by Karen Pullen
“I don’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll follow the black car, see where it goes, and maybe catch someone in the act.”
“That could be dangerous.”
“I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”
Cori couldn’t trust her, a loose cannon, no doubt about it. Should she let Animal Control know what Hollis was doing? Should she call Matt and Fiona? Hollis wasn’t doing anything illegal, was she?
Five minutes later, Hollis called again. “The black car is slowing down. It’s stopping. I’m at the vacant lot next to 177 Thornton!”
Cori made a decision. She couldn’t let Hollis confront the poisoner alone. Cori didn’t know Elise Weatherbee, but a cat poisoner could be hostile, even violent.
“Stay in your car, Hollis. I’ll be there quick as I can.”
“Just hurry!”
Cori made a U-turn and soon reached the vacant lot, a weedy patch with overgrown shrubs and scraggly trees. Good hiding places for a feral cat colony. There was the black car, unoccupied. She parked behind it and slowly pushed her way through the bushes toward the cats eating out of bowls and cans. Suddenly a hand gripped her sleeve and pulled her under the branches of a large magnolia tree.
Cori stifled a yelp.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Hollis whispered. “There she is, pouring antifreeze into a water bowl. Over there, by the fence.”
Cori couldn’t see past the tree’s low branches. “Call Jim Hawkins,” she said, and waited impatiently while Hollis dialed Animal Control. But she couldn’t wait for Jim, she had to stop the poisoner. “Stay down,” she said to Hollis. “I’m going closer.” She crept forward until she saw the figure crouched by the water bowls.
It wasn’t Elise Weatherbee. Cori recognized the blonde woman in a beautiful teal suit and pearls. “Hello, Vera. Taking care of Hollis’s colony today?”
Vera Bertoli twisted around, a jug of antifreeze in her hands. “Don’t come any closer.”
“Put it down. Animal Control is on the way.”
“Why do you care about these horrible strays?”
“Are they so bad?” Cori inched closer. She needed to wrench the poisonous jug away from Vera.
“They’re filthy and disgusting.” Vera tipped the jug, splashing antifreeze into bowls. “They carry disease, like the virus that took my Kirlee from me.”
Cori had to stop her. As she charged toward Vera to grab the jug, Vera threw the jug at Cori and ran toward her car.
She was getting away.
“Stop!” Cori shouted, and ran after her, closing the gap between them. With a leap she tackled Vera and they fell to the ground. Vera twisted, jabbed Cori with her elbows and smacked her in the nose. For a tiny woman, Vera packed a punch.
“Help me, Hollis,” Cori gasped, pinning down Vera’s shoulders. As the woman screamed obscenities, Hollis fell onto Vera’s legs and held them tight, trying to avoid her flailing arms. Panting, Cori and Hollis held her on the ground until Jim arrived.
* * * *
The next day, Cori visited Hollis at her Bayview apartment and was dismayed to see Hollis’s face. “Oh no! Did Vera give you that black eye?”
“Yeah. My cat fight,” Hollis chuckled. “You look like you recovered.”
“I have a few bruises,” Cori said. “We fought a good fight, for a good cause. No animal deserves to die like that.”
“I’m glad Jim came when he did.”
“And antifreeze doesn’t cause burns. Although it did stain my favorite jeans.”
“Your mother will be sorry she missed the drama,” Hollis said.
Cori nodded. No doubt last night’s events would be broadcast throughout town. “What about you, Hollis? Another colony?”
“Bayview has a no-pets policy.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Cori stepped into the hallway and returned holding the tiny gray kitten with white boots.
“Oh wow! For me?” Hollis’s smile deepened the furrows in her cheeks.
“If you promise to take care of him, the manager said this guy can be Bayview’s resident cat,”
Hollis cuddled the kitten, now purring loudly, against her cheek. “He’s precious. Thank you, Cori. For everything.”
“Happy to help.” Cori let herself out, pleased by Hollis’s obvious delight.
Tomorrow she had to return Blue to her mother’s house. Funny how she’d grown accustomed to him, his rusty muffler purr, his warm solid body wedged behind her knees as she slept. He’d been more entertaining than TV reruns, a better companion than a mystery novel. She looked at her watch, an hour before her afternoon appointments. Enough time to stop by the cat refuge and administer head rubs to the kittens. One little fellow in particular, a green-eyed tabby with extra toes, always jumped into her lap and wouldn’t budge.
Maybe Cori was a one-cat woman too.
FOREVER MINE, by Polly Iyer
After my detective delivered the folder, I sat for a solid hour with it clutched in my sweaty hand, my heart beating like a furious metronome. I broke the seal and flipped through the photographs. My stomach revolted with each image. I’d suspected, but this was one time I didn’t want to be right. My son David and his stepmother―my loving wife. Embracing, kissing…loving. The ache between my shoulder blades felt as if the lovers plunged a knife deep, with a twist for good measure.
I braced myself and turned on the recorder. The audio was faint, but I made out the muffled sounds of sex amid whispered words of passion. In hushed tones, they swore each other to secrecy to avoid destroying her career and his inheritance.
My lunch churned to acid.
Stashing the folder and recorder in my desk drawer, I leaned back in my chair and focused on my trophy wall. Two Emmys, seven Golden Globes, and five Oscars in three disciplines: directing, producing, and writing. Dozens of laminated awards, statues, and tributes shared shelf space with framed photographs depicting the highlights of my life, many featuring Magdalene in all her exquisite beauty.
Magdalene the ingénue. Magdalene accepting one of her two Oscars for Best Actress. Her captivating smile as she pressed her hands in the cement on the Walk of Fame. In that photo, in the background, David.
David.
My son from my first marriage. My own personal Judas. I gave him everything, and he repaid me by stealing my wife.
I studied our wedding photo, and my icy heart stuttered. I created Magdalene. Me, Ben Steiner. I took Maggie Healy, a young model with a little talent, and taught her how to be a star. How to―
“Reminiscing?”
I spun at the sound of her silky voice, praying the treachery I’d discovered didn’t flash across my face. “Magdalene, I didn’t hear you come in.”
She floated toward me in a way uniquely hers, reminiscent of Loretta Young, breezing through the door at the beginning of her TV show, decades before. Lovely and feminine.
“I’m on my way out,” she said. “I met with Henry to discuss your script. Mata Hari will be a great movie. Another Oscar nomination for both of us, I’m sure. I wish you were directing rather than Henry. He’ll only be second best.”
“I’ll be home soon,” I said. “I’ll pick up a bottle of Cristal. We’ll toast the new movie.”
“Oh, darling, I have an appointment with Dr. Andari, then dinner with Celeste. I thought you had a film preservation meeting tonight. I can break dinner. Let me call her.”
“No, no. Don’t change your plans. My meeting was canceled. We’ll celebrate tomorrow night if you have nothing planned. And as far as Dr. Andari―I don’t know why you want to mess with your perfect face. You’re beautiful as you are.”
“You’re sweet, darling, but the camera doesn’t lie. I saw the screen shots today. Those tiny lines are glaring. Besides, I’m not ready to play the mother of that young actress you just signed.”
I eyed the actress’s contract on my desk. “Savannah Charles isn’t that young―early thirties―but she looks younger.”
“My point exactly. I’m forty-four and prefer looking younger as well. The doctor promised not to overdo the nips and tucks.”
“Andari,” I said. “Where’s he from?”
“The Middle East, I think. He’s attractive and cultured. The poor man is going through an ugly divorce. Fortunately, no children are involved. I doubt he’ll be alone for long. Actresses are his clientele. One will latch onto him to assure lifetime cosmetic surgery.”
Magdalene leaned down and kissed me.
“After the surgery, you’ll love me even more.”
I rose, put my hands on her waist, and looked into her dark blue eyes. “I couldn’t possibly love you more, Mags.”
Her arched brows rose. “Mags? You haven’t called me that in years. Must be from looking at my old pictures, when I was young and flawless.”
“To me, you still are.”
“That’s the positive side of marrying an older man. I’ll always be young in your eyes.”
“And I’ll always be old.”
“Nonsense. You’re as sexy today as the day I married you twenty-three years ago.”
She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me with a passion she hadn’t expressed in a while―probably since the start of her affair with David. Thinking back, I could almost pinpoint the day. In spite of knowing about her infidelity, my body responded to her lush sensuality. I drew her closer. She didn’t pull away as my erection pressed on her thighs.
“Oh, darling,” she murmured. “Are you sure you don’t want me to cancel my plans?”
“No. You meet with your doctor and dine with Celeste. We have years ahead of us.” I almost gagged on the words. Did we even have days ahead of us? I couldn’t lose her. I wouldn’t. “Lose” wasn’t in my vocabulary.
“If you’re sure. I’ll be home around ten. See you then. Love you.” She pecked me on the cheek and left, her scent lingering in the air, the eponymous scent I’d arranged with the biggest cosmetic company in the world. Magdalene, subtitled The Scent of Beauty. I shuddered at the trace of fragrance I’d approved and now found sickeningly sweet.
I collapsed into my desk chair, overwhelmed by such a range of emotions I couldn’t decide which one took precedence. Denial. Grief. No. What plagued me most was anger at their betrayal.
I was not a man who let others control his fate. But this time was different. The two people closest to me in all the world had broken my heart. I sat for a long time, thinking, remembering, reassessing my future.
I reread the contract I signed only last week. Things had changed. I would revise the wording. But first I needed to make a call.
* * * *
I’d just hung up the phone when David charged through my door. Other than my secretary, he and Magdalene were the only people allowed to enter my office unannounced.
David is everything I’m not in the looks department. Tall where I’m short, buff where I’m paunchy. At the moment, I cursed the fact that he took after his mother, another beauty, taken from life too soon.
“Magdalene will be magnificent as Mata Hari, Dad.”
“As she is in every role. I’m worried though. She’s insisting on cosmetic surgery. Maybe you can change her mind. This is the first time she won’t take my advice.”
“If she won’t listen to you, what makes you think I can change her mind?”
I wanted to strangle the traitorous bastard. I swallowed hard to regain my composure. “You’re friends, and she knows I have a blind eye where she’s concerned.”
“Whatever you say, but in all honesty, her age lines are showing on the big screen. I’m sure whatever her surgeon does will be subtle. No sense waiting until she obviously needs a facelift.”
* * * *
The following night at dinner, I opened a chilled bottle of Cristal to accompany our baked sole and tried to talk Magdalene out of the surgery. The harder I made my case, the more determined she became to go through with the facelift.
“Why spoil perfection?” I asked, giving the argument my last best shot.
“A little nip and tuck will make me more perfect, darling,” she said, sipping the champagne.
“I see you’ve made up your mind.”
“I have.”
Magdalene told me her surgery was scheduled for Friday morning. “Dr. Andari cleared his schedule after I explained filming on Mata Hari will start soon, and I need to be picture-perfect from the first take.”
“How nice of him.”
“He’s a lovely man. I want you to meet him.”
“I will. I’ll cancel whatever I have scheduled.”
“You’re a dear.”
After Carmela cleared the dishes, Magdalene leaned across the table, her champagne flute held precariously in one hand, and said in her sultriest voice, “Wasn’t there something we were supposed to continue from yesterday?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. We’d never stopped having sex, even if I required a little blue pill sometimes. I felt she obliged me to keep the old man happy. Considering what I now knew, I’d been right. I was her puppet. Here I sat, one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, and my wife had an invisible string tied around my balls. Schmuck. More humiliating, I gratefully accepted the scenario.
I got up, removed the champagne glass from her hand, and led her upstairs to her bedroom. I wouldn’t need a pill tonight. I was hard as a rock with the thought that Magdalene initiated the lovemaking. I blocked out the photos of her and David screwing in the motel room. This was a screenplay, and I would play the part.
I’d never been egotistical enough to believe Magdalene married me for love. No matter what wealthy, powerful men looked like, we had our pick of beautiful women. Carlo Ponti spoke those exact words to me years ago when talking about Sophia. In the bedroom, Magdalene stripped off her clothes, allowing me the pleasure of gazing at her voluptuous body as she unbuttoned my shirt. I suppose she wanted to take the lead tonight. That was fine with me.
She peeled off the rest of my clothes and led me to the bed as if I were a stray puppy. Propping a pillow behind my head, she leaned down and kissed me―an openmouthed, tongue-exploring kiss that electrified every nerve in my body. Then she proceeded to pleasure me in a way she hadn’t in years. I chose not to intellectualize why she was doing it now―honest passion, sexual gratification…guilt. I didn’t care. Instead, I lay there, enjoying every moment of her performance until I achieved her objective. When my heart stopped pounding, I returned the favor, much to her delight.
I didn’t know how great an actress Magdalene was until this moment. Tonight was the best night I’d experienced with my gorgeous wife in a long time. I was putty in her hands.
* * * *
Friday morning came too soon. I shook hands with Dr. Rafiq Andari, a clone of Omar Sharif from his Doctor Zhivago days, and he explained the surgery.
“I’ll keep your wife overnight.” He had a slight accent I couldn’t identify. “The rest will speed her healing, and I’ll be here to check on her. She can go home tomorrow after we change the dressing. I suggest she relax for a few weeks, but”―he turned to Magdalene―“you’ll be ready for filming on the required date.” He crossed his heart. “Promise.”
I stayed with Magdalene in her private room. We talked about the film and its inevitable success, until a nurse gave her a sedative. When Magdalene grew drowsy, they wheeled her bed to the surgical unit.
Another nurse directed me to a luxurious private waiting room and a soft leather sofa. She brought me a glass of pinot noir and the latest Variety.
I tried to read, but my thoughts strayed. To Magdalene and David. To their duplicity. I drank the wine, paced the floor, waited.
When they brought her back to her room, she was groggy. I held her hand until she slept.
* * * *
The next morning, Magdalene was awake, anxious to leave the clinic. The bandages were driving her crazy. A different doctor came into the room.
“Where’s Dr. Andari?” I asked.
“Honest
ly? We don’t know. He’s never been late before, and we can’t reach him.
“I want him,” Magdalene said. “Call him. Get him here. Dr. Andari wouldn’t desert me.”
“Many times,” the doctor said, “he leaves the bandage removal to one of his associates. The surgery is the most important part.”
Magdalene huffed and puffed, obviously furious.
“Don’t excite yourself,” I said. “You’ll pull your stitches.”
After a moment, she calmed down. “You’re right, but I can’t believe he’s not here this morning.”
“Now let’s see Dr. Andari’s fine work.” The young doctor began to gently remove the bandages. As he pulled away the last strip of gauze, I saw a look of shock come over his face, and he turned as pale as his crisp, white tunic. He didn’t speak.
I moved to face Magdalene and sucked in a quick, deep breath. The right side of her face sagged.
She must have noticed our reaction. “What?” When the word came out, she touched her lips, then tapped her cheek. Her eyes―eye―opened wide. “Give me a goddamn mirror. Now.”
“This―this s-sometimes happens,” the doctor said. “Usually the face returns to normal in a matter of weeks, maybe months.”
“Usually? Months?” Magdalene’s voice sounded like a feline caterwaul, high-pitched and shrill. She grabbed the mirror. “Oh. My. God. I’m a freak. Ben, do something.”
For an instant I was too shocked to speak. My beautiful Magdalene. I turned to the doctor, regaining my voice. “Find Andari. Tell him to fix this or I’ll take everything he owns. His house, his clinic, his nuts. Everything.”
Sweat beaded the doctor’s face. “I understand.” He rushed from the room, no doubt relieved to get away from such a disaster.
Magdalene couldn’t take her eyes from the mirror. Tears ran down her mismatched cheeks. Drool dribbled from the right corner of her mouth. “God, Ben. Look at me. I’m a horror show. I’ll never make another movie.”
I wanted to say she was still beautiful to me, but I thought the moment inappropriate. “Give yourself time, Mags. If you don’t return to normal, I’ll find the best doctor in the world. Someone will be able to fix this. I promise.”