suddenly the woman opened the old coat she was wearing and revealed the dress she had on underneath. The dress was soaked with blood! “Take a look at this,” croaked the woman. “Does this look normal to you?”
Scarlett was one of those people who hated the sight of blood. In fact she abhorred it. She suddenly felt faint now, and a little woozy. “Is that… blood?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?” asked the woman. “I got up this morning with a pain in my chest. And when I looked there was all of this red stuff coming out of me.”
Scarlett watched, bug-eyed, as the blood seemed to be pouring out of the woman’s chest, pumping steadily, spurt after spurt.
“Just take a look, will you? I don’t feel so good. And if this is blood, why is it coming out of me when it should be staying in? Is that normal behavior for blood you think?”
“Doctor!” Scarlett yelled. “Doctor—I’ve got an emergency!”
“Just give me your best diagnosis,” said the woman. “Is this a bad thing?”
Just then, the woman uttered a gurgling sound, and collapsed on the floor.
“Doctor Tex!” Scarlett was yelling, then ran around the counter and knelt down next to the woman. She didn’t want to put her hands on her—all that blood!—but still had a quick peek. Where did all this blood come from? “Doctor Tex! I need you in here right now!”
And as she peeled back the layers of clothing with her fingernails, more blood pumped out. The woman was bleeding out! On the office floor! What a frickin’ mess!
Suddenly the woman drew down her scarf. Her lips moved. “Come… closer,” she whispered.
Scarlett drew closer.
“You gotta give me mouth-to-mouth,” the dying woman croaked.
Scarlett flapped her arms. “I don’t know how to give mouth to mouth!”
“If you don’t… I’ll die right here… right now,” the woman said weakly.
“Oh, no,” said Scarlett. “Don’t you die on me. Don’t you dare die on me!”
The woman produced a terrible cough, and more blood was pouring out of her chest. “This is the end… Scarlett. You killed me… with your incompetence…”
She stared down at the patient. “What did you just say?”
“If I die now, it’s all your fault, Scarlett. You’re a murderer. You murdered me.”
She narrowed her eyes, then peeled back a layer of clothes and saw a plastic little contraption pinned to the inner layer with a clothespin. She picked at it with her nails and saw that it was a tiny hose, ‘blood’ spurting from it.
With a disgusted sound, she gave it a good yank.
“Hey! You’re going to break the tube!” said Vesta Muffin, for that’s who the patient was. She’d taken off her glasses and was now glowering at Scarlett, who was glowering back.
“You miserable old woman!” Scarlett said.
“Who are you calling old? We’re the same age!”
Scarlett pulled at the plastic thingy and suddenly a baggie popped out from Vesta’s clothes, still half filled with a syrupy red liquid.
“Corn syrup and red food coloring,” said Vesta. “If it’s good enough for Hollywood, it’s good enough for me.”
“How dare you give me a scare like that!”
“I got you good, didn’t I?” said Vesta.
The door to the inner office opened and Tex walked out. “What’s with all the screaming?” When he caught sight of his mother-in-law on the floor, covered in blood, he did a double take. “Vesta? Oh, my God, are you hurt?”
“It’s fake!” Scarlett cried, holding up the bag and plastic tube. “She tricked me!”
“I didn’t trick you—I caught you!” said Vesta, now taking out her phone. “I got the whole thing on tape, missy.” She gestured with the phone. “This is going straight to the FBI. You’re going down for impersonating a doctor and practicing medicine without a license!”
“I wasn’t practicing medicine!” Scarlett screamed. “I was simply trying to help a dying woman!”
“Without a license! You’re going down! This is the end of you!”
“Vesta,” said Tex, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can I see you in my office? Now!”
“Don’t bother,” said Scarlett, grabbing her purse and hiking it up her shoulder. “I’m out of here. Consider this my resignation, Dr. Tex. I’ve had it up to here with this nonsense.” She turned to Vesta. “You won. I hate being a receptionist. I hate the smell of death and decay. I hate the doddering old fools who can’t take their eyes off my chest. I hate the blood and the disease and this boring, GODAWFUL job! Goodbye, Dr. Tex. Have a great life, Vesta.”
And with these words she stalked off towards the door, then out into the world beyond, and immediately felt the rush of relief. It told her she’d done the right thing.
Chapter 38
“Vesta,” said Tex. “This is the final straw. This is…” He gestured to her blood-soaked dress, the blood-soaked floor, the blood-soaked everything. “This is madness.”
Vesta could see how her son-in-law might take a dim view of her actions. But sometimes when a viper enters your world you need to take executive action to drive it out.
“I had to do it, Tex,” she said now. “Scarlett Canyon is bad news. I had to get rid of her.”
“You jeopardized my career! You put in crank calls, sent a bunch of homeless people into the office, promising them free medical care, and now this.” He was clutching at his hair, a clear sign of distress.
“I’m sorry, Tex. But you replaced me with a younger model! How do you think that makes a girl feel?”
He was pinching the bridge of his nose again. “I did not replace you with a younger model. For one thing, you and Scarlett are the same age. And for another, you quit!”
“Because you refused to stand by me. Family always looks out for family, Tex.”
“You quit our family!”
“I told you before. I didn’t quit our family. I just saw an opportunity and I took it. If someone offered you a position on General Hospital wouldn’t you take it, too?”
He was staring at her. “General Hospital is not a hospital. It’s a TV show.”
“Those doctors work hard to save the lives of their patients, Tex. Hard-working, devoted doctor like you would fit right in. And with that full head of hair you look the part, too. You could be the new Dr. Alan Quartermaine. I always like Dr. Quartermaine.”
“Didn’t he die?” asked Tex now. He would never admit it but Vesta knew that he enjoyed the occasional episode of General Hospital. He’d been taping the show for her for as long as she could remember and often sneaked in an episode when he couldn’t sleep.
“Oh, yes, he did, but they got some great surgeons in General Hospital. They just might be able to bring him back. Or replace him with a fine doctor such as yourself, Tex.”
“Why, thanks, Vesta,” he said, standing a little straighter. “I always dreamt of working in a big hospital, you know. I mean, it’s nice to be a small-town doctor, but it does get lonely sometimes. To be able to confer with a colleague. Tackle some of the more challenging cases. It would sure be a great opportunity.”
She patted him on the shoulder. “General Hospital would be happy if they could add you to the roster. Sure, it would be a big loss for Hampton Cove, but they’d live.”
He stared off for a moment, a slight smile on his lips, and she could see him envisioning a future as a hospital doctor—member of an elite staff of the country’s top physicians. Then he blinked and was himself again. “Look, Vesta. Why don’t you come and work for me again? This whole Scarlett business wasn’t working out for me anyhow, and I need a competent receptionist. So what do you say?”
“You mean kiss and make up?”
He grimaced, the kissing part clearly a bridge too far.
“I’m just messing with you, Tex. I don’t say this often but you’re a good man.”
In fact she never said it. You had to be careful with men. Their egos were such that you had to use compliments sparingly, or else you could end up with a blowhard for a son-in-law. Better keep them on a short leash so they didn’t end up being the boss of you.
She pinched him on the cheek. “Sure I’ll be your receptionist again, Tex.”
Tex brightened. “You will?”
“But first I have to clean up the mess this Scarlett woman made,” she said, staring down at the floor, hands on her hips. “What were you thinking when you hired her?”
Probably he wasn’t. That was another thing about men: they took one look at a set of big knockers and they were gone. She looked up just in time to see Tex walk up to her, arms wide.
Uh-oh.
And then he hugged her.
“Let’s leave the past behind us,” he said warmly.
She grimaced. “Uh-huh. Sure, Tex. Let’s.”
As soon as the hug was over, she returned to her desk and Tex returned to his office. And since she was an old lady and didn’t feel like cleaning up Scarlett’s mess, she called the cleaner and told her they’d had a medical emergency and to come round right away.
And as she settled in her chair and started a new game of Solitaire, she thought with a satisfied grunt that life was finally back to normal again. And not a moment too soon, either.
Chapter 39
As we walked along Main Street, admiring its myriad shops and the felines associated with their owners, I had the distinct impression that all was not well in the cat community. A red cat was hissing at a black cat, which was hissing right back, its tail distended to its furthest limit, a Russian Blue was trying to hit a Siamese across the ear, a Scottish Fold was cowering before a British Shorthair, who stood thrusting out its chest with a sneer on its lips, and a Sphynx cat was running circles around a Turkish Angora.
Gazing out at this battlefield from his perch on his owner’s checkout counter was Kingman, shaking his head at so much feline folly.
“What’s going on, Kingman?” asked Dooley as we joined the store owner’s piebald.
“Madness,” said Hampton Cove’s feline Nestor. “Pure madness.” Then he directed an irritated look at me. “Is it true that you called me a pompous old windbag, Max?”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” I said, rolling my eyes. “No, I did not!”
“Milo’s been here, hasn’t he?” said Dooley.
“He’s the one who told me,” said Kingman. “I practically couldn’t believe my ears.”
“So don’t,” I advised my friend. “Milo is a mythomaniac, Kingman.”
“That’s almost the same as a nymphomania
c,” Dooley added knowingly.
“He makes stuff up so he can create trouble between cats.”
“And humans, too,” said Dooley. “Remember what he told Odelia about you?”
I did. The cat was a menace. I spread my paws. “All this is Milo,” I told Kingman. “All this fighting and bickering is his doing. He’s been hard at work tearing up the social fabric of our once peaceful and loving cat community.”
“Well, maybe not all that loving,” said Kingman dubiously. “I distinctly remember Shanille once calling me a braggart simply because I told her Wilbur gives me foie gras from time to time—only as a treat,” he quickly added when I cocked a surprised whisker at him, “and only ethical foie gras, where the birds aren’t forced to gorge, of course.”
“Of course,” I said. We might be cats but that doesn’t mean we’re animals.
One of the cat fights on the street had escalated into a minor war, with two cats coming to blows. Usually when cats fight one cat will hold up its paw and make to hit the other one, then doesn’t. The other cat then returns the favor. Almost like a beautiful ballet.
There was nothing beautiful about the skirmish that had now broken out, though. These cats were whizzing around in a circle, a maelstrom of yowling and screeching and fur flying when nails hit their marks.
“Oh, enough already!” bellowed Kingman, and descended from his throne. He pranced up to the two cats, slapped one with his left paw and one with his right, then said, “Stop it, you two! You should be ashamed of yourselves, Shanille and Harriet!”
Only now that the whirring movement had stopped did I finally get a good look at the cats involved in the fight and to my astonishment Kingman was right: they were our very own Harriet and the conductor of cat choir, now both panting and missing a few patches of fur. Shanille even had a nasty scratch on her nose which was bleeding profusely.
“Explain yourselves,” Kingman said, now fully assuming the role of a King Solomon.
“She’s trying to seduce my boyfriend!” Harriet panted.