“Such a good friend, but not such a great boyfriend,” he said. “If you ever change your mind . . .”
“I’ll know right where to find you. I’ll knock on the cubicle wall.”
“Actually, that was something else I needed to talk to you about.” Kevin shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Mr. Cooper—I mean, my father—invited me over for a family barbecue the other day. That was a little awkward, but the upshot is this. He wants me to take an assistant editor job, working directly with him. And that leaves the position of crime reporter open. Are you interested? The pay’s not great, but I think it’s about ten percent more than you’re making now with all your part-time jobs.”
“This could cost you,” Eden said. “You’ve got Chinese delivery wages to beat, you know.”
“I talked that all over with Mr. Cooper—um, my father—and we discussed a salary that took that into consideration.”
“That’s not a typical reporter’s salary,” she pointed out.
“You’re not a typical reporter,” he returned.
“Well, that’s true.” She thought for a second—a very short second—and then smiled. “I’ll take the job.”
“Good. I’ll tell my father in the morning.”
Eden looked toward the window, where the faintest streaks of light were making their way across the sky. “It’s almost morning now.”
“I’ll tell him after a really long nap.” Kevin reached out and took her hand. “Are you okay?”
“If you don’t count being scared out of my mind several times tonight, I’m great. How about you?”
He smiled. “The same.”
“Think the boss will give us some time off to recover?”
“I think we can probably arrange something.” Kevin leaned in a little and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek. “Good job, Eden.”
As they stepped back into Ida Mae’s room, Ida Mae motioned for Eden to come over. She held up a letter.
“Do you remember that question I asked Ren?”
Eden blushed. She wished she’d never asked Ren’s aunt how he felt about her.
“He thinks you’re beautiful,” Ida Mae whispered.
24
“So, you’ve got to tell me what happened with the wheelchair,” Dr. Farmer said.
Ida Mae suspected he was just trying to take her mind off the fact that he was using a buzz saw to cut off her cast, and he probably didn’t really want to hear the whole story, but she told him anyway. His eyes grew wider the more she talked, and at one point he let the saw dangle in his fingers, unused. Okay, it wasn’t a buzz saw, but anything with sharp edges, coming at one’s arm, is bound to raise alarm, Ida Mae decided.
“How did Dr. Greene get his hands on the money?” he asked.
“Dr. Greene told Debbie he’d help her set up online bill pay,” Ida Mae replied. “She’s good at public relations, but she’s not so great with math or finance, and it was easy for him to set up some bogus accounts and make her think they were real. As she went online and paid her bills each month, she was sending money to Dr. Greene’s accounts, all the while thinking she was paying for food or repairs or other services the center needed.”
“And because the insurance was overpaying, she didn’t notice money missing from her budget?” Dr. Farmer asked.
“That’s right. Dr. Greene overcharged the insurance, Debbie unknowingly sent the money to Dr. Greene, and it was actually a pretty clever setup until Dr. Brent figured it out.”
“And you got all that from a wheelchair?”
“Well, the chair helped. We did have other pieces of evidence.”
Dr. Farmer shook his head and glanced over at Arlette, who sat in the corner. He seemed to want her to contradict the story Ida Mae had just shared, but of course she didn’t. It was all true.
Turning his attention back to Ida Mae’s casts, he removed them with skill and efficiency, a process that didn’t turn out to be nearly as frightening as Ida Mae had led herself to believe it would be.
“And that takes care of it!” He lifted the last piece of plaster from Ida Mae’s wrist, and she wiggled her fingers experimentally. Her toes, still painted crimson, were also free, and she couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Feels good, I bet,” Arlette said.
Ida Mae laughed again. “It feels more than good. I’m like a new woman.”
“Now, Ida Mae, I have to caution you,” Dr. Farmer said. “You must treat yourself gently. These bones are still fragile, and your overall structure is weakening due to age. No more falling down stairs or slipping in tubs. Do I make myself clear?”
Ida Mae nodded. Kevin had come out to the house and installed some safety rails here and there, including in the bathroom. She didn’t like the way the rails messed up her décor, but he said he’d come back out and paint them so they matched.
“Arlette, are you still checking in on Ida Mae?” Dr. Farmer asked.
“I’ve been like her shadow.”
Ida Mae bit her lip. Arlette had been the loudest, most complaining shadow in the history of all shadowdom, but she’d also been loyal, true, and absolutely dependable. Ida Mae wouldn’t trade her in for anything.
“I think we’ll all set, then. I’ll expect to see you for a follow-up.” Dr. Farmer left the room, calling out to the nurse to schedule an appointment in the near future.
“Are you ready to go?” Arlette asked.
“I’m more than ready. I was born ready.”
“Then you’ve been waiting a long time,” Arlette said.
“You’d better watch it with those age jokes,” Ida Mae warned. “You’re not too far behind me, you know.”
“As long as you’re leading the way, the jokes will keep coming,” Arlette retorted.
“Well, at least my view changes from time to time. As long as you’re following me, yours never will.” Ida Mae reached out and caught Arlette in a spontaneous hug. “I love you, ornery old woman.”
“I love you too, Ida Mae.” Arlette returned the hug. “But I’ll deny it if I’m ever asked.”
They walked out to the van, Ida Mae relishing every step she took under her own steam. “It just feels so good to be alive.” She inhaled deeply. “I’ll never take my arms and legs for granted again.”
“What’s next on your list of nefarious activities?” Arlette asked. “Planning to infiltrate the mob? Rob a bank? Carry off a jewel heist?”
“No,” Ida Mae replied. “I’m going back to Shady Aspens.”
“Whatever for?”
Ida Mae smiled. “I have a date with a man named George.”
About the Author
Tristi Pinkston is the author of over a hundred published books written both as herself and as her pen name, Amelia C. Adams. She’s the mother of four wonderful children, the wife of one very patient man, and the taker of innumerable naps. If she’s not reading, writing, or editing, she enjoys watching good movies and ignoring her housework.
You can learn more about her at www.tristipinkston.com, and she can be reached at [email protected].
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