"You know," I said thoughtfully, "the only clothes I saw in the bag in the trash barrel were some Guess jeans, a pair of shoes, a bra, and panties. Sounds like what Ardith said Kristee was wearing when she went to the motel. I wonder what Collier did with all Kristee's other clothes. Not to mention the Beemishes' silver and coins and the other stuff that never has turned up."
"Let Bohannon and the other cops find out," Edna said. "I'm not going back to that condo again. The way that boy looked at us made my skin crawl."
But Bohannon wasn't at the cop shop. I called his home number, but there was no answer. Finally, I got Bucky Deaver at home.
I told him why I needed to find Bohannon. "No good," he said. "Bohannon and two other guys from homicide left this morning for Savannah for a two-day case management seminar. Some deal, huh? Savannah, the beach, all that seafood."
"Where's he staying? I've got to talk to him tonight. If the cops don't get to Collier in a hurry, he'll get rid of that barrel."
Bucky gave me the name of the hotel. I called the Savannah Inn and Country Club. "No answer in Lieutenant Bohannon's room," the operator said. I left him a message to call me when he got in, but I didn't have much hope that he would. Give a cop an out-of-town trip and he does what everybody else does; he parties.
Edna got a new bottle of Wild Turkey out from under the cupboard and poured us both a stiff drink. "We never did eat dinner," she said, slapping a bag of chips and a bowl of dip on the table. "This'll have to do."
"If I don't hear from Bohannon tonight, I'll get Dinesh to do something tomorrow morning," I said, licking a smidgen of dip from my pinkie. "Maybe I'll go see Bohannon's commander, Major Foster. He knows me from when I was a patrol officer. Maybe he could get a warrant to search Collier's house."
"What about your surgery?" Edna said. "You're supposed to be at the hospital at seven A.M., aren't you?"
I waved off her concerns. "I'll postpone it," I said lightly. "Those corns aren't going anywhere."
Edna took a sip of her drink and lit up a cigarette. "Rich Drescher called me today," she said slowly. "He told me about the lump. Told me you'd probably pull some stunt like trying to get out of having the biopsy."
"Asshole," I muttered. "Whatever happened to patient confidentiality?"
Edna put her hand on my wrist and squeezed hard. "This murder case can wait," she said. "Kristee Ewbanks isn't getting any deader. Ardith's out of jail. It can wait a week or so, if need be. You're going to that hospital tomorrow if I have to tie you up and carry you there myself, Julia. I lost my mother to cancer, lost a breast of my own. I'm not gonna lose you too. If Collier's the one, the cops'll get him. Right now you've got more important things to worry about."
36
I Called Savannah three more times that night, trying to reach Bohannon. In between calls I typed a case report, stating that one of our employees had found a shirt belonging to Kristee Ewbanks at the home of Whit Collier and that we had reason to believe more evidence connecting Collier to her murder could be found in a trash barrel in Collier's garage.
At 1 a.m., red-eyed and too tired to care any more, I handed Edna the report. She was in the den, curled up on my dad's beat-up old recliner, watching a Susan Hayward movie on Channel 17. She did that when she couldn't sleep. Sometimes I'd get up in the morning and find her there, curled up in that chair, out cold, with the remote control in her hand and the television still going.
"Take this down to the cop shop in the morning and ask for Major Foster," I told her. "Pull your tough old lady act. Tell him you're not leaving until he promises to get a search warrant for Collier's place."
Edna had begged me to let her take me to the SurgiCenter and stay during the surgery, but I managed to stick to my plan.
"I told you already, Paula's going to drop me off. I'll call you when I come out of surgery, and you can come pick me up. If it's good news, we'll go to Mary Mac's for chicken and dressing to celebrate."
She sniffed. "My chicken and dressing's just as good as theirs. When the news is good, we'll go to Coach and Six for prime rib. My treat."
After all the nights I'd stayed awake worrying about the lump, that night I slept like a baby. Six o'clock came too early.
Paula didn't say much when she pulled up in front of the hospital. "Let me come in with you?" she said tentatively.
I shook my head no and got out of the car. I was relieved she hadn't insisted.
"See you tonight," she said, and pulled away from the curb.
I took an instant dislike to the Women's Surgi-Center. Maybe it was the state I was in. I was hungry, jittery, and head-achy from the lack of food and, most important, coffee. My skin felt itchy and I couldn't concentrate.
The surroundings didn't help. The SurgiCenter had been decorated during an era a couple years earlier when designers theorized that certain colors had different effects on people. They had apparently decided that mauve and gray would make women feel better about having their pelvic cavities roto-rootered or having large portions of their breasts removed.
Everything was mauve: the carpet, the sofa, even the coffee table. There were plastic ferns scattered about the room. For reading material I could choose between a pamphlet extolling reconstructive breast surgery or a brochure listing the kinds of hormone therapy available to women who'd had a hysterectomy.
Fortunately, the woman at the reception desk had so many questions about my insurance and what it would or wouldn't cover that I didn't have time for any light reading.
Once the papers were filled out, a slim young man dressed in a mauve uniform arrived with a wheelchair. "I don't need that," I told him. "It's my breast they're operating on, not my knees."
Apparently he wasn't a morning person either, because he didn't crack a smile. "I'm going to take you up to pre-op now," he said. "They'll get you ready for the doctor."
We rode up one flight in the elevator and got off at a floor marked pre-operative waiting room.
The aide took me to a small room, gray with mauve accents. He showed me a mauve plisse gown that had been laid across the foot of the bed. It reminded me of the jammies I'd had as a little girl. The thought was slightly comforting. "Put that on, please, and go in the bathroom and empty your bladder."
I did as I was told, and when I came out, the aide was gone. I climbed into bed and pulled the thin sheet up to my chin.
The Muzak in the room was playing something familiar. It was "Yesterday" by the Beatles. I was humming along softly when a large black woman in a white nurse's uniform pushed through the doors with a stainless steel cart full of bottles and hospital doodads.
"Miss Garrity?" she asked, checking the plastic bracelet on my wrist. "I'm Sharon," she said, pronouncing it Sha-ron. "I'll be your pre-op nurse today." Somehow, in my caffeine-deprived state, that amused me. I expected her to hand me a chalkboard menu of surgery options. And our special of the day is a biopsy with green peppercorn sauce.
Instead she flicked the sheet off, looking disinterestedly at my flabby white body, ill concealed by the scanty hospital gown.
"Them panties got to come off," she announced.
"I'll just leave them on, if it's all right with you," I said.
She didn't flinch. "Can't wear no panties to surgery," Sharon said. "We got rules. Them panties got to come off."
I'd worn new ones too, to make a good impression and all, just like Edna'd taught my sister and me. Reluctantly I slid them off and tucked them into my purse, which she took and promised to deliver with my clothing to my post-op room.
After the offending garment had been removed, Sharon started swabbing the back of my wrist with a bright orange solution. She brought out a huge syringe then, so I decided it was time to rest my eyes. I felt a sharp sting, then the sensation of something being taped to my hand. When I opened my eyes an IV was in place, its long thin tube leading from the needle to a plastic bag suspended from a pole by the bed.
"That's intravenous Valium," Sharon told me. "I'll come back in
about ten minutes to see if it's making you relaxed enough for surgery."
Relax? I said to myself. How can I relax when I haven't had any coffee?
I shut my eyes and concentrated on trying to feel the Valium trickling into my bloodstream.
There was another familiar tune playing on the Muzak, but somehow I couldn't place it. I hummed along until the title and artist came to me. My God, I'd gotten middle-aged overnight. One minute I was smoking dope with the girls in the Tri Delt house at Georgia, listening to rock music; the next thing you know I was in a hospital room in Atlanta, with no panties on, listening to Jethro Tull on Muzak. Yes, that's what it was, "Living in the Past" on Muzak. I could only hope the members of Jethro Tull had all overdosed years ago so they'd be spared the pain.
Sharon bustled back in. I could hear her pantyhose-enclosed thighs rubbing together under the starched layers of her uniform.
"Ready to go?" she said briskly, checking the IV bag. I looked up at her groggily. "Did you hear Jethro Tull playing on the Muzak just now? Or is the Valium making me hallucinate?"
She shook her head. "Girlfriend, I ain't studyin' no Jethro Tull mess. Now let's get going up to surgery."
She brought a gurney in from the hallway and helped me onto it. "Why can't I walk?" I said weakly.
Sharon shot me a grin, exposing a gold front tooth. It made her look a little less efficient, which helped. "It's like the underwear, girlfriend. It's a rule."
I guess the Valium must have kicked in for real about then. I nodded off in the elevator and didn't wake up again until I was in the operating room. It was a white-tiled room, with banks of bright lights surrounding me. Rich Drescher looked down at me. A surgical mask covered the lower half of his face, but his eyes seemed to be smiling. "Callahan," he said, nodding to a petite black woman standing next to him. "This is Dr. Jefferson. Best boob doctor in the city." I think she winked at me.
"Let's do it," Rich said.
I closed my eyes and fell down an elevator shaft to nowhere.
As I was falling, I kept hearing the melody of a Jethro Tull song: funny. I couldn't remember the words.
Then someone was tapping me lightly on the shoulder. I opened one eye slowly. "Callahan, Callahan," the voice whispered. "Are you with us? Wake up, Callahan." I didn't, though. I went back to sleep.
The next time I woke up, yet another nurse was calling my name. Only she wasn't whispering. "Callahan," she yelled. "Time to wake up. Come on now, Callahan, talk to me."
It was my first grade teacher, Miss Halsey. Only this Miss Halsey was younger and taller, with a frizzy yellow perm and an unfortunate amount of hair on her upper lip.
This time I managed to stay awake. "What happened?" I asked. "Did they get it all?"
Miss Halsey pushed a damp strand of hair off my forehead. "Dr. Drescher left instructions to tell you, and I quote: 'You now have a matched set.'"
I looked down at my chest. The gown had slipped enough that I could see a large piece of gauze taped across my breast. "That's nice," I said. "What time is it? Do I go home now?"
Miss Halsey frowned a little. "Not yet, I'm afraid. You had an allergic reaction to the Valium and your breathing got a little irregular. We've given you something to counteract it, but Dr. Drescher wants to keep you here overnight for observation."
"No way," I whined. "He promised me day surgery. I've got to go home. My insurance won't pay for staying overnight."
I tried to sit upright, but she easily pushed me back down. The room tilted in an alarming fashion. "No, dear," she said. "Dr. Drescher was very insistent. You're going to stay here. He said he'd check on you later this evening and talk to you then about the tissue culture."
"This evening?" I repeated. "What time is it? I thought I'd be home by noon."
"It's six o'clock. They'll bring you a little Jell-O or applesauce in a few minutes. Won't that be nice?"
Miss Halsey left then, left me alone in a strange hospital room with no underwear, no insurance coverage, and a big Band-Aid on my boob.
"I'm fucked," I said to no one in particular. I wanted to cry. Instead I remembered Edna. I'd promised to call her as soon as I was out of surgery. That should have been hours ago. I couldn't believe she hadn't stormed the place by now.
Miss Halsey popped her head in the door just then. "By the way, a young man has been calling the nurses' station for you all afternoon. At first he wouldn't leave a message. He called back about an hour ago, though. He said to tell you Mr. Collier called, and he said not to worry, because your mother is with him. He said he'd call again later."
I felt my blood freeze. Collier. He had Edna! Then I relaxed a second. Edna was the one who was convinced Collier was a wacked-out murderer. She'd never get within a city block of him.
There was a telephone on the nightstand beside my bed. I sat up and reached for it. The room tilted again, violently. I clenched my teeth and dialed the house. No answer. I left a message on the machine, explaining why I was still at the hospital and asking her to call right away.
While I waited for the room to stop sliding back and forth like a child's teeter-totter, I had another idea. I leaned as far over as I dared and looked at the night-stand. There was a door under the drawer. I pulled it open and there was my purse and a plastic bag full of my clothes. I leaned even farther and nearly fell out of bed. Grasping the handrail on the side of the bed, I managed to fish the purse out and put it on my lap,
This wasn't going to be nearly as easy as I'd anticipated.
I found the remote beeper for the answering machine, dialed our number, and beeped the thing into the receiver.
The machine had a string of messages, mostly clients with requests or questions. A woman's voice came on and said, "Fuck you, Callahan Garrity. Fuck you. Fuck you." It sounded like the refined tones of Lilah Rose Beemish.
"Back at ya," I said to the receiver.
The next message wasn't from a House Mouse client. "This is Whit Collier," a man's voice said. My breathing stopped for a minute. Before he could leave a message though, Edna picked up the phone. "Hello, don't hang up, I'm here," her voice said. "House Mouse, how can I help you?"
"Mrs. Garrity?" Collier said politely. "This is Whit Collier. Remember, we met last night after you and your daughter broke into my house? I found something in the garage, in a trash barrel, that I think you might have been looking for." I heard Edna gasp. "I wondered if you and your daughter would come over and get it. I called earlier and one of your girls told me your daughter is in the hospital. I hope it's nothing serious. I've called several times there, but they say she's unable to come to the phone. I thought you and I could have a quiet chat at my place. Say around three o'clock?"
Edna was strangely quiet. "I'm sorry," I heard her say, her voice halting. "I've got an appointment this afternoon, I couldn't possibly meet you today. Perhaps tomorrow, when Callahan's home." She hung up quickly.
"Call the cops, Edna," I said into the phone. There were more messages, but none as sinister as Collier's. Bohannon had called, to say that he was having a nice time in Savannah and wasn't really interested in talking to me.
Where the hell was Edna? I remembered it was Tuesday, the day of Edna's standing hair appointment at Frank's Salon de Beaute.
I called and demanded to talk to Frank. "Callahan," he said. "Tell that no-good mother of yours that if she stands me up again, she can just go to that fast-food hair place in the mall from now on."
"Didn't she show up at all, Frank?" I said. "Did she call or anything?"
"No," he said, "and I'm frosting Minna Mitchell's hair now, so I haven't tried to call her to ask what came up."
"I'm afraid I know what came up," I said. "If you hear from her, tell her to call me at the hospital right away."
I called the house again. Still no answer. Paula wasn't home, either.
I called the Atlanta Police Department and asked to speak to Major Foster. "He's gone for the day," his secretary said. "They've all gone over to the Holiday Inn for
an FBI briefing on this white collar bribery deal. They won't be back until tomorrow morning."
Out of desperation I called Neva Jean. She picked up on the first ring. "Don't ask why and don't argue with me," I said. "Have you seen Edna today?"
"Not since this morning, I haven't. She gave us our assignments, and I left. I called in around two and talked to her. She said she was going to her hair appointment after that."
"She never made it," I said. "I think that crazy Mormon must have kidnapped her. Now listen, this is important." I reeled off a list of instructions for her; then after I hung up the phone I called the nurse and asked for some pain medication. She left a white paper cup full of tiny yellow pills. "Only take one at a time," she said. "We're understaffed tonight, so I can't be coming in here giving them to you like I normally would. One every four hours, you hear?" I heard.
37
"YOU SURE THIS IS ALLOWED?" Neva Jean said, glancing anxiously at the door of my room. I took three of the painkillers the nurse had left me in a little paper cup. I guess the Valium was wearing off, because my chest hurt like hell. I was sick to my stomach, too, but a couple of trips to the bathroom had fixed that.
"Mellow out, Neva Jean. Now help me get my clothes on. I'm still sort of dizzy from the medication they gave me. We've got to go find Edna."
I'd called Collier's house at least half a dozen times, but no one answered. After I called Neva Jean, I'd called every place I could think of that Edna could be. Even my sister's house. No one had seen or heard from her since around 3 P.M. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, a feeling that had nothing to do with the surgery I'd just had.
With her white House Mouse smock, white slacks, and white waitress shoes, Neva Jean looked almost like a nurse's aide. Almost. She helped me tie my shoes, and when I got off the bed and nearly slid to the floor, she gave me a hand up. I hadn't realized how rubbery my legs would feel. Or how badly my breast would hurt where they'd removed the lump.
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