“She stinks.” Mona took a firm grip on Coco’s arm and stepped back. “She smells horrible.” She looked at Dallas for an explanation. “Are you okay? I caught the news. There’s still no sign of your husband?”
“Not a trace. But I know he didn’t leave me.” She shrugged as best she could with Coco hanging on her. “Let’s tend to Coco. She had a food breakdown. That photographer and I had to drag her out from under the bed. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Dallas gritted her teeth. “Thank God for the convertible. I wouldn’t have been able to ride with her in an enclosed car.”
Mona stood as far back as she could while still supporting Coco. She noticed the pink coconut matted in Coco’s hair, chocolate in the creases of her neck. “I can’t believe this is Coco,” she said, awe in her voice.
“It isn’t.” Dallas swallowed. “This is Elsie. Elsie Chamber, alias Coco Frappé. There is no roommate.”
Mona shook her head. “Incredible. But right now, it’s better to keep this to ourselves.”
Dallas nodded, her arms trembling from the strain of holding Coco upright. “Let’s just do something before she falls.”
Mona signaled Iris to come outside. “We need a pot of black coffee and someplace to clean her up.”
“What in the hell happened to her?” Iris approached carefully. “Good lord, is that peanut butter in her ear?”
“Very possibly. She went on a binge. Put plain and simply, an attack of gluttony.” Mona’s voice was crisp. “Is there a place we could rinse her off? She’s a little … offensive.”
“I’ll say. She smells like something dead, buried, and found by the dogs.” Iris circled Coco, careful to keep a respectful distance. “There’s a hose in the back.” She pointed toward the alley and watched as the three women staggered away.
Iris sprinted through the shop and burst into the apartment. “Go to the window, Bo,” she said, flipping on the outside flood lights before putting on the coffee. “You aren’t going to believe this.” She poured water into the coffeepot. Just as she measured the last spoon of coffee into the filter she heard a scream.
“My goodness.” Bo stood, peeping from behind the curtain.
Iris rushed to his side, unable to stop the chuckle. Mona had the water hose on full blast, the spray directed toward a running, jumping Coco. As the water drenched her dress, Coco’s swollen stomach was clearly evident. “Would you look at that?”
“Puts me in mind of one of those really bad prison movies.” Bo didn’t budge from the window. “Maybe we should tape this?”
“Excellent idea.” Iris found the camera on the stereo shelf and pressed the on button as she lifted it to her eye.
“Mona!” Coco screamed, leaping three feet into the air only to have the stream of water follow her. Dallas, her suit now totally ruined, guarded the only escape for Coco, which was between a big oak and Iris’ Mazda. “Mona!” Coco cried again, wheeling and spinning.
With a powerful flick of her arm, Mona sent a coil of hose rushing toward Coco. The green serpent twisted and jumped, finally snapping around Coco’s waist, catching her in a tight grip that plopped her on the ground.
“Je-sus,” Iris whispered to her husband, taking his hand in hers. She never dropped the camera from her eye.
Outside, Mona strode over to a crying Coco, who sat in the grass. “Now be still.” Mona aimed the spray at Coco’s hair. “Dallas, see if Iris has any dish washing detergent she’ll give us. We’re going to get Coco all cleaned up, and then we’re going to have a writers’ meeting.”
Iris handed the camera to Bo as she went to the sink and produced a bottle of Dawn. “By the look of that hair, she’s going to need a good grease cutter,” Iris said as she took it to the door. “I wonder what the hell she ate.”
“We have to follow him. There’s no other way to figure out what he’s up to. If we all take a turn, it won’t be much of a hardship on any one of us.” Andromeda leaned back in her chair. Her tone was deceptively gentle. For the first time in her memory, there was an air of discontent in the group. She couldn’t pinpoint the source, exactly. She scanned the table again. Coco looked like she’d been victimized by a squad of sadist Mini-Maids. Her long hair had finally quit dripping water, but there was a huge puddle around her chair. Dallas, too, was a wreck. Only Lucille appeared unaware of the simmering tensions in the group. She was staring out the window into the Biloxi night, half-listening.
“I’m not sure we should follow this Marvin Lovelace. We aren’t certain he knows anything worth following.” Dallas pushed a strand of damp hair from her forehead. “Besides, I have some personal complications.”
“We understand about … your husband. But we have to tail this man. How else can we find out what he knows?” Andromeda felt her own darker emotions roil. Natalie was requiring stronger and stronger doses of sleeping pills to knock her out, and because of heavy usage, the doctor was threatening to cut off her prescription. Dread rippled over her. She was desperate. This idea of Jazz’s, this thriller involving an island with a secret and an evil villain, sounded like her best shot at a real movie script. Working together, they could break free of LoveHaven and Natalie’s homemade hell. They had to make this work, but they needed the help of WOMB.
“I’m just not certain this man knows anything.” Dallas lifted both eyebrows. “He dropped a note card with a picture of Horn Island and some strange names on it. So what?”
“Jazz?” Mona turned the group’s attention to Jazz, who sat perfectly straight in her chair, both feet sensibly on the ground. She looked at the table and didn’t offer a word.
“Forget it,” Andromeda said, pushing her chair back. “Jazz and I don’t need your help.”
Coco hiccuped, then turned a fearful eye on Mona.
“Who is this Marvin Lovelace guy?” Dallas asked. “Do we know anything solid about him?”
“There’s something …,” Jazz spoke at last. “Something sinister. He’s capable of anything.”
“Could you be a little more specific?” Dallas pressed. She wriggled in her ruined suit. There was a giant chocolate streak down her right breast where Coco had fallen over in the car seat and landed against her. All she wanted was to get home, take a long, hot bath, and wait for the ransom call. She was certain it would come. Why else would anyone take Robert except for money? It had to work. Soon he’d be safely back in the garage.
“He snaps his teeth.” Jazz nodded. “Three times. Like this.” She did a click, click, click, aiming at Dallas.
“Maybe his dentures don’t fit,” Dallas gave her a sour look. “I thought this was an emergency. I’ve got things on my mind.”
Jazz put her hands on the table and rose to her feet. “It’s important to me. I’ve found something I want to write about. This is my chance. I have a day job, so I can’t follow this Lovelace by myself or I’d never have asked the group. If you don’t want to help, then just go home.” She sat back down.
A strained silence fell over the table.
“The motto for WOMB is one for all and all for one.” Andromeda reached down to pick up her helmet. “Or that’s what I thought. Maybe I was wrong.”
Dallas reached across the table and picked up a gummy bear from the dish Iris had put on the table. The candies were all gooped together, and she had to shake hard to dislodge a red one from the glob. There was nothing else to eat. They’d cleaned up the pimento cheese sandwiches, the chips, the pickles, and the brownies. “I’m just cross because I’m dirty. I hate to be dirty.” She looked down and mumbled. “And my husband has been kidnapped.” She popped the bear in her mouth and chewed.
Mona sat back in her chair and put one heel up on the table. “We’re going to break one of the WOMB rules. For those of you who haven’t put it together, Dallas’ husband is Dr. Robert Beaudreaux. Dallas has offered a reward for the return of her husband.” She gave Dallas a puzzled glance. “What has the government done to find him?”
“Not a damn thing. They hold meetings, they a
sk questions. They fly in on fancy planes and huddle up, then they fly away. Nothing happens. They haven’t turned up a single clue. They don’t know if he was taken from the garage or from work. No one saw him. The missing television is driving them wild. Why an old black and white TV? It doesn’t make any sense. And the only person I can talk to is this moron in Washington who assures me that ‘agents are on the job.'”
“What was he working on at Keesler?” Andromeda leaned forward. “Did he ever say?”
“DNA, chromosomes, fertility, sterility, twins.” Dallas blew the limp curl off her forehead. “He wasn’t supposed to talk about his work. And Robert never violated the rules.”
“He was up here, at the shop, before he was kidnapped.” Lucille had tuned in on the conversation. “He brought in a television, an old black and white, and Driskell repaired it. I may have been the last person to see him …”
“Why didn’t you say he was here?” Dallas stood and leaned over the table.
“Hey,” Lucille frowned. “Back off. I didn’t know your name was Beaudreaux. I thought it was Dior. I assumed Mr. Dior was missing. You think you’re upset, I spent most of last week going to the grocery store every night to try and find a Globe or Star or some magazine with a story about the clothing designer.”
“Did Robert say anything? Anything at all about where he was going or what he was doing?” Dallas had straightened her posture. “I want him back. He’s mine, and I won’t have him taken from me.”
“He said he was going home to watch a re-run of Matlock. He put the set in the car and drove away.” Lucille looked around the table. “I wouldn’t have even remembered if Driskell hadn’t recognized him. In the newspaper last week.”
Jazz slowly gained her feet. She looked around the table, removing her cameo earbobs. “Don’t you feel it?” She circled the table in long, slithering strides. “It’s all around us. We’re in the presence of P-L-O-T, that’s Plot with a capital P.” She swept her hand around the room. “I can feel it, all the elements. Marvin Lovelace, Horn Island, history, kidnappings … Everything I need for the great American novel is right here, if I can just figure out how to bring it all together!”
“Yes!” Lucille stood up and applauded. “Bravo! Bravo!”
Mona slapped the table. “The bottom line is Dallas won’t be watching Marvin until Robert is returned. Anything we can do to help her, we will.” Mona glanced around the table. “The rest of us will pull a shift. If Marvin doesn’t pan out in three or four days, we’ll call it off. I’ll take the first shift beginning tomorrow morning. Andromeda, the afternoon. Lucille, what about from five until ten, or until he goes to bed? Jazz says he’s old, he won’t stay up later than ten.”
Lucille stared out the front of the shop at the darkening sky. Where was Driskell? It was long past time for him to arrive.
The hard slap of a palm on the table in front of her made her jump. “What?” She blinked at Mona’s impatient expression. “What is it?”
“Can you follow Marvin tomorrow from five until ten?”
“That’s Tuesday?” In the space of a few seconds, Lucille had somehow lost the entire conversation. “I, uh, I …” She looked around the table. If she said no, they’d get rid of her. “Sure,” she said. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”
The bell over the door jingled loudly making Coco jump. The members of WOMB turned to watch as Driskell LaMont entered the shop, his black cape billowing behind him on a sudden draft.
“Ladies,” he said, his voice rich and mellow. He executed a perfect bow.
“What is that?” Mona asked, slowly lifting her heel from the table and lowering it to the floor. She leaned forward in her chair.
“Driskell LaMont, the night repairman.” Lucille stood. Her hands were sweating as she watched Driskell take the measure of each of the women one by one. They, in turn, assessed him avidly.
“I thought the meetings were on Wednesday nights,” he said, but there was a pleased tone in his voice.
“They are. This is a special meeting. We’re done now, so we won’t be in the way while you work.” Lucille shifted from foot to foot. Iris had fed them once again, but since she’d deposited the tray of sandwiches there had been an ominous quiet from the apartment in the back of the shop. Bo had not even peeked out the crack in the door. It was time to get the writers out of the shop now that Driskell had arrived. “We are done, aren’t we?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Mona said. When she stood, everyone else did, too. She sauntered toward the door, suddenly taking a detour so that she could walk around Driskell as he lifted a television. “Nice suit,” she said, circling him.
“Nice spurs,” he answered, using a Phillip’s head to remove the back of the set.
Lucille stood helplessly beside the counter, her legs weakened by a surge of emotion so hot she felt as if her bones had melted. Mona was going after Driskell.
Mona stepped closer to Driskell, her gaze moving from his feet slowly up to his curly hair and down to his busy hands. “Nice hands,” she said.
“Nice deltoids,” he replied, never looking up at her. “You must work out.”
Mona lifted her chin, smiling into his dark eyes that reflected her own image back at her. To say his lips were nice would be too obvious. “Nice pallor,” she whispered.
Driskell smiled. The lady knew her game. “Nice neck.” He put the nest of television wires down and rested his hands on the counter. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“You could make me behave.” Mona’s smile was a dare.
“You must be Mona,” Driskell said easily. “Bo has mentioned you several times.”
Mona had forgotten about the other writers. She’d forgotten about Lucille, or Marvin, or Dr. Marino, who’d shown up at her apartment at three with the electronic pulse massager he’d “borrowed” from the physical therapy department of the hospital. She smiled at Driskell. “What time do you get off?”
Driskell looked around the back of the shop, carefully avoiding Lucille’s stricken look. “About dawn. Bo has a backlog.”
Andromeda stepped up to Mona’s elbow. She didn’t know the Hares, but she suspected that Bo would tolerate almost anything–except a hurt to his wife or sister or disruption of the work in his shop. Judging from Lucille’s expression, Mona was working on two out of three. “Mona, I need a word with you outside.”
“I need an hour or two with this man.” A quick-flash series of images ran through Mona’s mind. There were numerous activities that could be accomplished, unhurried, in that time.
Andromeda took her arm. “Sorry, you’ll need your strength. That Marvin is a frisky dude for his age.”
Andromeda’s grip on her arm was so startling that Mona forgot to balk. She allowed the shorter woman to muscle her to the door and out into the street. Jazz, Dallas, and Coco were right on her heels. When she shook free of Andromeda and turned back, she found Lucille at the door, the lock sliding into place.
Mona turned to find herself confronted with a human body and an insect-like head as Andromeda fastened her helmet into place.
“Get a grip, Mona. That Driskell guy isn’t worth risking our meeting place.” Andromeda’s words echoed slightly inside the helmet. “Lucille has feelings for him.”
“I suppose she does.” Mona sighed. It had been a momentary weakness. “And I have Marvin in the morning. I certainly hope he lives up to the sinister image you’ve created.”
Jazz pulled her earrings off and began to massage her ears. “Be careful, Mona, that man is bone evil.”
Dallas pointed in through the shop windows. “Look. It’s a news special about Robert.” She tapped on the glass, drawing Lucille back to the door.
“Yes?” Lucille poked her head out, clearly not intending to allow any of them back into the shop.
“Could you tape the news for me?” Dallas asked. “There was a guy at the press conference. An older man. He was very nasty. Maybe one of the news cameras caught him.”
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Chapter Eighteen
Driskell kept his hands busy at the television set as a silent Lucille slotted a tape into one of the many VCR’s, hit record and began to pick up the paper plates and soiled napkins. With quick, jerky movements, she captured the banana pepper stems and peppermint wrappers and even blotted the puddle of water around the chair where Coco had been sitting. Driskell felt Lucille’s displeasure like the brush of a large moth’s wing against his temple. She kept her pink, sweatshirt-clad back to him and her paisley legs in constant motion as she cleaned like a Trojan, showing a passion he’d long anticipated, an anger he knew was directed toward him. She worked in the blue glow of the televisions.
“Can I help you with the table?” he asked.
“No thanks.” Lucille flipped it on its side and began to push it across the cement. A loud screech of protest halted her. Guiltily, she looked at the streak across the painted floor.
Driskell put down his pliers and walked over. With a shrug, he lifted the front end of the table. Lucille hefted her end, and they stored it in the parts room. Lucille shut the door without a word of thanks and walked away with short, quick steps.
At the counter she collected her purse. “Good night, Driskell.” She pushed open the front door and stepped into the night.
In the cool of the April dark, she felt the pressure of tears. This was the way Slade must have felt when he saw Clara shaking her scantily clad bosom in the faces of leering cowboys. Like Driskell, Clara had committed her licentious acts right under Slade’s nose. There was a word that perfectly described Lucille’s feelings. Betrayed. The word tasted bitter in the roof of her mouth.
The thing to do was to go home and write, to use the hurt and pain and raw feelings to infuse her book with such power and emotion that no one who read it would put it down unchanged. She would turn her personal tragedy into a work of art.
As she stood in the tiny parking lot, her chest burning with trapped emotion, she understood the book from a completely different perspective. Slade was too willing to forgive. Too willing to overlook Clara’s behavior. But it wasn’t just behavior, it was a weakness of character in Clara. For all of her blonde curls and cornflower blue eyes, Clara was headed down the path to damnation, and she was singing merrily the whole way. Either Slade was going to have to stop her, or he was going to have to give up his quest and go back to his cows.
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