by Lada Ray
I gasped and jerked my hand out of Rebbecca's grip. Swaying dangerously, I tried to steady myself. The next thing I knew, Rachel's arm was around me, keeping me from falling. A sudden fit of excruciating coughing made me bend forward, toward Rebbecca, while holding on to the bed frame for extra balance. As I did, I glanced at the woman sitting on the bed. Her pose was now more relaxed, eyes fully open, gaze fixed on my face. It occurred to me that we were making progress and that, if I continued talking, we would soon get somewhere. But first, I needed to get back to my chair and rest a minute or two, because I felt exhausted and sick after yet another shocking encounter with Rebbecca's rape.
Rachel, her arm still around me, and I, still bent over next to the bed, were about to start moving back to our chairs, when the door suddenly opened and Nurse Blake hurriedly entered the room. Rebbecca immediately shrunk back, fear registering on her gaunt face. The nurse frowned, throwing a quick glance around the room. It was hard not to notice the changes and it was clear, she didn't like what she saw. The window closed; both visitors out of their chairs and in very strange poses; me, holding on to the bed frame and both of us leaning toward the woman, who appeared to shrink away in fear. God only knows what passed through the nurse's mind when she caught us like this, but one look at her face told me that ours was a lost cause. Her words confirmed it.
“I am afraid, Becca had enough excitement for the day,” said Nurse Blake coldly. She avoided looking in our direction, while forcefully opening the door to let us out. “She needs her rest now.”
It was clear that nothing we could say or do would change the fact that we were no longer welcome in this establishment. Nurse Blake accompanied us in silence to the front door and stood in the open doorway, like a sentinel, while we walked to the car. As we drove out of the clinic, we noticed a security vehicle following us to the exit, making sure we left for good.
Rachel drove, as I recovered from my vision - the most intense so far.
“So, what d'you think?” I asked her, as soon as I could breathe again. We sat on my back porch, me – clutching a delicate porcelain cup with peppermint tea in it, Rachel – completely ignoring hers with a concerned expression on her face.
“Rache, it was very intense this time,” I tried again. “My vision, I mean. But I keep seeing the same thing: grass, lake, young woman and three faceless rapists. If only I could see what they looked like!”
Rachel didn't respond.
“And did you see how Rebbecca reacted?” I continued excitedly. “I know she was trying to tell me something, I know that! She was on the verge of awakening. May be she was ready to disclose what really happened back then? If only the nurse didn't come in at that moment!”
I felt extremely frustrated.
But Rachel still failed to answer.
“What's bothering you?” I finally said.
“Many things,” she responded slowly. “First of all, I am concerned about your visions. It seemed too intense for my liking and you would've fallen, if it wasn't for me catching you on time.”
“Ah, that's nothing. I was perfectly fine,” I waived her concerns away.
“No, it's not nothing and you weren't fine at all! You are still a little pale and this could cause too much strain in your condition. I am concerned that next time, I may not be there to catch you.”
“You're right,” I conceded, mostly to get her off my back. “I have to think about the baby. I promise to be more careful. But,” I added with a sly grin, “you have to agree, the sooner we catch those bastards, the sooner my visions will be over.”
“That's the thing,” she responded. “I know how you feel about it, but I'm not sure you should be involved in this investigation at all in you condition.”
“Oh, Rache, not again!” I felt really frustrated with her. “What do you think can happen to me here, in this sheltered Stepford paradise, where people don't lock their doors and where the biggest thrill is the knitting club gathering at the local library?”
“I don't know,” she responded in a measured voice of a therapist trying to talk some sense into a completely unreasonable patient. “But I didn't like what I saw at the clinic.”
“What d'you mean?” I asked, my antenna up, because deep down I definitely agreed with her. There was something I didn't like there either, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. “It's your neck of the woods, all this psychiatry business. What was off, in your view?”
"Nothing definitive, because it was too brief, but it's as if Rebbecca was afraid of something at that clinic. Also, I didn't quite like how we were dismissed either.”
“Well, the nurse appears to have thought we were doing something to Rebbecca and she was being protective of her. Maybe overly protective, no?”
“On the surface, yes. But something's not right...” Rachel frowned, deep in thought.
“You think there is something shady going on over there?”
“I don't know. It's possible.”
“Hmm... So, Rebbecca's afraid of something you think?”
“Something... or someone?”
“You mean, like Nurse Blake?” I gasped.
“N-no, I don't think so,” Rachel looked hesitant. “It's very hard for me to think that a member of my profession – any member – would be involved in something...um.. like...”
“You mean, like intimidation or something?”
“I don't know what's going on over there, but something's definitely off.”
“I agree,” I said. “There were some strange vibes, but I was busy with the window and Rebbecca, while you were a removed observer. Tell me what you saw.”
“Well,” she said. “For one, Rebbecca was extremely still and indifferent most of the time, but when you started telling your story, she changed. So, we have to assume that something in your story caused her to react. What was it?”
“Yes, I agree. I clearly saw her eyelashes flutter at least twice. And then she opened her eyes, indicating that she wanted her window closed. After that, she grabbed my hand and definitely wanted to say something. But my vision got in the way. Was that the sequence of events, as you remember?”
“More or less. When was the first time she'd fluttered her eyelashes? I think it was when you mentioned that we live in New York.”
“I thought so, too,” I said. “But how could that be relevant? She's tired of staying at the clinic and wants to travel? Is that what got her excited?”
“Perhaps,” said Rachel pensively. “She did flutter her eyelashes again when you mentioned Iraq, Afghanistan and Africa. So, it would seem logical. But how would you explain that she wanted us to close her window? She is longing to travel, yet she is afraid of a light breeze in the clinic's private garden?”
“True. That doesn't seem to make sense.”
“No, it doesn't.”
“Besides,” I continued, “she grabbed me pretty hard – startled me awfully, and you know I am not easily startled. I was surprised she had such strength. Her hand seemed so lifeless. So, where did the strength come from?”
“That's just it,” nodded Rachel. “It doesn't make any sense, unless...”
“Unless?”
“Why did she want us to close the window? The only plausible answer that comes to mind is that she was afraid of someone overhearing our conversation. Was she preparing to tell us something? Something that got interrupted by Nurse Blake's appearance?”
“Rache,” I started again, “d'you think Nurse Blake is...”
“N-no,” she shook her head reluctantly. “No... I don't know... I hope not... To think that a member of medical profession, a colleague of mine could be, you know... doing something...”
“I feel the same way. I sincerely hope she is not implicated. After all, she is Shawna's mother as well.”
Silence was almost complete as we drank our teasane, munching on giant roasted cashews and New Zealand honey, Rachel's gifts from abundant New York.
Then I said, “I still can't understand why she
would be reacting to my talking about travel?”
“I don't know,” shook her head Rachel. “Unless.... unless we are misreading it and she was reacting to something completely different.”
“That's likely,” I nodded. “But the question is – to what?”
Chapter 14
“What's this?” said Rachel, picking up a card from the mantelpiece. She read aloud:
You are invited to
The Stepford Day Fair
Sunday, June 6th
10 a.m. – 6 p.m.
“Ah, almost forgot,” I said. “It's tomorrow and I think we should go. Half the town will be there and it'll be a terrific chance for some additional sleuthing.”
“Bake sale,” read Rachel. “Artisan breads, homemade pies and scrumptious deserts. Local artists' exhibit. Silent charity auction. Local organic farm produce. Historic car show. Berkshire Humane Society's cat adoption. And last but not least, local chefs showcase their culinary talents. Hmm... Sounds pretty good, actually. It might be fun. Why not.”
After sleeping in late on Sunday, I put on my usual stretchy Capris and a turquoise tunic with a matching turquoise necklace that highlighted my eyes. Rachel opted for a red summer dress that went fabulously with her dark eyes and hair. Having approved of each other's outfits, we were off to the Stepford Day Fair at the local fairgrounds. A sea of colorful balloons and white tents, accompanied by an extravaganza of smells and cacophony of sounds, met us at the gate.
“Ah, Ms. Snow,” said a familiar voice, which belonged to Peter Burns. “Glad you could make it to our celebration.” He met us by the entrance like a gracious host, a big smile on his good looking face, his eyes (no time wasted there!) proficiently scanning down my neckline, towards my breasts and skimming the rest of me.
“Hello, Mr. Burns,” I shook his hand, which was surprisingly warm and smooth to the touch.
“Please, meet my wife,” he continued, nodding at a slim woman in a designer silk blouse and straight blue skirt, which fit her perfectly. She held a leather portfolio in one hand and a Parker pen in another. A regular country-club-going, charity-inclined, bored-out-of-her-mind, and boring, suburban millionaire's wife.
“Pleased to meet you,” I shook the woman's hand. “Jade Snow.”
“Sheila Burns,” she responded politely, but her thin lips remained unsmiling and I was struck by a tone of resignation in her voice.
“Please, meet my friend, Rachel Weise,” I said. “She's visiting from New York.”
Peter Burns shook Rachel's hand with the same broad smile he afforded me, and the ritual of checking out a new skirt in town repeated to the minute detail. An almost imperceptible sigh parted Sheila's lips, and I started understanding why she had a resigned, almost martyred, look on her face.
“My wife and I are co-presidents of the organizational committee for the Stepford Day celebrations,” went on Peter, who didn't seem to notice his wife's discomfort. Or may be he did, but didn't care? “I hope, you are coming to the car show later on. It's the highlight of the day. I have two cars of my own on display!”
“Terrific, we'll be there!” I said distractedly, eying a stand with appetizing-looking Greek food. After all, it was almost lunch time. Well, brunch time to be exact and I was feeling ravenously hungry.
“So, that's the infamous banker, Peter Burns,” remarked Rachel, as we sat at a small picnic table we were lucky to find in the shade of a sprawling maple, munching on our Greek salad and pita wraps. The table position was up on a small hill, near the very end of the fair and although it was somewhat remote, it afforded an excellent view of most of the grounds.
“Yes, that's him. He feels like a very likely person to have committed that rape.”
“Why?” laughed Rachel, “because he is a banker, because he is good looking, or because he doesn't miss a single skirt?”
“Well, all of the above, I guess.” I said. “Oh, stop laughing, will you! I can't quite quantify it. Not yet. There is something about him I can't exactly put into words. Besides, did you know that he had a major crush on Rebbecca back in high school, but she never reciprocated? Motive enough to rape her and pin the crime on the lucky rival, don't you think?”
“Possibly, but...” Rachel didn't seem convinced. “Womanizer, yes, roving eye, yes, but he doesn't strike me as the type...” she started, but attracted by the delicious piece of baklava on her plate, interrupted her speech and dug in with gusto. “You know, this baklava practically melts in your mouth. I think, I'll pick up some to bring back to New York. Actually, let's see what other baked goodies they've got. I like what I see so far.”
“Sure,” I said, resigning to the fact that the world around us was on lunch mode and Rachel's attention was fixed on smells and views from the food court. I nodded in the direction of a series of tables with what looked like mountains of artisan breads and hills of pies on them. “We should definitely check out that bake sale, I was told they have pretty good st...”
I paused, as I noticed Peter Burns quietly making his way around the bake sale tables to the last row of tents on the right - alone. Rachel and I exchanged a look. Meanwhile, Peter stopped and surreptitiously surveyed the grounds. We followed his glance and saw Sheila Burns talking to someone at the silent auction site, on the opposite side of the venue. He nodded, apparently satisfied, and made a resolute beeline for a tent in the last row, which was backing to the shrubbery surrounding the fairgrounds. He opened the curtain and with the last discreet glance of the surrounding area, disappeared into the tent.
“Wow,” said Rachel, her eyebrows shooting to the sky. “This one's not wasting his time.”
We finished our lunch and took a stroll amongst the sprawling tables and tents.
“Hi, ladies,” a voice called to us from the nearby booth. “Would you like a flier?”
I spun around to find myself nose to nose with Marc Catcham, of the Law Offices of Catcham and Catcham, Esqs.
“Hi,” he repeated with the same trained politician's smile on his face I remembered so well from the Blue Peacock. “Welcome to the Stepford Day and to the Catcham for Senate booth! Allow me to offer you some souvenirs.”
And before we could say anything, he pushed on us some plastic shopping bags in white, red and blue with a huge “Catcham for Senate” printed across. The bags turned out to be filled with brochures and fliers, as well as stickers with “Vote for Marc Catcham” in red and blue, a pen and a mug with (you guessed it!) the same dizzying “Catcham for Senate!” written on it.
“Th-thank you,” I said, forcing a smile. Rachel said nothing.
“Ah, Marc, aren't you going to introduce me?” A woman, who wore a business suit, despite Sunday and the warm sun, joined our group.
“Of course,” said Marc Catcham, flushing his customary smile, “Linda Morrow, editor-in-chief of the Stepford Post, our premier publication. Jade Snow, a journalist. And...”
“My friend from New York, Rachel Weise,” I said.
“It's very nice to meet you, Rachel, Jade,” Linda shook our hands. “I've heard a great deal about you, Jade, and I read something of yours.”
“Really?” I said, pleasantly surprised. “What did you read?”
“Your articles from Iraq, for example,” said Linda. “I enjoyed them very much.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Say,” she continued, “something just occurred to me. We are always on the lookout for high quality contributors to our publication. If you at some point decide that you want to write for a newspaper again, I would welcome your articles.”
“What topics are you interested in?”
“Any topic of your choice,” she said quickly. “I would be honored to publish any articles you write for us. If you decide this is for you, please contact me.” And she produced her business card.
“Jesus,” I said when we were safely out of Linda and Marc's earshot. “I am starting to feel one can't make a step in this town without being forced on a brochure or a business card.”
“You are not seriously considering writing for the Stepford Post, are you?” said Rachel.
“Anything's possible,” I said sagely. “Life will show.”
“Can we somehow dispose of these things?” said Rachel. I already forgot I was carrying the “Catcham for Senate” bag.
“You're right, I wouldn't want to carry a bag that serves as a free walking advertisement for that sleazebag, no pun intended.”
“A bag from a sleazebag,” snorted Rachel. “Not bad.”
“Let's go over there,” I pointed in the direction of the classic car chow, which was in full swing to our left, beside a small building. “It's far enough and he won't see us throwing out his stuff if we can find a dumpster behind that structure.”
We made straight for the car show, but no dumpster was in sight. We walked among the antique Roadsters, Fords, Mustangs and Corvettes in an eye-popping range of colors, from yellow and magenta, to sky blue and bubble gum pink, all the while being on the lookout for a suitable dumpster.
“There,” finally exclaimed Rachel. We headed to the large trash can, placed in the back of the car show venue, next to a classic silver Mercedes convertible with red leather interior. A tall man stood in front of the car, his arms crossed, apparently admiring it. Rachel and I threw out the bags together with their contents.
“Upph,” she breathed a sigh of relief. “Good riddance.”
We were about to leave, when...
“Hi Jade,” said a soft voice behind us. Jason Paphos stood beside the silver Mercedes, smiling at me. It was a tender smile, which I've never seen on his face before.
“Jason!” Almost against my will, my voice acquired an excited quality and my face stretched into a happy grin. “What a pleasant surprise! How great to see you here!”
“It's great to see you!” The size of Jason's grin rivaled mine.