by Joan Hess
I waited a moment to see if the chair was going to collapse, then shook my head. “I don’t have any influence with them. Have you tried the county health department? Surely they have some kind of day-care program for the elderly.”
“I took her there yesterday morning, but while I was filling out some forms in the office, she took off all her clothes and climbed onto the piano. Some of the old geezers liked to have had heart attacks right there on the spot. We was out on the curb in no time flat, and it was all I could do not to just leave her sittin’ there and drive off.” Her brow lowered ominously. “I would have, too, but I’d already told ’em my name and address. Mebbe I should put her in a gunnysack and dump her out in the woods.”
“That’s against the law,” I said quickly. “You don’t want to deliver your baby in a prison hospital, do you?”
She mulled this over for a moment. “I reckon not. When are you gonna do something about Eileen?”
“She’s not back?”
“Would I be askin’ if she was?” Dahlia struggled to her feet and trudged toward the door. “Earl ain’t heard from her, neither. He’s mopin’ around like a mangy dawg.”
After she left, I did some highly intricate calculations and determined Eileen had been gone for at least thirty hours. It was premature to call in a posse or demand that Harve issue an APB, but it was worrisome. I considered calling Earl, then decided to drive over to his house and ask a few questions, some of which might be awkward.
His pickup was parked in the yard. I went up onto the porch and knocked on the screen door. When there was no response, I opened the door and called his name. I continued into the living room, and then into the kitchen, where I found him sitting at the table, dressed in grubby trousers and a torn undershirt. He had not shaved in the last two days, and his eyes were red and glazed. An empty bottle of cheap whiskey on the table did much to explain his appearance.
“Earl?” I said. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he muttered.
I noticed there were no dirty dishes on the counter or in the sink. “Have you had anything to eat today?”
“I don’t rightly recollect.”
I opened the refrigerator and took out some leftover meatloaf. I made him a thick sandwich, set it in front of him, and sat down. “Dahlia said you haven’t heard from Eileen.”
“Dahlia sez a lot of things. Just listening to her wears me out. I don’t know how Kevin puts up with her all the time jabbering like a magpie.”
“But you haven’t heard from Eileen,” I said.
“Nope.”
“I know it’s none of my business, Earl, but did you and she have an argument the night before she left?”
“She fixed supper, then went out to some fool meeting at the county extension office. Quilting, mebbe. Got home about nine, bitched at me for leaving cake crumbs on the counter, and went to bed. The next morning she was gone, slick as a whistle.”
“And she didn’t take anything with her?” I persisted.
He lumbered to his feet and took a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet. After a brief struggle punctuated by grunts and curses, he wrenched off the top and took a deep swig. “How in tarnation would I know? Her toothbrush is still in the bathroom, along with her bottle of mouthwash. Stuff tastes like horse piss.” He dropped back in the chair and gazed moodily at the salt and pepper shakers. “Worse’n horse piss.”
“Did you call her relatives?”
“Kevin did yesterday evening, and ever’body else he could think of. Nobody’s laid eyes on her.”
I sat down across from him. “What about money, Earl?”
“What about it?” he said as he took another swig of whiskey.
“Did she…well, empty your wallet while you were asleep?”
He gave me a dark look. “Weren’t but a couple of dollars in it. I reckon she could have gone to the bank. Are you saying she cleaned out the account and took off for good?”
“I’m not saying anything, Earl. I’m just worried about her, the same as you are. Why don’t you call your bank and ask them about the last withdrawal, and then call me. If she has money, she’ll be safer.”
“That’s all you have to say?” he said in a surly voice. “You ain’t gonna do anything about it?” His face turned red as he thumped the tabletop with his fist. “She’s got no right to run off like this! Can’t you have her arrested for running off?”
I eased out of the chair and backed toward the living room. Earl was a big man, with a thick neck and strong arms from years of manual labor on his farm. He wasn’t a notorious brawler, but there had been times when I’d had to drag him out of the pool hall and send him home with an acerbic lecture. At the moment, he was too befuddled to intimidate me, but I didn’t want the scenario to turn any uglier.
Instead of responding, I went out to my car and drove back toward the PD. I had no idea what Eileen was up to, but I wished her well.
“Well, just what was I supposed to have said?” grumbled Ruby Bee as she filled baskets with pretzels in preparation for happy hour. “It ain’t like the motel’s booked up for the next six months.”
Estelle leaned over and snagged one of the baskets. “I myself wouldn’t sleep at night knowing that kind of people were in the next unit. Far be it from me to criticize you for wanting to make money, but don’t go selling your soul to the devil for less than a million dollars—or maybe that should be pesos.”
“That’s the silliest talk I’ve heard since Berrymore Buchanon decided he was gonna run for president of the United States. Remember how he snuck around town at night planting signs in people’s yards?”
“Say what you like,” Estelle replied disdainfully, “but you’re the one who’s gonna have to put up with all manner of tacky behavior. Don’t come whining to me on account of how you can’t get any sleep because they’re having fiestas or whatever you call ’em.”
Ruby Bee went over to the window and looked out at the parking lot of the Flamingo Motel. There were two concrete block buildings, each with four rooms. She’d cut a door between numbers one and two, using one as a sitting room with a small kitchenette and the other as her bedroom. More often than not, the rest of the units were empty. Now four of them were rented for at least three months.
“They look perfectly normal to me,” she said as she watched the men and women remove battered suitcases from a van. She’d prudently (or perhaps prudishly) put the men on one side and the women on the other, although there wasn’t much more than thirty feet separating the buildings. And it wasn’t like the Flamingo Motel had never been home to some hanky-panky.
Estelle joined her at the window. “But they’re foreigners.”
“So’s the fellow what owns the Dairee Dee-Lishus, but him and his family are real nice. Do you recollect when their little boy played baseball on my team?”
“They don’t go to church.”
Ruby Bee resisted the urge to jab her friend in the arm. “Yes, they do. I told you that he said they’re Catholics, so they go to Farberville on Sunday mornings.”
“Catholics. Now if that don’t make you nervous, nothing should.”
“Estelle Oppers,” said Ruby Bee, aghast, “I never knew you were a bigot. Catholics are Christians, same as us. Furthermore, just because somebody is from another country doesn’t mean he’s some kind of junkyard dog.”
“I never said that, Ruby Bee Hanks, and I don’t appreciate being called a bigot! I am just as open-minded as anybody else.”
Ruby Bee narrowed her eyes. “I heard what you said—and it wasn’t pretty.”
“All I said was that you ought to be a mite careful with all these foreigners staying at the motel.” Estelle banged down her glass on the bar and spun around. “When you’re ready to apologize, you know where to find me. Have a nice day!” She stomped across the dance floor and out the door. Seconds later, her tires spun in the gravel as she drove away.
“When I’m ready to apologize?” muttered Ruby Bee as she snatched up
the glass and washed it in the sink. “That’ll be long after the cows come home, let me tell you. You can sit under a hair dryer and sip sherry all by your lonesome, Estelle Oppers. I ain’t got time for bigots in this bar! Why, I’ve half a mind to…” She stopped and wrinkled her forehead, since she couldn’t come up with much of anything. She dried the glass and put it on a shelf, then went into the kitchen to check on the ham and the sweet potato casserole in the oven. The pies were already done, and it was too early to start the rolls. It was tempting to go out back and welcome her guests, even though Dr. Skiller had warned her that none of them spoke English. At least they’d understand a smile and an armload of extra towels.
When she came out of the kitchen, she saw she had a customer in one of the booths. He was scruffy, with frizzy brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and stubbly cheeks. His nose dominated his face, and from what she could see of his eyes, they were small and dark. He was wearing a battered leather hat and a dirty denim jacket. He lit a cigarette, then looked up at her and said, “Can I get a hamburger and a beer?”
“Sure can,” she said, wishing she wasn’t alone with him. She’d been held up a couple of times over the years, and she hadn’t enjoyed it one bit. Her eyes widened as he came over to the bar and sat down on a stool, but she refrained from going for the baseball bat she kept under the counter.
“Whatever you have on tap is fine,” he said, “and let me have fries with the burger.”
She filled a mug and set it down. “It’ll take a few minutes for the food.”
“I’m not in a hurry.”
Ruby Bee was sorry to hear that, since she wouldn’t have minded if he downed the beer and left. She moved an ashtray within his reach and retreated into the kitchen. It wasn’t like he’d done anything, she reminded herself. Customers came in all the time, and some of them were strangers. It was all Estelle’s fault for making those remarks earlier about the Mexicans out back, implying they were thieves and murderers just because they were foreigners. Still, it might have been comforting if someone else came by for a beer.
She fixed his plate and took it back to the barroom. He was still sitting on the stool, all innocent and smiling just a little bit. The light from the neon beer signs behind her gave him a peculiar pinkish glow, but that was hardly his fault.
“Looks good,” he said as he took the plate. “This place usually so quiet?”
“Almost never, and I’ll be real surprised if folks don’t come through the door any minute. My daughter usually comes by about this time, too. She’s the chief of police. Sometimes she complains about having to carry a gun, but it’s part of her job. She’s a lot tougher than she looks, lemme tell you. She’s always breaking up fights at the pool hall, and some of them ol’ boys are bigger than boxcars.”
He gave her a curious look, then began to eat.
Ruby Bee gave him a few minutes, then said, “Are you just passing through?”
“I plan to stay around here for a while.”
“Oh, really?” She raised her eyebrows and waited, but when he didn’t explain, said, “You have kinfolk here?”
“Not that I know of, but we’re all part of the family of mankind, aren’t we? The children of the earth goddess, the servants of the stars, the guardians of the mountain streams and gentle breezes.”
“I suppose so,” she said uneasily. From the way he was looking at her, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he was to invite her to get nekkid and howl at the moon. “What’s your line of work?”
He finished the last fry and pushed his plate aside. “I’m a personal trainer.”
Ruby Bee’s forehead crinkled. “Is that like an animal trainer?”
“In a way I guess it is, although animals are probably easier to work with.” He took out his wallet and put a ten-dollar bill on the bar. After Ruby Bee rang it up on the cash register and came back with change, he said, “Can you tell me how to find the Stonebridge Foundation?”
“Glad to oblige,” she said, trying to keep her voice from cracking. “Take a left and go down a ways until you come to where the New Age hardware store used to be before the roof collapsed a couple of years back. It’s catty-corner to what was the branch bank until it burned to the ground. These days Velveeta Buchanon parks there and sells vegetables from the back of her pickup, but she quits ’long about noon. Turn toward the low-water bridge and go about a quarter of a mile. It’s right across the road from a persimmon tree. You can’t miss it.”
He touched the brim of his hat and left. She waited until she heard the door close before allowing herself to clutch her throat. As soon as Darla Jean had told her mother about finding the psychiatrist’s name on the Internet, Millicent had wasted no time sharing the news. Now everybody in town knew the Stonebridge Foundation was a lunatic asylum. To think a patient had come into her bar & grill! Why, she could of been murdered right then and there! Arly would have come by sooner or later and found her bloodied body on the floor behind the bar. Then the sheriff and the coroner would show up, along with deputies to put up yellow tape across the front door. Her picture would be on the front page of the newspaper, and her obituary on the second page.
She was about to snatch up the phone and call Arly to tell her not to invite Estelle to the funeral when it occurred to her she was letting her imagination run wild. But she didn’t have anything else to do for the next hour, so she went ahead and dialed the number.
5
“Would anyone care for a glass of pinot noir before we begin? It’s really quite nice, and all the rage in California.” Vincent was seated behind his impressive walnut desk. At the moment, its surface was clear except for a neat stack of manila folders, a gold pen, and a lamp. His walls, on the other hand, were covered with autographed photos taken of him with toothy celebrities and politicians.
“Not for me,” said Brenda. “I still have a thousand details to see to before tomorrow.”
Vincent gazed at her. “Shall we discuss Walter Kaiser? He is…well, he is not what I expected. Does he have any credentials, or did you find him at a homeless shelter?”
“He has a license and experience in his field. He may look a bit unconventional, but he has promised that by tomorrow he will present an acceptable demeanor. He is as eager as we are to make a success of our program. I can promise you that you will hear no complaints about him.” What she meant, of course, was that Vince would not hear any complaints if she could do anything about it. On his arrival, Walter had pulled her aside and made it clear to her that he needed the job for at least six months, as well as a substantial loan. When she’d asked if outstanding warrants were involved, he’d given her a saccharine smile. She’d seen corpses with more agreeable expressions. Several of them.
Vincent held up the bottle and glanced at Randall. “Wine?”
“No, thank you. I’ve treated too many people who abused alcohol because of stress. Ever since things…started to fall apart, I don’t trust myself. I need to keep a clear head. Maybe I’ll let Brenda talk me into one of her herbal concoctions.”
“California poppy, passionflower, and valerian capsules will help, along with several cups of chamomile or catnip tea during the day,” she said, making a note.
Vincent poured himself a glass of wine and opened the top folder. “Then let’s review the case files for our patients, all of whom are arriving tomorrow. The first will be Dawn Dartmouth. She was a child actress in a sitcom. She began when she was four years old, and the show ran for seven years. During her teenage years, she had parts in several made-for-cable movies, usually playing the role of a prostitute or a runaway. Her sister died when she was fourteen. Dawn is now twenty-two. Her mother is an alcoholic with multiple failed marriages. Her father is, shall we say, missing in action. Dawn was first arrested at the age of fifteen, when she crashed her mother’s car into a neighbor’s garage. Her alcohol level was twice the legal limit, and she had cocaine in her possession. It was hushed up, as were many subsequent charges of a similar nature.”
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br /> “A typical Hollywood brat,” commented Brenda. She turned to Randall for support, but his head was bowed as he scribbled notes with a jerky hand.
“One could say that,” Vincent said. “Recently Dawn was involved in an incident that could not be so easily dismissed. It seems she was romantically linked to a rock star who ditched her. She drove into his yard, shot out all the windows in the front of the house, and attacked his Ferrari with a tire iron. When the police arrived, she attempted to run over one of them with her car. She was quite drunk and high on a variety of drugs, and the gun was unlicensed. The judge has agreed to keep the matter out of court until she completes a rehab program. Her lawyer found a place in California, but Dawn checked herself out after three days. This is her last chance. If she does not complete our program, she will go to trial.”
Randall slapped down the pen. “Anger management, as well as private counseling for low self-esteem and conflicts with her mother. Tranquilizers until she’s through initial withdrawal, and then mood stabilizers and an antidepressant.”
“Why give her more drugs?” said Brenda. “She needs a cleansing regime and vitamin therapy. It’s obvious she has nutritional deficiencies.”
Vincent withheld a sigh. “In this situation, and in all the other cases I’m going to present, I believe a wide variety of therapies will be best.”
“You don’t dump a bucket of water on someone who’s drowning,” Brenda countered mulishly. “All these drugs Randall wants to give her are addictive, too.”
“But not as self-destructive,” said Randall.
Brenda’s eyes narrowed. “So we merely exchange one addiction for another?”
Vincent held up his hand. “Enough of this,” he said as if calming down recalcitrant toddlers. “Our next patient is Alexandra Swayze.”
“Senator Swayze?” Randall glanced up. “Isn’t she running for reelection?”