by A B Plum
Eyes closed, Ryn stroked Maj from head to tail. Why hadn’t she told Danny about her mystery caller? Or the Nordstrom rubbernecker? Maybe she should take his advice and tell only Doc Comfrey. He was the one who understood phantoms in dreams. More and more, that was her assessment: tired and sleepy, she’d “dreamed” the phone caller and Señor Curioso.
Ryn stood and Maj growled at being dumped onto the floor. “Bedtime.”
Not that she believed she’d go to sleep. But she was literally too tired to hold her spaghetti-spine upright for another second. On the way to the bedroom, she picked up a pen and pad of paper. She’d handed Stone his notebook that night … hadn’t she? She shook her head Nothing … an empty hole.
“Call Susan,” she wrote, saying each word out loud. This was definitely Ryn’s worst period ever. Susan would know what to do since Ryn’s body didn’t.
Being accused of murder apparently messes up the hormones big time.
In the bathroom, she cried a few minutes in gratitude. She didn’t need a shower. She pulled on a pair of sweats, snuggled under the comforter, and settled in with Maj for some serious channel-surfing. A flick of the remote brought a memory of the media room at the mansion. Watching the Bronco drama that last week, she’d watched more TV in one night than she usually watched in a year. Stone and The Gang binged on live cable rock concerts for days while she read, created lesson plans for her students, or corrected their homework.
I need to get in touch with them tomorrow. They’ll be worried. Beau, too.
In the meantime, a little laugher might release some of those magical endorphins she’d read so much about. Doubtful, she opted for an inane PBS British comedy. She didn’t break out laughing, but she stopped thinking about Beau and Esperanza House and the caller and …
At some point, her heart rate dropped, and she felt her body drifting in warm water toward the island of sleep. She dreamed of Beau and cockroaches crawling over him. When her cell phone—stuffed under her pillow—beeped, she came instantly awake. Without sitting up, she pulled the phone up close to her burning eyes. The clock read 10:03. Night, she assumed.
“Elijah?”
“Sorry if I woke you.” His baritone rumbled with regret.
“’S okay. What’s up?” She blinked, trying to focus on breathing.
“Your hiding place, I’m afraid. You on a news channel?”
“Huh-uh. PBS.” She crossed her legs.
The crimson bloom on Stone’s shirt flashed on the sheet. She stared, fascinated by the pool of blood under her left hip.
“Switch to Channel 12,” Elijah said.
“Okay.” She swallowed and kept her eyes wide open, edging her butt back into the middle of the bed, feeling the warm, sticky blood on her skin where her tee had ridden up.
“Next story up’s about you—probably right after the next commercial.” His calm voice distracted her from the blood flowing out of her.
She punched the remote and listened as the female anchor, a perky blonde with lots of toothpaste-commercial teeth said, “Up next, another sighting of Ryn Davis.”
“Ahhh, shit,” Ryn moaned. “What the hell’s going on, Elijah?”
“Got me. But get ready for the sleazaratti. They’ll show up in herds outside your building. Better drop that neighbor you’ve gone out with—unless you want his face plastered all over the tabloids next to yours. By tomorrow afternoon, some investigative reporter will come up with the original idea that you and the neighbor are lovers and co-conspirators in Stone’s murder.
“Hold on! Here’s the story.”
Ryn heard the volume on Elijah’s TV go up, and she raised hers as well—even though she could hear perfectly. A picture of her and Stone at a fundraiser last year flickered on the screen.
The anchor glanced at the teleprompter, then shifted her head-on stare into the camera and announced, “Ryn Davis is the prime suspect in the slaying of the legendary rock star, Stone Wall, in their Beverly Hills mansion six days ago.”
The camera zoomed in on Stone, blowing up his face four or five times into a grainy, unrecognizable image.
“Back in thirty seconds,” Miz Big Teeth said, “with an exclusive.”
Ryn muted the volume. “I’m holding my breath.”
“My money’s on someone seeing you at Nordstrom’s,” Elijah drawled.
“Only part of the story,” Ryn said. “I should’ve called you …”
Silence on the phone. Miz Big Teeth returned on screen. Her mouth opened and closed. Ryn turned up the volume, stalling more conversation with Elijah. She listened to the sighting at Nordstrom’s and the details of Ryn’s purchase: the blue Countess Mara dress shirt, a pair of men’s gray wool slacks, and a pair of black Gucci loafers.
“Total tab for this shopping spree with the unidentified male companion? Eight hundred and seventy-four dollars and thirty-eight cents. Paid in cash.” Blondie paused and then continued in a hushed voice as the camera panned to a picture of The Brooklyn Diner, “The twosome then had supper at this trendy hot spot.”
“Crowded and trendy,” Elijah intoned. “Musta been what you were gonna call me about, right?”
His sarcasm held no sting, and Ryn said, “Right. If there’s anything you need to know after the news, I promise, I’ll come clean.”
In a casually contrived aside to her male anchor, Blondie smirked. “No dessert, though.”
The show’s theme music rose to a deafening crescendo, and Ryn punched mute again. “What happened to Syria? Or Afghanistan? Did they suddenly disappear off the face of the earth? Where does that stupid station get off calling that crap news?”
She was yelling loud enough that Maj meowed in a tone that said, Enough already.
“Folks in the US don’t have a clue where Syria and Afghanistan are. But LA? Everyone knows about Beverly Hills and Rodeo Drive.” Elijah waited a beat. “They also know they can’t do a damn thing about atrocities halfway around the globe. But you better believe they can keep up on a celebrity murder in LA.”
“Did you know Stone was working on a new release based on OJ Simpson’s Bronco-chase? Did you know ninety-five million people watched that comedy?”
“Only ninety-five mil? Did all of them watch the full four hours?”
“It wasn’t quite four hours but—why am I blathering about—I’m surprised they didn’t describe what I was wearing. Or show a picture of my male companion.”
“Listen to a few talk radio shows tomorrow,” Elijah said. “And don’t be surprised if you hear you were wearing something slinky and sexy.”
“That describes my baseball cap, all right. One of my sexier accessories, I might add.”
He chuckled. “Assuming you’ve come clean, I better call Danny. You know? Make his day, too.”
“Let me tell you first about this guy in the restaurant. He’s my odds-one favorite for Blabber Mouth of the Year.”
“So what? There’s no law talking to the media, remember?” Elijah sounded like a lawyer—reasonable and logical.
“Thank you. I needed that reminder. I’m going to hang up now before you tell me you don’t have any leads on The Monkey Boys.”
Chapter 18
Trapped in the 10:00 news warp, Ryn finally stopped staring at the ceiling and looked at the bedside clock. Twenty-three minutes after three. God, she wished the coroner had never told her the approximate time Stone died. That particular piece of information had lodged somewhere in her unconscious, setting an internal clock that went off nightly with more precision than any human-made timepiece.
She turned the clock facedown. She’d have to talk to Comfrey about waking up nightly. Examine and probe why she now woke night after night around three, but why she hadn’t heard either of the two shots fired into Stone’s chest. Why she didn’t remember where she put that bottle of melatonin. Or if she even took a pill.
Ryn closed her eyes again, trying to shut down Miz Big Teeth’s smirk. Instantly, a montage of fragments and remnants of flashing images
flickered on her brain’s inner screen. God, what a choice—seeing the news repeated a gazillion times or seeing Stone’s bloody shirt again and again and again.
Or worse than both, watching the newborn puppies buried alive with their dead mother. But worst of all, the old nightmares about Mama cornered her in that place where she was sure she was suffocating.
Stress—that’s the root of all the dreams. Dreams don’t mean I killed Stone. Silently, she whispered this denial over and over … until she stopped fighting the pull on her eyelids.
When Ryn opened her eyes four hours later, she didn’t think she could get out of bed. “So much for an improved diet, Doctor Comfrey.”
Raising her head made her as dizzy as if she’d jumped off a merry-go-round. She lay back on the pillow, and the whole room whizzed by. Maj climbed on her chest, plopped down, and gave Ryn a get-up-and-fix-my-food stare.
“Down, Maj.” Ryn moved her hips and felt the sticky blood congealed between her legs. “Goddamn! Not again.”
She turned on her right side, and a yowling Maj slid onto the floor. Ryn propped herself on one elbow. She turned her head to look over her shoulder, fighting a new wave of nausea and dizziness.
Another red lake had sprung up under her during the early morning hours.
Disgusting.
“Don’t cry,” she said out loud.
Maj leaped back onto the bed and bumped her head under Ryn’s chin.
“Get up, Ryn. Go to the bathroom.” Her voice sounded weak—like an old woman’s.
Been here, done this. Déjá vu. Less than eight hours ago. Inhaling deeply, she hobbled across the bedroom with the pillow tucked between her legs. This second experience was, somehow, less real, more like an old-fashioned movie being shown in slow jerks and starts. She reached the toilet stool, collapsed onto it, and decided she couldn’t manage a shower. As lightheaded as she felt, she was afraid she’d slip, be unable to hoist herself upright, and drown in the damn glass-enclosed stall.
Ahhh, positive thinking. She cleaned up one more time, pulled on fresh sweats, and shuffled toward the kitchen. Maj was yodeling loud enough to remind Ryn that come earthquakes or pestilence or hell, nothing took precedence over feeding the feline. Ryn held onto the countertop and set out the Cat Chow. Doctor Comfrey’s advice on better eating habits came back and she popped a piece of bread in the toaster and poured a glass of OJ. After two swallows, the acid burned a hole in her stomach through which the toast fell like a rock.
Too tired to go back to bed, she sat, elbow propped on the table, one hand squashed against her face, the other loose in her lap, and stared at the big stainless steel fridge. What a beautiful thing. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.
She felt herself sinking into a kind of semi-conscious stupor, mind turned off, heart pounding in her ears, breathing jagged. As long as she didn’t move, she felt fine. Trained to respond to phones, she automatically sat up when the wall phone next to the fridge rang.
“Susan,” she bleated as tears leaked out of the corner of her eyes.
Had to be Susan Lewis, OB-GYN extraordinaire, calling with some potion to make Ryn feel human instead of like the newest bride of Dracula.
She raised her hand toward the phone but remained seated. I haven’t called Susan yet.
She sank back into the chair, folded her arms across the table, laid her head on her arms, and closed her eyes. Wrong number. Whoever was calling, it wasn’t Danny. Or Elijah. They’d call on her cell. Forget the landline. She was spending zero energy on a wrong number.
The silence after the phone stopped ringing was deafening. Ryn could hear the atoms all around her bumping into each other. She could hear Maj, finished with her breakfast, licking her paws. She could hear the increased rhythm of her heart missing a beat.
Somehow, she dragged her ass to the wall phone. Her hands shook as she dialed Beverly Hill information.
Susan’s answering service picked up immediately, affirming she was on-call.
“Shoulda called her at home,” Ryn mumbled. Number’s in … my … cell.
“I’m sorry. I can’t hear you,” the cheery voice on the other end said. “Is this an emergency? Have you called 911?”
“Yes. An emergency.”
“Are you pregnant? In labor?”
“No. But I am hemorrhaging …”
“Please hang up and call 9—”
“They can’t get in my building. Have Susan call me.”
“Your name, please. Stay on the line. I’m trying to reach the doctor at home.”
Reach doctor … was that like reaching God?
“Kathryn Pauline Davis. She has two other Kathryn Davises.” Ryn moved the receiver away from her ear and slid down the wall. The phone weighed more than a boulder out of the Grand Canyon.
Susan’s calm, take-charge voice came across the line. “Sounds as if you’re in trouble, m’dear.”
“Uh-huh.” Ryn swallowed, fighting tears in the back of her throat. “Have you seen the news?”
“Caught it last night. Hold on. I’m looking for the number of an old friend practicing in Palo Alto.”
“Los Altos. I’m in Los—” Ryn stopped talking. She could no longer hear Susan’s even breathing.
“Okay, found it.” Susan’s New York accent was hard but triumphant. “Alicia Sanchez. Your good luck. She keeps office hours Saturday through Tuesday. I’ll call her and fill her in on your history. Ask her to see you—”
“She can’t come here,” Ryn said, took a breath, and continued. “No doorman. Front door’s keyed.”
“The fire department can get in. I’ll call the police—”
“No!” Ryn’s brain stalled. She couldn’t grab the words to explain that the building manager wasn’t in the building so the paramedics couldn’t get to her in her ivory tower. “I can’t risk … the media … TV crews—”
“Got it.” Susan’s tone sounded as if she’d snapped her fingers. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Are you sure you can drive?”
“I can drive.” Call Elijah. “I’ll get there. Tell me where.”
“Let me call her. Her service will call you back with directions to her office—or should she meet you in the ER?”
“Her office.” Going to the ER meant more complications.
“All right. Stay on the phone with me—”
“I’m … a mess.” Ryn lunged forward on her hands. Elijah’s number … in her cell … in the bedroom.
“Don’t worry about it. Save your energy. You know how I feel about melodramatic, heroic feats.”
For a quick second, Susan’s smooth, unlined pudgy face danced in front of Ryn’s eyes. “Sure do. They belong in opera.”
“Riiight. Hold on. I’m on the phone with Alicia’s service.”
White noise clicked in the background. Ridiculously, the sound spurred Ryn onward, remembering the routine pelvic exam nearly ten years ago when Susan had commented on how skinny Ryn was, saying it was a good thing she had no desire to sing opera because there were no skinny divas.
Ryn had laughed and shared one of her favorite fantasies—singing the role of Isolde at a packed La Scala. Susan let out a whoop that brought a nurse running into the exam room. Howling, Susan then admitted her secret. She wanted to perform the soulful Mimi in La Bohème at the Met, no less.
After that, one admission led to another. Stone hated opera. Susan’s husband could take it or leave it—preferring to leave it. The next week end the new friends flew up to San Francisco to attend the performance of Turandot with Eva Marton. From then on, their friendship grew.
Susan had been the second person Ryn called after Stone’s murder.
Sounding groggy, Elijah required a minimal explanation. He arrived in a spotless white shirt, crisp jeans, and dark glasses ten minutes after Ryn’s call. She wore chartreuse running shoes, a floor-length purple bathrobe, her baseball cap, and the wraparound glasses. She carried a small bag with more underwear, a pair of fresh jeans, and her wallet filled with cre
dit cards. Under the robe, she wore clean underwear, running shorts, and a short-sleeved tee.
“Your skin’s pale as milk,” Elijah said.
“Uh-huh. And my freckles are the size of dimes.” She let him take the overnight bag. “That’s what happens when I go without makeup.”
“I sorta like freckles myself. Not many black folks sport freckles.” He inserted the elevator key and gave her an open head-to-toe onceover.
“Trust me. They’re not missing one of Mother Nature’s blessings.” She stepped into the elevator, grateful he skirted questions about how she felt because she didn’t want to admit she felt worse than she could ever remember.
“You’re not gonna take offense if I offer you an arm to the car, are you?”
“Not today. But if I puke, I’ll try to miss your shoes.”
“Thanks.” He grimaced but took her elbow firmly between vise-like fingers. “You look as if the elevator ride ranks up there with one on a roller coaster.”
“Give me the roller coaster any day.” She ducked her head to enter the car, and the ground rose up to hit her between the eyes.
“I’ve got ya.” Elijah guided her into the front seat.
Sweat dripped off her eyebrows into her eyes. Blinking, she saw dozens of dancing black dots and tasted salt.
“Head between your legs,” Elijah ordered, pushing her head downward. “Don’t move. I’ve got water in the trunk. I think you’re dehydrated.”
“I’ll throw up,” she mumbled to her knees.
“This is a sports drink,” he called. “Lots of electrolytes and vitamins.”
He returned next to her, ordering her to sit up slowly, focus on the windshield wipers, sit still for a few seconds, and let him know when she wanted to try his sports drink. Unlike Stone, who had the patience of a fire ant, Elijah gave her time to recover.
When she announced she was ready, Elijah put a plastic bottle in her right hand. “If you ever tell anyone I drink the kiwi-strawberry flavor, I will deny it with every cell in my body.”