T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 02 - Southern Poison

by T. Lynn Ocean

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  I recognized the number on the caller ID and wondered what Lady Lizzy wanted with me. “Hello?”

  “Dahling!” she drawled, sounding like her normal exclamatory self. “I was wondering if your agency could accept some bodyguard work on short notice.”

  Surely she knew that I didn’t really offer personal bodyguard services. Heck, if anyone needed a bodyguard right now, I did. “I don’t think so, Lady Lizzy, but I can recommend someone. How short of a notice are we talking?”

  “For an event tonight!”

  I doubted I could get anyone that quickly, I told her, but Lizzy plowed on. She’d received a nasty letter, she explained, in which the writer threatened to cut her—as in, literally slice her with a knife—at tonight’s “Slasher Soiree.” A private party and advance viewing of a new horror movie, the event would draw a few hundred people.

  “I get threats and crazy e-mails all the time!” the gossip columnist said. “But this one seems serious. He demanded a retraction of something I insinuated about his girlfriend, and when I didn’t do it, I got this letter about the party tonight. And I can’t not go!”

  “You obviously know the identity of this person. Have you contacted the police?”

  “I certainly have! They sent an officer to talk to the man and he claimed he didn’t know anything about it. But I’m scared. This creep has me shaking so badly, I can’t put on my own mascara.”

  In her world that amounted to a crisis. I could ask JJ or Rita to babysit Lizzy, but that would be the equivalent of asking them to detail my car, an especially punishing task since I now drive a hearse. Ox and I had already planned to spend the evening together, away from the Block, to talk. On the other hand, I did owe Lady Lizzy a favor, sort of. I had to strong-arm the information out of her, but it did lead to saving many lives. It wouldn’t be too horrible for me to babysit Lizzy for a few hours, if I could talk Ox into going. We’d get to preview a horror flick, have a drink, and then we could go somewhere quiet to talk.

  “Tell you what, Lizzy. As a personal favor to you, I will go to the party and bring a friend. We’ll keep an eye on things.” If anyone knew the rules of the favor game, she did. Business favors were tokens to be accumulated and redeemed. And I might need her help again someday.

  “Fabulous! I’ll put you and a plus one on the guest list.” She gave me the address and asked if I could be there at six for the cocktail hour.

  A small crowd had already gathered at St. Thomas Preservation Hall on Dock Street when Ox and I arrived. Film-screening parties are always an eclectic mix, from gaffers wearing fashionably ripped blue jeans to gem-studded celebs. I used the occasion as an excuse to deck out in a provocatively low-cut dress with just enough flare in the skirt to conceal a thigh holster. My spiked heels weren’t ideal bodyguard attire, but they looked damn good. Ox wore a pair of slacks with a white silk tee and lightweight summer blazer that nicely covered his Kimber.45 automatic. I’m sure there was a knife somewhere on his body, too. Seeing him, people stared a bit longer than was polite, probably thinking he was somebody important that they should recognize.

  I sipped my virgin drink—a juice concoction served in a martini glass and called a “slashertini”—while we studied the photograph of the alleged stalker. I’d also gotten a copy of the official complaint. A recent gossip column apparently included a photograph of the guy’s girlfriend kissing somebody else. According to Lizzy, the column wasn’t even about them. They were nobodies. The girlfriend just happened to be in the background when Lizzy’s photographer snapped a shot of a movie producer.

  “Something tells me this guy is for real,” Ox said, scanning the crowd. “And a bit unglued.”

  “So you think we’ll see some action tonight?” I teased, tossing out the double entendre.

  “I feel certain of it.”

  For the next half hour, we mingled and studied the partygoers, never straying too far from Lady Lizzy. Keeping an eye on our surroundings rather than each other, we spoke in low voices about possible additions to the Block’s menu, Spud’s new girlfriend, and Lindsey’s new school friends. We’d just touched on Louise’s abrupt departure—a topic I’d been waiting to hear about—when Ox nodded in the direction of a lone man, weaving through the people, trying to blend in. On a direct path to intercept Lady Lizzy, he moved with purpose and, as he got closer, we made a positive ID. I headed for Lizzy while Ox went to stop the guy.

  “He’s here,” I whispered in her ear. “Just act natural. We’ve got it under control.”

  “Dahling!” she exclaimed and gave me the double air-kiss. “So wonderful you could be here!”

  “You don’t have to go overboard,” I said under my breath.

  Twelve or fifteen feet away, the guy yanked his arm out of Ox’s grip and continued toward Lizzy. When Ox stopped him for the second time, a switchblade popped open in each hand.

  Lady Lizzy sucked in air with a sharp, “Oh!”

  Seeing the activity, nearby people backed away to leave a wide berth, but nobody got overly alarmed. These were, after all, movie people.

  “Sheesh,” I said. “I didn’t think anybody even carried switchblades anymore. What a putz.”

  Ox disarmed the guy before he had a chance to swing the knives, and put him in an arm lock before the switchblades clattered to the floor. Anyone not watching very closely missed it. I found a disposable zip strip hand restraint in my handbag. Ox secured the guy’s wrists behind his back.

  “Dude,” I said to the panting man. “Your girlfriend has obviously moved on. Get over it already.”

  He spit in my face.

  “Shouldn’t have done that,” Ox said.

  I threw a fist into the stalker’s solar plexus and, as he bent over, followed it up with a knee to his groin. He slowly buckled with a groan.

  Ox wiped the spittle off my chin with a damp napkin and handed me a fresh slashertini, one made with real alcohol. “Guess we’re done here,” he said. “You want to hang around for the movie?”

  Telling him no, I dialed Dirk’s mobile. “Few days ago, Lady Lizzy filed a complaint against somebody who threatened her,” I said into the phone.

  “I haven’t read it, but whatcha got?”

  “He just tried to stab her with switchblades.”

  “Switchblades? Nobody carries a switchblade anymore.”

  “That’s what I said. Anyway, Ox took the knives away from the bad boy. Can you send a cruiser by to pick him up? No blue lights, please. We’re at a film-screening party.”

  “Sure thing,” Dirk said and asked for the address.

  Ox subjected himself to the double air-kiss from Lady Lizzy—only with him, she actually planted her lips firmly on his cheeks—and we made our escape in Ox’s truck. I motioned for our tail to follow and then, just for fun, powered off my government-issue phone so that Ox could lose the guy. We were rid of the coverage within two minutes. Had Ox been driving my old Mercedes, it wouldn’t have taken that long.

  The muggy day grew pleasant as the clock rolled into dusk and we crossed the bridge to Wrightsville Beach. Sand massaging our bare feet, we walked for a mile, taking in the ocean smells and sounds, waving at other beachgoers. We stopped at a vacant beach rental and sat on their wooden walkover steps, facing the ocean. Ox ran his fingertips lightly along the inside of my arm, caressing, deep in his own thoughts. After a time, I took his hand between mine and put it to my mouth, kissing each of his fingers, one by one. A low sound escaped his mouth.

  “I can’t stop thinking about our night together,” I said.

  He pulled me to him and crushed his mouth against mine, just for an instant, before backing off to a more leisurely, seductive kiss. “Me, either.”

  My body didn’t want to interrupt the moment, but my mind had to know. “You were about to tell me before when Lady Lizzy’s stalker showed up. What happened with Louise?”

  He stared at the breaking waves, water and sky melding together as the sun set. “Nothing that
should interfere with us,” he said. “But you have to know, don’t you?”

  I nodded. I couldn’t give myself to him until I knew for certain that he was 100 percent available. Settling for anything less was not an option. Not with him.

  “For a time after Lindsey was born, Louise was the perfect woman. We were the perfect couple, very much in love, selfless, devoted to our little family,” he said. “The higher up I moved in the military ranks, the more time and focus my career required. But I was there as Lindsey grew up. I stayed faithful to my wife. I provided for my family. I thought everything was the way it should be, but somewhere along the way, Louise became unhappy. Maybe she felt stifled, or maybe she got tired of the military life and all of its restrictions. I don’t know. I honestly thought everything was good with us.”

  Staring at the ocean, he continued. “When she handed me divorce papers the day I took early retirement, it blew me away. I never had any idea how miserable she was. And when I realized that she waited until I retired so she’d get half my pension, it floored me. How many nights had she shared my bed, wishing she were elsewhere? Why couldn’t she have told me something was wrong, so we could fix it?”

  “I remember,” I said. “You were devastated when you first came to Wilmington. Wandering, trying to decide where to go and what to do.”

  He smiled. “And you kept me in Wilmington. Gave me the opportunity to sort it all out and get on with my life.”

  “Where do the two of you stand now? What happened while she was here?”

  Looking at his eyes, barely illuminated by a pole light, I could read his mind: Don’t ask if you don’t want the answer. Ox would never lie to me. And I should be a big enough person not to ask—or not to let the answer bother me.

  He sighed, rubbed a hand over his face. “We just talked for the first few days she was here, catching up on each other’s lives, being cordial. Then one night she made Lindsey’s favorite dinner and we went down memory lane with our daughter, sitting around the table, laughing like we used to. After dinner, Lindsey went to the movies with my next-door neighbors and Louise opened a bottle of wine. Told me she wondered what it would be like if we were still together. Asked if she’d made a mistake by divorcing me.”

  I knew what was coming next and my shoulders tightened. I shouldn’t have asked. I wanted to stop him from talking—to tell him it didn’t matter—but I just sat there, focusing on the sound of the ocean and thinking about the forces of the universe that seemingly guided our lives.

  “We slept together, Jersey. But it clarified everything. It was mechanical. We went though the motions without a real connection. I didn’t feel anything. All the anger and resentment was gone. All the old passion and love was gone, too. Louise realized that I’ve gotten on with my life. And I realized that the woman I married no longer exists.” He took my hand, searching my eyes for acceptance. “My past with her is a closed chapter, and I’m good with that. Except for Lindsey, whom I thank God for every day, there is absolutely nothing left of my relationship with Louise.”

  “Is she going to marry the live-in?”

  “That’s for her to figure out.”

  We stood to walk back to the truck and Ox moved to kiss me again. I resisted, my head a jumble of conflicting thoughts: relief, excitement, betrayal.

  “If you didn’t mean so much to me,” I said, “and if our night together wasn’t so intense, it wouldn’t matter.”

  Midway back, he took my hand. It felt right and good and I wanted to throw myself at him and tell him none of it mattered, after all. But stubbornly, or perhaps stupidly, I couldn’t wrap my brain around the fact that he would allow himself to sleep with his ex—unless he thought there might be a chance of reconciliation. And if that were true, his night with me hadn’t been as special as I’d thought.

  “Please don’t over-think this, Jersey,” he said, when we’d reached the parking area and he opened the door for me. “My heart has belonged to you for a very long time.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  A woman in a smock smiled at Peggy Lee when she walked into the clinic, as though the appointment were for something pleasant, such as a massage. Unable to smile back despite the Valium she’d swallowed earlier, Peggy signed in and sat down to wait. She buried her face in a gossip magazine but curiosity made her sneak peeks at the others in the waiting room: a mother with a young teenager, another woman about Peggy Lee’s age who was well into her pregnancy, and a fidgety man. She’d barely skimmed the fashion section when she heard her name.

  Ready to get the abortion over with, she followed the nurse through a door and was surprised to find herself in a small consultation room rather than an examination room.

  “Hi, Peggy. I’m here to counsel you and answer any questions you have, before we take you in to see the doctor, okay? Basically, we just want to make sure that you’ve considered all of the options available to you, and that you’re sure this is the right decision.”

  Peggy Lee started to cry.

  “This type of visit can be upsetting for some women,” the nurse said. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what you’re feeling, so we can talk about it?”

  Without a word, Peggy Lee grabbed her purse and ran from the room to the first exit door she found. It took a few minutes to locate her car and once she did, she sat in the driver’s seat and stared at the building until her tears dried. Suddenly angry at Chuck, she slammed the car into gear and drove to the nearest shopping mall, where she wandered through a department store until she came across the baby section. Why wasn’t he excited about their baby? Peggy Lee wondered, fingering the miniature booties and caps. Why couldn’t he see the miracle for what it was?

  A saleswoman approached. “Are you looking for a gift today?”

  “I’m pregnant,” Peggy Lee announced and the lead ball in her stomach dissipated. Her miracle baby wasn’t something to be ashamed of or fret about! The life should be celebrated, regardless of Chuck’s initial reaction. He’d eventually come around. Until he did, she’d just let him think that she had an abortion.

  “Oh, how wonderful,” the clerk said and asked Peggy Lee what she needed.

  “Everything.”

  Peggy Lee selected a bassinet, crib, bedding, and stroller. Sifting through cushy soft blankets and tiny sleep sets, the chemist realized that she had indeed experienced a miracle. Her eggs that refused to mature were now suddenly doing their thing. The fertility specialist from Daisy Obstetrics&Gynecology had called her in person to relay the test results, and asked if she’d been taking any new trial drugs. Peggy Lee assured the doctor that she hadn’t, and he reaffirmed his opinion that the reversal of her lifelong condition was a miracle. She loved the word miracle and repeated it in her head, trying to decide on a boy’s and a girl’s name that started with the letter M.

  Daydreaming of the time when she’d hold her baby as it sucked in its first breaths of air, Peggy Lee selected a fancy polka-dot diaper bag, bottles, wipes, clothes, and a spinning mobile made of stuffed animals to hang over the crib. Her bill came to more than seven thousand dollars, but Peggy Lee’s credit was perfect. She opened a charge account with the department store and saved 10 percent on the total.

  “If you’re going to have a baby shower, you can register here before you go,” the clerk said. “You choose what you want in advance and that way, your friends can shop for your gift without worrying it’s something you already have.”

  Peggy Lee knew there’d be no baby shower and she certainly didn’t have any friends. Nonetheless, she completed the registration form, telling the saleswoman to choose the registry items for her. She signed the charge slip and learned that her entire order would be delivered to her apartment later in the week, but she walked out of store with one shopping bag. She planned to look at the whimsical mobile every morning, so the delicate wonder that grew inside her could see the fuzzy animals through her eyes.

  FORTY

  Lindsey continued to work two or three days a week at the Block.
She loved talking to the Block’s regulars, eating the fresh catch of the day for dinner, and playing poker with Spud afterward. But today, Ox told me that Lindsey didn’t feel well when he picked her up from school, even though she insisted on working her regular three-hour shift. He had a right to be concerned. Lindsey looked horrible.

  “I’m fine, really,” she fibbed, when I asked her what was going on. “It’s just the stomach thing again. I’m fine to work my shift.”

  I brought the girl upstairs to my kitchen and took her temperature. It was elevated, but not alarmingly so. Her breathing and pulse were normal, but she obviously felt lousy. I forced her to tell me what hurt.

  “It feels like really bad cramps, you know? Like when you’re having your period and you feel all bloated and stuff?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, it’s like that, but worse. I thought maybe my period had finally come, but it hasn’t. And my head hurts a little, too.”

  I asked what she’d done at school, and what she’d eaten for lunch. She’d had a normal day and ate a turkey sandwich with mustard for lunch. “But what’s weird,” she added, “is that the same thing is going on with Cindy. She’s in my art class and she was kind of freaked out today. Anyway, she told me that her stomach was killing her and that her period is late.” Lindsey lowered her voice. “But she’s still a virgin, too.”

  I brought Lindsey some ice water and made her take a couple of Tylenol. “Does Cindy’s mother know?”

  “Yeah, she’s going to the doctor.”

  Two girls out of the hundreds who attended the high school did not make a pattern, but still, it was an odd coincidence. I wondered if other girls were experiencing the same symptoms, but time would answer that question. Meanwhile, Lindsey was going back to see Dr. Pam Warner. This time when I called the practice, they agreed to work Lindsey in right away if I could have her there before five o’clock. Due to the efforts of Holloman’s newly hired public relations firm, Lindsey was supposed to do an interview with a North Carolina magazine at six o’clock, but I made her call and cancel. Lindsey agreed that the most important thing in her life was family and school, and that her modeling efforts were simply a way to earn college money. She’d already decided that she wanted to be a television sports announcer, not a model. Certainly, Holloman would understand that people sometimes got sick. When I told Ox I was taking Lindsey back to the doctor, he decided to go along.