by Lisa Jackson
“Anytime,” Marla said and saw the corners of Eugenia’s mouth turn down in disapproval as she reached for her knitting needles and a skein of coral yarn.
“You can have visitors?”
“Of course.” Why wouldn’t she be able to see her friends? Her mother-in-law’s lips moved as she counted stitches, then the needles started softly clicking.
“Well, I thought so, but Alex was very firm that no one was to visit the hospital. I tried, but ran into a security guard of a nurse who looked like she should have been a contestant in the World Wrestling Association or whatever it’s called now. Anyway, she wouldn’t let me pass.”
“Is that so?” Marla slid her glance to the side where Eugenia was knitting as if for her very life. “Probably because of the coma.”
“I imagine.”
“But I’d love to see you now,” Marla said, though she couldn’t remember Joanna’s face for the life of her. From the corner of her eye Marla noticed Eugenia’s jaw clench. The older woman slowly shook her head in objection. Marla ignored her mother-in-law. “How about this evening? Drinks?”
Eugenia’s head snapped up, lines of worry stretching around her eyes.
“Sure. Yeah. I won’t be able to stay long, but I could drop by when I’m finished with my next set. Say in about . . . An hour and a half?”
“Perfect. See you then.” She said good-bye and hung up before her mother-in-law could voice the objections that were so evident in her eyes. Eugenia muttered something under her breath, then began ripping out her last row of her knitting, as if Marla’s wayward conversation had caused her to miss a stitch.
“This isn’t a good idea,” Eugenia finally said, taking up her needles again.
“Why not?”
“You’re in no condition to entertain. And you can’t drink anything with the medication you’re on . . .” Eugenia was knitting furiously, metal needles clicking to beat the band.
“Not even one glass of wine?”
“Absolutely not.”
“I need to see my friends . . . and by the way, do you have any idea where my purse is? The one that I had when I was in the accident?”
Eugenia sighed. “I wondered when you’d ask about that. There wasn’t one, at least none that the police could find. No overnight bag. Nothing.”
“But surely . . . now wait a minute.”
“I know, I know, it sounds odd, but that’s all I know about it.”
Reluctantly, her mother-in-law set aside her knitting. “Nothing’s settled. You know, because of the accident . . . Maybe the police really do have it and are lying.”
“No way . . . I mean that’s too bizarre.”
“Is it?”
“Yes! Why would they do that? Because they suspect me of something?” Marla asked as the phone jangled in her hands. She answered before thinking. “Hello?”
“Marla. You’re awake. Good.” Alex’s voice had a sharp edge to it. “I just talked to Detective Paterno. Charles Biggs died this morning.”
“Oh, God, no.” She felt as if her bones were crumbling, as if she couldn’t possibly support herself any longer. Now not one, but two people dead.
“Marla? Are you okay? I just wanted to let you and Mother know what was going on. The police will probably be calling again. There’re some questions about how he died, maybe it wasn’t just from his wounds.” He paused for a second. “They think it might have been murder, that someone helped him along.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, but suddenly felt as cold as death.
“Neither do I, but I wanted to warn you.” Alex was irritated and worried; she could hear the tension in his voice, imagined the strain on his face. “Paterno won’t give up until he’s dug up something. I’ve dealt with him before.”
“You have?”
“You remember . . . oh, no . . . he was looking into some trouble we had down at Cahill House . . . the situation resolved itself, but he kept sniffing around . . . anyway, you’d better brace yourself. No doubt he’ll be calling you. With more questions. A lot more.”
“But I can’t tell him anything—”
“I know, I know, just be careful.”
“But he’s with the police.”
“The San Francisco Police. Your accident occurred in the mountains, far away from the city and yet he somehow lands in charge of the investigation. Look, I don’t trust him, okay? Just keep your cool.”
“I don’t have anything to hide,” she said and sensed Alex hesitating.
Her heart galumphed.
“Do I?” she demanded.
“Of course not, darling. I didn’t mean to rattle you. Just be careful.”
Shaking inside, fearing something she didn’t understand, Marla nodded, as if Alex could see through the telephone wires.
“What is it?” Eugenia asked, her lips drawn into a knot. Marla passed her the phone, tried to quiet the dull roar in her head. What was happening to her? Her stomach turned over at the thought of the poor man who’d been burned so horribly, then died.
Because of her.
Things couldn’t get worse, she told herself, but she had the nagging suspicion that she was wrong. Dead wrong.
Chapter Seven
“Nice do,” Joanna quipped as she stood on the front porch. She motioned to Marla’s hair with sleek fingers decorated with rings.
“Thanks, I did it myself.”
“That I believe.”
Still reeling from the news that Charles Biggs had died, Marla ushered her friend into the sitting room off the foyer. Joanna breezed in as if she’d been inside dozens of times. A petite woman with short, streaked blond hair, dark eyes and thin lips, she was dressed in a white warm-up suit trimmed in gold, and white tennis shoes. Several gold chains circled her tanned throat and a tennis bracelet studded with hefty diamonds surrounded one slim wrist. Marla stared at the sculpted lines of Joanna’s face looking for some clue, hoping she could remember something, but it was as if she’d never seen this woman before in her life. Disappointment assailed her yet again.
Joanna plopped onto an overstuffed sofa and dropped her hands between her knees. “So, how’re you feeling?”
“Better, off and on. I still get headaches and these”—Marla drew back her lips to expose the wires—“are the pits.” She settled into a side chair.
“But necessary.” They paused in the conversation while Carmen brought in a bottle of wine, two stemmed glasses and a small tray of fruit, cheese and crackers.
“Anything else?” Carmen asked, setting the tray on the coffee table.
“This should do it. Thanks.” As Carmen eased out of the room, Marla poured them each a glass and handed one to Joanna.
“So you’ve got amnesia?”
“Big time.”
“You don’t remember me?” Arched brows lifted and as if to lighten the mood she turned her face side to side, showing off her profile. “What about now?”
“Nope, but then it’s not an exclusive club. I don’t remember anyone.”
“Gee, just when I was beginning to feel special.”
Marla couldn’t draw up a smile. “Well, don’t. I can’t even . . . even remember my own kids. Isn’t that sick?”
“Well, yes . . . that’s the whole point.”
“I know and . . .” Marla swallowed a lump in her throat and shook her head. “I keep reminding myself it’s getting better. I have flashes of things that have happened to me, some a long time ago, others more recently. But, no, I’m sorry, I wish I could say, ‘Oh, yeah, I remember you,’ but I don’t. Damn. It’s so weird. I don’t remember playing tennis at all.”
“Good. Then I can pretend that I always cleaned your clock on the court.”
“That’s a lie?”
“A major lie. You’ve got a serve that scared the devil out of me.” Sipping her chardonnay, she stared at Marla over the rim. Her dark eyes twinkled. “You should get it back.”
“Along with my face?”
“Well, at least al
ong with your hair.”
Marla laughed a little.
“As for your face . . .” She lifted a hand, spread her thumb away from her fingers as if she were an artist measuring for symmetry. “Hmm. That’ll take a little time, I suppose,” she teased. “But my husband’s a plastic surgeon, remember. Ted specializes in faces, primarily cosmetic, but he’s done some reconstruction. Let me see—remember, I used to work for him.” She paused for a second, little lines forming between her eyebrows as she thought. “Oh, that’s right, you wouldn’t remember. Well, good. It wasn’t a great time.” At Marla’s perplexed expression, Joanna let out a sigh. “Ted was married to his first wife then. I was the evil other woman who stole him away.” Joanna lifted her eyebrows and smiled as if a little proud of herself for sneaking a prize from a competitor.
“Oh.”
“That was twelve years ago. Water under the bridge.”
She placed her finger under Marla’s chin and cocked her own head to one side. “You look so different, and my guess—now that’s an educated guess, mind you—says that you’re going to look great once the swelling and bruises disappear, but you’re going to look different.”
“Maybe better?”
“Maybe, but I don’t know why you’d want to be. You had more male attention than you could handle as it was.”
“What?” This was news. And yet she had a vague sense that it was true.
“Oh, yeah, you were always . . . well, you know, men noticed you.” Joanna said it with a touch of acrimony, a hint of jealousy, and Marla wondered what kind of friends she and Joanna had been.
Or what kind of woman you were. Joanna isn’t saying it, but she’s hinting that you basked in the male attention lavished your way, even maybe went out seeking it. That particular thought made her stomach turn sour.
“I’m really sorry about Pam,” Joanna said, plucking a strawberry from the tray. “I know she was your friend.”
“Yours, too, right?”
“Never met her.”
“But she was a member of the club.”
“Was she?” A pause as Joanna ate the strawberry and her mouth moved to one side of her face, as if she was really concentrating. “I . . . I don’t think so. I mean, I never saw her there.”
“I didn’t play tennis with her?”
“No . . . well, not that I knew of, but it’s been a while, you know. You were gone for a while . . . on a trip to Mexico, I think, and then you got pregnant, so . . . well, I never played tennis with her and you were in our league . . . To tell you the truth, I don’t remember you ever mentioning her. I just heard that you were her friend after the accident . . .” She turned a palm toward the ceiling. “Well, it’s a big club. Lots of members. I don’t know everybody, but no one in our group had ever met her.”
Marla felt a trickle of dread. She was certain Alex or the police officer or someone said she’d played tennis with Pam Delacroix . . . or had she just thought so? Maybe her mind was playing tricks on her. It was all so damned frustrating and fuzzy. But there was one way to find out. “I don’t suppose you happen to have an address book for the club?”
“Mmm. I do.” Joanna licked her fingers and nodded frantically, as if eager to be of help. “In here.” She set her glass on the table and dug through an oversized purse that was large enough to double as an athletic bag. “Now, if I can just find it.” After searching through several compartments, she opened a zippered pocket and withdrew the address book. “Voilà!” she said, slapping the book onto the table between them. “Sometimes it’s a miracle that I find anything in this mess.”
Marla, feeling a sense of uneasiness, flipped through the pages, found the Ds and ran her finger down the names. Not one was familiar. None rang any distant bells. Delacroix wasn’t listed. No name. No phone number. As if she never existed. “Damn.” Somehow Marla had expected this—sensed it. She read through the roster again, and again, each time more slowly. It didn’t help.
“Nothing, right?” Joanna lifted her shoulders as she cut off a piece of cheese and placed it on a water biscuit. “I’m telling you, I didn’t think I’d ever heard her name before. We talked about it, Robin, Nancy and I—but none of us had ever heard you mention Pam.” She popped the piece of Brie and cracker into her mouth. “You know, we used to play doubles together a couple of times a week. You’d have thought one of us would have remembered you talking about her.”
“But she was with me that night and now . . . now she’s dead. Along with the trucker.”
“He died?” Joanna asked, cringing a little, her petite nose wrinkling in distaste. “Probably a blessing, considering.”
Tell that to his family, Marla thought, sick at the thought. “It’s just so . . . hard.”
“I know.”
Do you? How can you possibly? Two people are dead, dead, because of me and I don’t remember a damned thing about it! Marla gripped her glass so hard she was afraid she might snap the stem, but managed to hold her tongue. After all, Joanna was her friend, here to offer support, a link to the outside world.
Joanna’s neatly plucked eyebrows drew together as she bit into the cracker again. “So, really, how do you feel?”
“Pretty damned bad.” Marla, despite everyone’s warnings, took a drink of cool wine. So it didn’t mix with the medication—so what? Was it going to fry her brain or something? So she couldn’t remember? So what if she was a little fuzzier? Big deal? Hoping some of the names in the club’s roster would mean something to her, she slowly turned the pages again, her eyes sliding down the names, addresses and phone numbers, but though some of the names seemed familiar, she conjured no faces with Smith, Johnson and Walters . . . all common names. No faces. “But, as I said, it’s supposed to get better.”
“Let’s hope.” Joanna lifted her glass in a mock toast and she used her index finger to point to Marla’s hand.
“What happened to your ring?”
“I’m wearing it.”
“No, not your wedding ring, the other one, the ruby ring. You got it from your father, I think, and you never took it off, called it your ‘lucky’ ring.”
“I don’t know . . .” She rubbed her finger, looked for an indentation in her skin to see if there was an impression where a ring she’d worn for years had been . . . there was none.
“They didn’t steal it, did they? At the hospital? It happens sometimes.”
“I don’t know . . . I was wearing this one.” She was perplexed.
“Well, you check into it; that ring’s an antique. Worth a fortune and with your dad being so sick and all . . . well, I know you’ll want it as a memento.” She touched Marla on the arm. “How’s he doing?”
“I haven’t seen him,” she admitted, feeling a little guilty.
“I know you’ve been worried about him,” Joanna said. “We talked on the phone and you said you were afraid he might not last to see James’s birth.”
“He’s . . . he’s that ill?” Marla asked, surprised Alex hadn’t said as much.
“You told me he was only given a few weeks . . . and that was over a month ago.”
Marla felt ice form in her soul. “He’s dying?”
Little worry lines formed between Joanna’s eyebrows. “Yes, Marla. I guess you’ve forgotten that, too.”
“I guess.”
Joanna finished her wine in one gulp and checked her watch. “Look, this has been way too short, but I’ve got to run. Kids to pick up from tae kwon do, you know.”
“Thanks for stopping by.”
“No problem. Thanks for the wine, but why don’t you, as soon as those wires come off, have lunch with us? Nancy and Robin would love to get together. We could hit some balls, or if you’re not up to that, we could play bridge or just sit and yak. Whatever you want.”
“I’d love to,” Marla said. “This elegant dental work is supposed to come off this week.” She thought about how horrid she still looked, but decided she’d brave going out in public. These were her friends, for crying out lou
d, and right now she needed all the friends she could get to help her through this.
“Good, I’ll set it up.”
“Thanks.”
“And Marla?” Joanna placed a hand on Marla’s arm. “I’m really sorry for all this . . . trouble. When it rains it pours, I guess. First all those problems down at Cahill House and now this . . . you’ve certainly had more than your fair share.”
“What problems?” Marla asked.
Joanna blushed to the roots of her hair, as if she was suddenly horribly embarrassed. “Well . . . It was probably nothing more than bad press . . . I’ll see you later. Now, don’t forget to check on that ring!”
With a wave, she was off, leaving Marla with an unsettled feeling in her stomach and a need to know more. So much more. Standing at the window, Marla watched through the rainspattered glass as Joanna climbed into a flashy red BMW. Within seconds the sports car roared through the gates and down the hill.
“That woman’s a viper,” Eugenia said from behind her.
Marla jumped. She hadn’t heard her mother-in-law enter.
“A viper?” Marla repeated, turning her head to see Eugenia glaring through the window. “How so?”
“A snoop, a gossip, ready to bite you when you least expect it. Poor white trash who had big ambitions. Set her sights on Ted Lindquist and broke up a twenty-five-year marriage without so much as a thought of Frances or the kids.” Sighing loudly, Eugenia stepped away from the window, removed her glasses and polished the lenses with an embroidered handkerchief she pulled from her jacket pocket. “Well, I shouldn’t gossip, I know, but Frances was a friend of mine.”
“Joanna said something about trouble at Cahill House.”
“Yes, I heard,” Eugenia said in a sigh and Marla wondered how much of the conversation her mother-in-law had been privy to. Had she eavesdropped intentionally? “Well, I suppose you may as well know the truth.”
“That would be nice,” Marla agreed, her words sounding brittle.
Eugenia dropped into her favorite chair and behind her glasses, she looked old and weary. “It’s nasty business. There were some charges leveled last year at the director of the house, a preacher who was charged with . . . being involved with one of the girls. Nothing came of it. All the charges were dropped, and the girl, who was under age at the time, remained anonymous. But you know how these things go. The press blew it all out of proportion. Alex handled everything, of course, but there were rumors that persisted, lingered like a bad smell, tainted Cahill House’s reputation.” She wiped the corner of her eye, though she didn’t seem to be crying. “Anyway, it happened over a year ago—maybe eighteen months.” Eugenia stuffed her hankie in her pocket and set her glasses onto her nose again. “People like Joanna feed on that kind of gossip, never let it die.” She lifted her gaze to Marla’s. “I believe it’s because they have guilty consciences of their own and they always feel relieved when someone else is taking the heat. But, let’s not dwell on it now,” Eugenia said, as if to close the subject. “Now, don’t you think you should rest for a while before dinner?” She checked the clock in the foyer. “And it’s about time for your medication, isn’t it? I think Carmen took it upstairs and left it in your room.”