Fatally Flaky gbcm-15

by Diane Mott Davidson

  But it was not Lucas. To my astonishment, Charlotte Attenborough, Craig Miller, and Bridezilla Billie all swept into Jack’s room. Charlotte was still wearing her mother-of-the bride outfit, but Billie had changed into a navy blue skirt and paisley blouse. Craig looked as dapper as ever in khaki pants and a maroon shirt. But why were they here? What the hell was going on?

  “What do you want?” I asked, suddenly angry that they would see Jack looking so vulnerable.

  “Shut up, Goldy,” Billie scolded.

  “Shut up yourself,” I replied. “Jack doesn’t want to see you, trust me.” As if in complete assent to what I was saying, Jack let loose with a mighty groan.

  “You see, Goldy?” Charlotte’s voice was triumphant. “He does indeed want to see us, or at least me, because I am the one he really, really loves—”

  “We just wanted to check up on you, old boy,” Craig said with exaggerated cheer. “I told Billie there was no way we could go back to the reception right after you’d been hurt so badly—”

  In response, Jack picked up the pencil and finally, finally scribbled something. His hand shaking, he passed the pad to Craig. Billie grabbed the pad first. She read aloud, “‘Go on your honeymoon’. You see, Craig, I told you the old coot would be just fine.” She tossed the pad back on Jack’s chest, and he moaned in pain.

  Omigod, I hated this woman. But I wasn’t going to upset Jack any more than necessary. My godfather’s two previous heart attacks loomed large in my mind.

  “Do you miss me, Jack?” Charlotte asked. To my astonishment, tears pooled in her eyes and spilled onto the hospital sheets. “Do you want me to stay? I will, you know. I’ll stay forever.”

  She must be drunk, I concluded. I hadn’t seen how much booze people had imbibed at the reception, although I usually kept a close check on the alcohol consumption. I’d had too many buffets and cakes ruined by inebriated guests not to know when to tell the bartender to slow things down. But too much had been going on at Billie’s wedding. There had been half again as many guests as I usually had to deal with, and too much had happened in too short a time.

  “Don’t you want me to stay?” Charlotte demanded of Jack. “I will, you know.” Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. “Jack,” Charlotte implored, “won’t you even look at me?”

  In reply, Jack moaned and kept his eyes closed.

  “He might be in pain,” Craig Miller said. “Perhaps it would be best if we left.”

  “Why does she get to stay, then?” Billie demanded, pointing at me. The fact that she’d changed her mind about wanting to go on her honeymoon hadn’t seemed to occur to her. Billie should be a politician, I thought, she flip-flopped so often.

  “Come on, everybody,” Craig said, finally showing a bit of leadership ability. “Charlotte? Billie?” He gave his new wife a penetrating look. Billie, demure in the face of—spare me—actual authority she respected, flounced out. Charlotte, sobbing, followed her.

  “Craig?” I asked, once the two women were in the hall. “Why did all of you come down here?”

  “Charlotte insisted,” he said, shaking his head. “She’s had too much to drink, as you can no doubt tell, and I didn’t want her to drive. So we all came.” Behind us, Jack groaned again. Craig gave him a worried glance. “Should I get the nurse?”

  “I don’t think so. He has the call button right next to him, and he knows what to do if he’s in pain. He’s trying to communicate something, but I don’t know what. He seems confused.”

  Craig’s face scrunched in alarm. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “I’ll go ask him,” I said. “But if you could just take Charlotte and Billie away, I think that would be the best thing.”

  Craig nodded and swept out.

  “Jack?” I asked him. “Do you need the nurse? Do you want pain medication?”

  This time his head shaking was unequivocal. He did not want the nurse or meds. But what did he want?

  As if in answer, Jack’s hand went to the legal pad. Swift and sure, he wrote a word, then tapped on the paper for me to come see.

  He’d written “Keys.”

  “You want your keys?” I prompted.

  Jack, looking confused again, wrote “Fin.”

  But the door was opening. No wonder people said they couldn’t get any rest in the hospital. Jack quickly tore off the piece of paper, handed it to me, and gestured to the hospital closet.

  “Oh, Dad,” said Lucas. “Did she finally leave you in peace?”

  Next to the closet, with Jack’s piece of paper in my hand, I froze. As if in answer to Lucas, Jack let out his most fearsome groan yet. I pushed the paper into my pants pocket and turned around. Instead of meeting a chilly stare from Lucas, I saw him leaning over the bed, trying to read what Jack was writing now.

  “Pain?” Lucas asked. “They just put morphine into your drip, Dad, I don’t think—”

  But Jack groaned again, and Lucas, cursing, took off through the door. As soon as he was gone, I opened the closet and began showing Jack pieces of his clothing.

  Jacket? He shook his head impatiently, and sure enough, there were no keys in either pocket. Shirt? No keys. When I held up the pants, Jack grunted, and I felt in each of the pockets. Finally, I pulled out his bundle of keys. They were covered with a gritty substance. Jack nodded, so I put the keys into my pocket, next to the piece of paper.

  “Okay, here we are,” Lucas said as he reentered with a uniformed male companion. Doctor? Nurse? I had no idea. Nor did Jack seem to care, as he just closed his eyes again.

  “I’ll be going,” I announced. Jack’s eyes didn’t flicker. “Get well soon,” I called to him. He didn’t open his eyes.

  THE NEXT MORNING, our doorbell clanged very early. It was so early, in fact, that as I stared at our bedroom clock, I was convinced that the alarm had gone off by accident. It was not quite half past five.

  Tom was not beside me. So he’d gone in extra early to work on the Finn case? Where was he?

  The doorbell continued to ring. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, trying to remember the events of the night before. When I’d come home from the hospital, I’d found a note Arch had left me. Since Todd and his family were on their way to a fishing trip, he and Gus were going to the Rockies game with Gus’s grandparents, then staying at Gus’s place. He would call.

  Not continue to press and press and press the doorbell. Cursing mightily, I pulled on a robe and half-raced, half-tripped down the stairs.

  My peephole revealed Father Pete. His gray face was unusually somber; his clerical collar was as tight as a noose.

  Oh, God, I thought. It’s bad news about Jack.

  My mind immediately developed into denial. Didn’t Father Pete have to go get ready for church? No, wait, it was Monday, not Sunday…

  I opened the door and avoided our priest’s eyes. “Father Pete, I don’t understand—”

  “Let’s go into the living room, Goldy.”

  I wished desperately for coffee, for Father Pete not to be here. But I moved into the living room anyway, and turned on two lamps. When Father Pete sat heavily in a wing chair, I lowered myself onto the edge of the couch.

  My denial threatened to slither away. “I don’t want to hear bad news,” I said weakly.

  Father Pete’s eyes were filled with sadness. I cursed inside. I cursed and cursed, waiting for his announcement. “I’m sorry, Goldy, I do have bad news. Very bad, I’m afraid. Your godfather, Jack Carmichael, died last night. He had a heart attack.”

  17

  I’m very sorry, Goldy,” Father Pete said. I blinked and blinked at him. “Would you like me to come sit next to you?”

  “No.” My voice sounded disembodied.

  “I’m so sorry, Goldy.”

  “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe something has happened to Jack,” I said. In the distant reaches of my brain, a tiny voice said, Yeah, but he’d had two heart attacks already, he was a smoker, and he looked like hell when you saw him. Why are
you surprised? I told the inner voice to shut up. “There’s been some mistake,” my actual voice said weakly. “An error. I just saw him a few hours ago. He was getting better.”

  “I know, I know.” Father Pete’s voice seemed to be coming from far away. “But he had a history of heart attacks, and—”

  “Who called you?” I whispered.

  “Lucas,” Father Pete said gently, keeping his large eyes on me. He leaned forward in the chair. “Lucas was with Jack when he died. The hospital staff tried and tried to revive him, but it was just too sudden and too strong an attack—”

  I groaned.

  “I couldn’t reach Tom,” Father Pete persisted. “But one of his associates said he’d find him and tell him to come home. Meanwhile, I called Marla, and she’ll be over here shortly. She’s going to stay with you until Tom gets here.”

  “Are you wanting me to help with funeral arrangements?” I asked.

  “Goldy. Eventually, we can talk about that, if you want.” Father Pete’s big, brown, Greek eyes regarded me. “I know how much he meant to you, and how much you meant to him. He often told me—”

  “Please, don’t. Not now.” Tears were sliding down my face, but I was as unaware of where they had come from as I was aware of my irrational desire to get Father Pete out of our house. I made a fist and pushed it against my closed mouth.

  “I will call you later.” Father Pete stood up. “Again, Goldy, please know how very sorry I am. Marla is supposed to phone me and tell me whether or not you want meals sent in.”

  I took a deep breath and removed my fist from my lips. “I don’t want or need food.” Then I forced myself to say, “Thank you.”

  “Goldy.” Father Pete was hovering next to the couch. I didn’t want to look at him, so I closed my eyes. “You need to take time to grieve. I will be at the church if you need me. Call anytime. If I’m not at the church, you can call my cell…”

  I said, “Thank you.” I forced myself up, and wordlessly saw Father Pete out.

  The front door closed behind him with a soft chook.

  I waited for something to happen, but nothing did. A car rumbled by outside, then another. I went back out to the living room and sat down. When Father Pete had been here, the light in the living room had been wan, the illumination of early morning darkened by the incessant cloud cover that had marked the unending rain.

  When I stood up again, I still felt as if it wasn’t quite my body that was moving, not really my own hands that were punching the espresso machine. I pulled myself four shots, added an ounce of Irish whiskey, then drank that down straight, no cream.

  Then I moved without thinking over to one of the kitchen cabinets Tom had installed. I opened it and pulled out a large crystal bowl, an item I’d splurged on after Jack had sent me his generous check. I looked at it in my hands, then let it fall to the floor, where it crashed and broke into smithereens.

  By the time Marla pounded on our front door, I almost had the mess cleaned up. I would have been ashamed to tell her what I was doing, or what I had done, so I took an extra few seconds to wet a paper towel, then wiped up the last of the shards. “Just a second, just a second,” I said under my breath. But Marla would not quit banging.

  “Sheesh!” I said. “I’m alive, if that’s what you were worried about.”

  Marla, who wore a sparkly purple sweat suit, lifted an eyebrow as she appraised my bathrobe, tear-streaked face, and, I saw too late, a cut on my foot that had left bloody streaks in the hallway.

  “Barely alive, apparently.” She used her plump self to push the door all the way open, then pointed at my foot and the scarlet trail back to the kitchen. “I’ve heard of stigmata, but this is ridiculous.”

  I couldn’t help myself: I laughed.

  Marla, meanwhile, had made her way to the kitchen, where she was assessing the damage. “Okay!” she called. “This is interesting. What did you break?” I started to walk toward her. Suddenly my right foot hurt like the dickens.

  “A bowl. A crystal—”

  Marla turned back toward me and held up her hand. “Stop where you are. I’m going to get a wet washcloth, some alcohol or peroxide or something, and have a look at that foot.”

  Truly, she is a great friend, I thought as I sat on the hall floor and waited for her to come back. The tears were still slipping down my face, and I was snuffling, trying to catch my breath.

  “Denial, anger, bargaining, grief, acceptance,” said Marla as she inspected my foot and used the washcloth to gently remove a sliver of glass. She’d filled a large porcelain serving bowl with warm water and dipped my foot into it, then blotted the foot with—typically Marla—a cotton ball soaked with Irish whiskey. “Sorry, this was all I could find in a hurry. All right, where was I? You, o psychology major, should know about those stages of grief, brought to you courtesy of Dr. Elizabeth Kübler-Ross.” She patted my foot dry and placed a bandage on the worst cut. “I’d say the broken bowl was anger. Father Pete called my cell, as he was convinced you were still stuck in denial. You’re moving along quickly, you precocious girl.”

  I couldn’t help the high-pitched giggle that escaped my lips. “Marla, don’t make me laugh.”

  “No way. But what I am going to make you do is go take a shower. Go on, I’ll clean the kitchen floor, as you missed a few spots. Then you’re going to make me something to eat, because I am ravenous.” She leaned in to my face and I recoiled. “You’ve been drinking,” she accused.

  “Not much. Just—”

  “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I may have to get half lit just to do some mopping. Say, how do you use a mop, anyway?”

  “Marla, stop—”

  “I will if you’ll just get your butt upstairs and hop into the shower. When you come back down, I’ll inspect your foot and make sure I don’t need to take you in for stitches.”

  Southwest Hospital, I thought, as my throat closed again. I wasn’t sure I was up to going back there anytime soon.

  I ran the hot water, took my shower, which actually did help me feel better, and got dressed in a clean polo shirt and much-laundered sweatpants. A breeze ruffled the curtain and I walked over to the window. I couldn’t help it: I looked out, across the street to Jack’s house.

  He’d wanted to start his renovation on the outside, although Tom and I tried to dissuade him from doing so. It had snowed off and on all through April in Aspen Meadow, as it always did. Jack, ever cheerful, had said okay, he was willing to wait until summer to work on his house, after I’d told him for the umpteenth time that we didn’t really have “spring” in the mountains. So off Jack had gone with Doc Finn, who’d promised to teach Jack ice fishing. Occasionally, they brought their catch to us, and along with Arch, the five of us had some merry pan-fried-trout suppers, with Jack holding forth on how much fun it was to spend cold days with Doc Finn.

  “We’re just two old farts who like to drink and fish, not necessarily in that order,” Jack said, with a wide smile. “We get too plastered, Gertie Girl? We can just walk across the street and sleep at my place.”

  “You have beds with sheets on them for you and Finn?” I asked. “Because you can always stay here.”

  “Oh, dear godchild,” Jack had said with mock ruefulness. “The things you don’t know about me.” When I’d given him a puzzled expression, he’d gone on: “Of course I have beds with clean linens.”

  I sighed, not wanting to think about what would happen to Jack’s house, or anything else of his, because basically I didn’t want to think. Still, as a neighbor walked her dog up our street, I thought, How can she do that? How can she just go on with her life, as if nothing has happened?

  I felt dizzy and sat down on our bed. After a few minutes, Marla came looking for me. She plopped down on our bedroom chair.

  “I put something together that’s vaguely eggy, and now it’s in the oven.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. “Vaguely eggy, huh?”

  “Only very tangentially eggy, but very cheesy. W
hy don’t you come down to the kitchen? ’Cuz I have no idea how long this thing should cook.”

  I shook my head, but heaved myself up off the bed anyway. A moment later, I was gazing at Marla’s concoction in the oven, asking her how many eggs, exactly, she’d put into her creation, and how much cheese, and so on. She said she couldn’t remember. Well, at least a dozen eggs, she said as an afterthought.

  “Marvelous,” I said, and set the timer for forty-five minutes. Since I didn’t want to be as rude to Marla as I was afraid I’d already been to Father Pete, I immediately apologized. I added, “I’m sure it’ll be great.”

  “I’m not even sure it’ll be edible.” Marla paused, then sniffed. “Tom called while you were in the shower. He’s on his way.” She regarded me closely. “Tell me how you’re feeling.”

  “I’m feeling like crap is how I’m feeling. I just think I should have been able to prevent this.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Goldy. Your godfather had already had two heart attacks, and he was a heavy smoker and drinker. At the wedding, he was violently mugged and lost consciousness, or at least that’s what Julian told me.” When I didn’t contradict her, she said, “Then one of our church pals from Med Wives 101 called me late last night. She was down at Southwest because her son tore his ACL playing soccer, and they were there until all hours. Anyway, while they were waiting to be seen, she’d been wandering the halls, and stopped in when she saw Jack’s name on a door. She said how awful Jack looked, because he’d stopped breathing and had to have a trake in the ambulance.” Marla took a sip of her own Irish coffee. “That’s a whole lot of stress for an older man to deal with, and you’re wondering how all that could have precipitated another heart attack? Come on.” Marla’s eyebrows rose, inverted commas surprised by my naiveté. “Jeez, Goldy, better to ask why wouldn’t he have had a heart attack?” She rose to make us each another coffee—this time with no whiskey, but with added whipping cream.