by Lyle, D. P.
“You weren’t even born when Gidget surfed,” Evan said.
“Neither were you, but I watch old movies, too.”
“I don’t think Gidget actually surfed,” I said. “I don’t remember ever seeing her with wet hair.”
“But she sat on the beach and looked cool,” Evan said. “Or was it hot?”
“Perhaps that’s what you should do,” Divya said. “Sit on the beach. But you looking cool—or hot—is out of the question.”
He shook his head and headed back inside.
Divya glanced at her watch. “Are you almost done?”
“Just a couple more charts to complete.”
“We have to meet Jill in half an hour.”
“We’ll make it.”
Evan returned, wearing bright yellow elastic bicycle pants. “What about these?”
“The sharks will have no problem finding you,” I said.
“Sharks? There aren’t any sharks around here.”
“The ocean doesn’t have compartments,” I said. “They can go wherever they want.”
“That’s true,” Divya said. “And they love surfers.”
I nodded. “Something about them looking like seals from below.”
“That’s a myth,” Evan said. “Shark attacks on surfers are rare.”
“True,” I said. “But the problem with statistics is that they’re for the masses. For the individual it’s either zero or one hundred percent.”
“I’ll take zero, then.”
“I’m not sure the statistics god gives you a choice,” Divya said.
“Evan R. Lawson is not afraid.” He went back into the house.
As soon as the door closed, my cell phone chimed. It was Jill.
“You guys ready to head over?” she asked.
“As soon as we dress Evan.”
“Dress Evan?”
“He’s been prancing around in bathing suits for the past half hour.”
“This should be good. Exactly why is he wearing a bathing suit?”
“He’s set up a surfing lesson for this afternoon.”
“Surfing? Evan?”
“That would be the one.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was.”
“Who on earth would agree to give Evan surfing lessons?”
“Someone with a death wish.”
Jill laughed.
I told her about Danielle Delaney.
“Really? Danielle Delaney? She’s like a world-class surfer.”
“You know who she is?”
“Of course. One of the world’s hottest female athletes.”
“She is that.”
“Should I be jealous?”
“That would be nice.”
“Funny. How did Evan pull this off?”
“Danielle’s grandmother is a patient. We saw her this morning and, well, you know Evan.”
“True.”
“Right now he’s trying to decide what suit to wear.”
“What difference does it make? He’ll be wearing a wet suit.”
“That’s true,” I said. “I never thought of that.”
I wished I had thought of that. It might have saved Divya and me a lot of aggravation. Wait—what was I thinking? No it wouldn’t. Evan would simply have obsessed about the wet suit.
Evan came out the door as Jill asked, “Does he have a wet suit?”
“I’ll let you ask him.” I handed the phone to Evan. “Jill has some thoughts on your surfing safari.”
Evan took the phone. His side of the conversation went like this:
“Yes, that Danielle Delaney.”
“She wants to. Even volunteered to.”
“Around four.”
“No, I don’t have a wet suit. Why would I need one?”
“It’s not that cold.”
“Really? It’s July. I thought the water would be warmer.”
“Okay.”
He hung up.
“What’s the story?” I asked.
“I need to rent a wet suit.”
I closed my laptop and stood. “First let’s meet Jill at the costume shop.”
The trip to the costume shop should have been easy. A quick in and out. Jill, Divya, and I could have selected a costume and been out the door in no time. One problem. Evan. His decision-making abilities were anemic at best.
As soon as I walked in the door I realized I’d never been to a costume store. Maybe when I was very young, but if so I didn’t remember it. And I would have remembered something like Marie’s Costume and Theatrical Wear Emporium. No cheap plastic Superman or Batman costumes. No cowboys and Indians. No Darth Vader or stormtrooper getups. Marie’s looked like the wardrobe department of a Hollywood production company.
The place was huge, warehouselike, with exposed beams, pipes, and conduits crisscrossing the high ceiling and row after row of racks stuffed with clothing. Ball gowns and ballet outfits. Peasant dresses and royal finery. A military row that had everything from Civil War uniforms to full-on Navy Seal gear. And a row of colonial clothing.
We waited at the counter while the woman behind it completed a phone conversation by telling the person on the other end that she did indeed have a selection of Romeo and Juliet outfits and that she would be open until six. She hung up and smiled.
“Can I help you?”
“This place is amazing,” I said. “I had no idea all this would be here.”
She smiled. “We supply several local theaters as well as rent costuming to the public. I’m Marie Santos.”
“The owner, I take it?”
“And chief cook and bottle washer.”
As I introduced her to Divya and Evan, Jill came through the front door, cell phone to her ear. She immediately ended her call and I introduced her to Marie.
“We need costumes,” Evan said.
“I assumed that’s why you were here.” She flashed a playful smile.
She was in her mid-forties, with dark hair lightly streaked with gray and dark brown eyes that lit up when she smiled.
“What type of costumes?”
“Colonial. Revolutionary War,” Jill said.
“Ah.” She nodded. “You must be going to Nathan Zimmer’s party?”
“Yes, we are,” I said. “How’d you know?”
“You’re about the two-dozenth persons to come looking for that period. A little unusual in July. Around Halloween I wouldn’t have noticed, but July isn’t a big month for costumes. Except for the theaters.”
“Are we too late?” Evan asked. “Are all the colonial ones gone?”
She waved a hand toward the packed racks. “I think we can find something for you. What did you have in mind?”
“A spy outfit,” Evan said. “I want to go as a spy.”
“Very good. You’ll make a great spy.”
Evan looked at me. “See? Not everyone thinks I look like a bookkeeper.”
“Marie doesn’t know you.”
“Actually, you’d make an excellent bookkeeper or newspaperman,” Marie said. “I can see you with a blousy shirt, armbands, wire-rimmed glasses, and an eyeshade.”
“Sounds like a riverboat gambler,” Jill said. “Did they have those in colonial times?”
“I think that was a little later,” Marie said. “After the Mississippi River Valley was more populated.”
Jill nodded. “That makes sense.” She looked at Evan. “So, spy it is.”
Marie came around the counter. “This way.”
For the next twenty minutes she showed Evan a selection of Revolutionary War spy costumes complete with waistcoats, capes, and hats. While she occupied Evan, Jill and I r
ummaged through the adjacent racks and Divya moved two rows away to a collection of colonial ball gowns. Finally, Evan, his arms loaded with choices, headed toward the dressing rooms along the back wall.
“Now, what can I help you two with?” Marie asked as she walked to where Jill and I were sorting through one of the racks.
Jill held a Martha Washington dress against her body. Black with white lace at the neck and sleeves. “What about this?”
“Better than a highway robber,” I said.
Marie gave us a quizzical look.
“That was one of the things we were considering,” I said.
“This is much better,” Marie said. “Don’t you think?”
“Looks great to me,” I said.
“I agree,” Marie added. She adjusted the lace at the neckline. “You’ll look like a true colonial woman.”
“What about him?” Jill nodded in my direction.
Marie studied me for a moment, her brow furrowed, and then said, “Since highwayman is out, I think a frontiersman would work.” She turned and headed down the row. We followed.
She shuffled through the hangers until she found the one she was looking for. She removed it and laid it on top of the rack. The costume consisted of a buckskin shirt and pants and a wide leather belt. She slid the shirt from the hanger and, holding it by the shoulders, draped it against my chest. It was medium brown, long, hanging to midthigh, and had fringe across the chest and at the cuffs and hem.
“I think this will work,” Marie said.
“I love it,” Jill said. “You look like Davy Crockett.”
“He wasn’t born until after the Revolution. He died at the Alamo in eighteen thirty-six,” I said.
“You’re just full of worthless information, aren’t you?” Jill said.
Marie laughed. “But this was typical frontier wear for eighteenth-century America.”
“Do you have a coonskin cap?” Jill asked.
“Yes.”
“The outfit is fine, but no coonskin,” I said.
“But you’d look so cute in it.” Jill laughed.
“Cute is not what I’m going for.”
Divya walked up. She was stunning in a rose-colored floor-length gown. A fitted bodice, narrow waist, and broad, flowing skirt. The shoulders bloused and the sleeves flared into lace ruffles.
“Wow!” I said.
“That is stunning,” Jill said.
“You don’t think it’s too much?” Divya asked.
“No,” Jill and I said in unison.
“It’s perfect,” Jill said.
Divya did a full turn. The skirt rustled. “I feel like a true colonial lady.”
“That color is perfect for you,” Marie said.
Evan came out of the dressing room. He wore brown pants stuffed into knee-high boots, a frilly white shirt beneath a dark brown waistcoat, a wide leather belt with a brass buckle, and a chocolate-colored cape.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I still think bookkeeper would be more fitting,” Divya said.
“And I was just going to say how beautiful you look in that gown,” Evan said.
“Thank you.” Divya curtsied. “And you make a beautiful spy.”
That drew a laugh from Marie.
“Spies aren’t beautiful,” Evan said. “They’re stealthy and cool.”
“That’s you. Stealthy and cool.”
“Absolutely,” Evan said as he made a wide turn, causing the cape to flare around him.
Divya raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“I think our work here is done,” I said to Marie.
Chapter 10
Divya and I found ourselves back at the Sag Harbor home of Felicia Hecht. We had intended to head over to the high school, but Felicia had called as we left the costume shop. Her headaches had worsened. We dropped Evan at Shadow Pond and drove up.
“What’s going on?” I asked as she directed us into her living room.
“Last night was a tough one. I was up and down all night.”
“With the headaches?”
She nodded. “But they’re a little different now.”
Felicia sat on the sofa and I settled next to her, automatically reaching for her wrist to check her pulse. Steady but fast.
“In what way?”
“This is going to sound odd.”
“It’s okay,” Divya said as she sat in the chair across from the sofa. “We hear odd all the time.”
“My tongue felt like it was on fire.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Isn’t that crazy?”
“Unusual but not crazy,” I said. “Was this with the headaches or at some other time?”
“With. As I said, the headaches were worse last night. I took the pills you gave me and they helped some, but the headaches always came back. Then this morning I felt better. Tired but pain free.”
“And then?” I anticipated there was more to the story.
“A couple of hours ago the pain came back. I tried to ride it out, but when my tongue, neck, and right ear started burning, I got worried.”
“Only on the right side?” Divya asked.
She nodded.
“What were you doing when it started?” I asked.
“I was talking on the phone with a friend.”
“Stressful?”
“Not at all. We were talking about a dinner party we’re going to this weekend.”
“Let me check things again,” I said.
I twisted to face her and again did a brief neurological exam and again felt along the right side of her face and jaw. Nothing. Her neuro exam was still normal and I found no tender areas.
“And I almost fainted,” Felicia said.
“When?”
“Just after I called you. I was eating some peanut butter and crackers. I thought maybe my blood sugar was low or something.”
“Did it help? The crackers?”
She shook her head. “Then I felt light-headed. I left the kitchen and headed in here to lie down, but I almost didn’t make it. My legs felt rubbery and things looked dim.”
“Did you fall?” Divya asked
“No. I made it to the sofa. Once I lay down for a couple of minutes I felt fine.”
“Is this the only time that’s happened?”
She gave me a sheepish look. “A couple of other times. Last week.”
“You didn’t tell me that yesterday.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“You have to tell me everything. Okay?”
She nodded. “I promise.”
Withholding things from your doctor is not as unusual as most people think. Might not sound logical, but it’s not uncommon. Some are afraid the doctor will find something terrible if they reveal all their symptoms. Some simply want to cut things short. Get out of the doctor’s office and home as soon as possible. Where it’s safe. Where bad things can’t be uncovered. Some are simply embarrassed by certain symptoms.
“Have you had any chest pain or shortness of breath?” Divya asked.
“No.” She looked at me. “What is all this?”
“The labs we drew yesterday are normal. We had them e-mailed to us as we drove over. The best bet is still a migraine syndrome, but there are a couple of other things we have to consider.”
“Like?”
“Unusual coronary symptoms.”
“By ‘coronary’ do you mean heart attack or angina or something like that?”
“Yes. Coronary problems don’t always cause chest pain. Sometimes it’s just shortness of breath, or dizziness, or neck pain.”
She sighed. “That’s what took my Charles.” She nodded toward the photos on the mantel.
“Two years ago.”
“It’s unlikely that that’s what’s going on,” I said. “But we can quickly rule it out.”
“How?”
“A stress test.”
“So I have to go to the hospital?”
“No. We can do it right here. We have our stress echo equipment outside in the van.”
“I’m impressed. Of course, Ellie said I would be.”
“We pay her to say nice things.” I smiled. “We can set it up right here in the living room if that’s okay.”
“Sure.”
“While we get things ready why don’t you change into something more comfortable and put on your walking shoes if you have any.”
“I walk almost every day, so I have plenty of that stuff.”
Twenty minutes later Felicia had changed clothes and Divya had finished the resting echocardiogram. Felicia then climbed on the treadmill belt and we began the exercise portion of the test. While she walked, I asked more questions.
“These dizzy spells? Did they only happen while you were having the headaches?”
“Yes.” She hesitated for a beat. “Actually the dizziness seems to happen only when the pain is in my jaw and tongue.”
“I thought those symptoms were new. Just today.”
“Maybe a few times in the last week. But never before that.”
The treadmill kicked up its speed and elevation as she entered the second stage of the Bruce Protocol.
“How long do I have to do this?” Felicia asked.
“Until we get your heart rate up to about one-seventy or until you can’t do any more, whichever comes first.”
“I’d bet on the latter.”
She was wrong. She got her heart rate up to one-eighty before I ended the test. Divya completed the postexercise echocardiogram. I then loaded the images onto my laptop and angled the screen slightly toward Felicia so she could see the images.
“These are ultrasound movies of your heart,” I said.
“That’s it moving there?”
“Sure is.”
“Fascinating. What do you see?”
“A completely normal heart.”
“Really?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“Thank goodness.”
“Now that we know it’s not your heart, you can relax a bit while we finish what we need to do.”