“This house is clean, Miss Bracken.”
“Elliot…” Only it was from behind me this time. In slightly more sinister tones.
I turned to find Rita standing just inside the partly ajar front door. “…what in the world is going on?”
“Rita!” I raised both hands in abject submission. “You’re home!”
“My ever observant fiancé. Who’s this pretty lady?”
“Nobody!”
“Thank-you.” Katie smiled and held out her hand. “Dr. Katie Bracken. Nice to meet you, Rita. I’m helping Elliot.”
“Helping him how?”
“She’s special,” I blurted.
“Is she?”
“I mean, she specializes in—
“Phobias,” Katie smiled calmly.
Rita started, stepped back, eyes widening! “My God! Elliot!”
“It’s not what you think! We just met!”
Rita pointed. “Look at you!”
I kept backing up. “I can explain!”
“I can’t believe it!” She pointed at the carpet.
Garbanzo was clumped at my ankles, rubbing and stretching, purr motor full throttle.
I looked up at Rita.
Rita looked over at Katie.
Katie smiled at Rita.
Rita gaped at Katie. “He hates Elliot! Can’t stand him! Did you do that, Miss Bracken?”
“Katie, please. It’s just a matter of knowing your own center. Then learning to share it with another.”
Rita grabbed it up like a lifeline. “This is incredible!” She turned to me, beaming. “Elliot! Where did you find her?”
“Well, I…”
“Ailurophobia is one of my pet projects, if you’ll excuse the pun,” Katie smiled, “I too went in fear of cats as a child. Couldn’t find any help so I cured myself. Sorry for the…intrusion, Miss—“
“It’s Rita, please! And not at all!”
“The place to find the cure is at the source. And Elliot--your fiancé--was too…well, embarrassed to tell you.”
Rita gave me an astonished, slightly hurtful look. “Elliot! We promised each other—no secrets!”
“Don’t be too hard on him, Rita. For patients with Ailurophobia it’s kind of like wetting the bed.”
They both graced me with mutual, motherly smiles. Like pals.
I grinned back limply.
Rita picked up the big Abyssinian caressing my shoe. “I just can’t believe it!” Then, excitedly to Katie: “So, he’s cured then?”
“Definitely on the way. I’d like to see him several more times, possibly take the cat with us so they don’t imprint on just the home environment.” Katie turned brightly to me. “Do you think that would be manageable, Elliot?”
“Well…”
Rita touched my arm encouragingly. “This is wonderful! I’m very proud of you, Elliot!”
Katie turned to Rita. “So am I. Your fiancé’s a very open-minded person.”
Rita beamed. “Thank you again for taking him under your wing!”
“Really, the pleasure’s all mine.”
I turned to the bar. “Anyone else want a drink?”
THREE
“…and I walk in,” Rita was saying, “and there’s my new fiancé consorting with another woman in the dining room! A not unattractive woman, I might add!”
She was sucking up to Dean Owens and wife Lilly, canvassing hard for tenure in the Physics Department.
The Dean was nodding obligingly between Rita’s breasts and the bridge of her nose, getting as quickly faced on vodka and tonic as decorum allowed. His wife, a patrician gargoyle who I’d never seen show more emotion than a constipated basset, actually arched a severe brow in the vague hope Rita’s story was going to be sordid.
Rita herself was over just over the limit of her mint juleps and a sentence or two away from slurring as she pumped hard to prime the old battle axe. “Well! I thought, just what’s going on here? And glanced quickly askance to make sure the bedroom door was open!”
She took a sip from her drink to stretch the tension, actually got a millimeter’s forward lean of anticipation out of the Dean’s wife. Then she looped her arms in mine and pressed against me conveniently to show loving support and that all was well in paradise “Well, it turns out that, unbeknownst to me, I am engaged to a genuinely authentic Ailurophobic!” Let that sink in a moment for effect, then added, “You do know what that means?”
“Fear of cats,” the Dean supplied, barely before she’d finished the question. Never mess with an English major.
Rita smiled cheerful defeat. “And right under my roof! But do you think the big coward would tell me?”
“Medium-sized coward,” I said, pouring my own drink into a planter behind me and lifting high the empty glass. “I’m dry! Anyone else need something from the bar?”
“Anyway, as it turns out the gracious Dr. Bracken—who is as intelligent and prescient as she is pretty--has taken a special interest in Elliot’s case--”
The Dean’s wife glanced at me as if I were hiding an oboe.
“—his little neurosis about cats, which the poor embarrassed dear has been keeping from me from day one, since the moment we met!”
“Is it serious?” from the frigid queen.
“The phobia? Not really. Dr. Bracken likens it to wetting the bed!”
“Oh, dear.”
I looked away before the Dean’s wife could make eye contact again.
“What’s her pedigree?” from a disinterested Dean Owens.
Rita turned companionably. “The cat? It’s an Abyssinian. A male.”
“The doctor. What’s on her sheepskin?”
Rita turned confused eyes to me.
“Witch,” I blurted.
Everybody stared at me. The Dean frowned a bit, I think.
“Which?” I repeated. “She has several, I’m told. Cum laude at Brown, I believe.”
The Dean looked impressed, if mildly jealous. “Huh.”
“So has he yet?” from the basset lady, left brow all set to arch again.
“Been cured?” Rita asked.
“Quit wetting the bed.”
To my horror, Rita looked up at me like she wasn’t sure.
I wiggled my glass again. “I’m going to grab a fresh one! Be right back!”
I spun on my heel and was out of there.
Several yards away through the Dean’s cavernous Colonial, I heard behind me the old man’s wife--still pursuing the subject—say something about a retarded nephew who used to wet the bed…
* * *
I cut past the bar and through the terrace door to the Malibu lights ringing the backyard and the gelatinous green glow of the pool.
The younger crowd had gathered here, some of the girls paddling about or diving under like misshapen nymphets before the underwater lights.
Miss Sanders, at pool’s center, treading opposite a muscular young man I didn’t recognize from class, spied me, porpoised high while he was in mid-sentence and swam underwater to pop up in front of me at the tile lip with plastered blonde hair and a bikini that was awesomely red and barely there.
“Hi, Professor Bledsoe!” pale cantaloupes bobbing up to say hello too.
“Good evening, Miss Sanders, how’s the water?”
“Cold. And it’s Susan.”
“The water?”
“Me!” she giggled and threatened a splash that never came. “Come join me!”
I nodded past her at muscle boy. “I don’t think your boyfriend would ratify that.”
She wrinkled her pert nose, a light sprinkle of freckles that made her look even younger than she was. “Thad?” She made a phtt sound. “He’s a tool. All dick and no style. Come show me yours! Style.”
“Forgot my suit.”
“Borrow one from old man Owens, or go skinny, a couple of the girls are.”
“Sounds tempting, but I’m over the legal limit.”
“Who isn’t?”
“I’d sink
like a stone. Beside which I have to pee.”
She shrugged porcelain shoulders. “Pee in the pool. Keep me warm.” Then fuck me in the deep end, her eyes added.
“Thanks anyway, better get back to my fiancée.”
“Chicken.”
“Yep.”
She kicked back a yard, pursed and squirted a suggestive stream at me. “Well, the invitation stands!”
I nodded, found suddenly I really did need to urinate and turned back to the big three-story, taking the white staircase to the second level to avoid the owner and his charming wife.
It was one of those old, high ceiling bathrooms with enough tile to pave a driveway and big cut class doorknobs that held a big brass key in a big brass lock. It reeked of lilac.
I stood before the old-fashioned pull-chain toilet, feeling it was way too tres chic to be pissing into, and blew out weary, whiskey breath in a sigh of ancient relief. To my right and slightly behind me the curtain on the claw-foot tub rustled back and revealed Katie Bracken. “Evening,” she said.
“Evening,” I nodded, dick in hand.
She stepped out of the tub in her evening dress.
I flushed, tucked myself away. “Spill something on your dress?”
“Sorry. Really. I couldn’t think of any other way to get you alone, Elliot.”
I dragged up my zipper. “Uh-huh. Are you stalking me, Miss Bracken?”
“Go ahead and finish,” she nodded at the gleaming bowl, “I don’t mind.”
“That’s very…considerate of you, I’m fine. What’re you doing here?”
She pulled the shower curtain back again and smoothed the front of her dress, adjusting a strap. “In the bathroom or at the party?”
“Do you know the Dean?”
“Who? Oh. No. I don’t. Is he nice?”
“You weren’t invited?”
“No, Elliot, I told you, I came to see you.” She tore a piece of toilet paper free and reached for my crotch. “You dribbled a little there…”
I snatched the paper from her hand, turned around and accessed the damage. “It’ll dry.”
“Yes. Very nice penis, by the way.”
I looked up at her reflection in the sink mirror. “And you’d know, of course.”
“Only my share.”
“You’re something else, aren’t you?”
“I speak my mind.”
“Really, hadn’t noticed.”
“I saw it. Why is it different than complimenting your eyes or your smile? In my opinion—“
“You know, Rita’s downstairs having dinner with the Dean and his wife.”
She nodded. “Yeah, Rita. Sorry.”
“Excuse me?”
“About earlier at your place--the bed wetting thing—it was all I could think of on the spur of the moment.”
“Oh, that.” I sighed a shrug. “Don’t worry, it probably won’t be all over campus for at least a day or so.”
“I thought you said your wife was at school that day…”
“My fiancée.”
“Whatever. What in the world were you thinking?”
“Her class was canceled or something.”
“I mean, what in the world were you thinking when you proposed to her?”
I turned around to face her, stain forgotten. “What? What did you say?”
She shrugged noncommittally. “Nothing. She seems very nice. It’s just…”
“It’s just what?”
“You two don’t seem to have all that much in common.”
“You’d know that too, of course.”
She turned her white strapped dress to the mirror, studied her delicate, bare back. “Do you think this thing makes me look fat?”
“Yes.”
She accessed her mouth’s reflection, making an O like a fish. “Your wife has great lips. Mine are a bit thinnish, don’t you think?”
“I haven’t lost sleep over it.” I threw the wad of paper at the trash can. Swish. “I have to get back.”
“Sure.”
I came past her.
She smelled great.
I reached for the door.
“Very little...”
Let my hand drop from the knob and looked back at her.
“…I don’t know about you. Elliot.”
“Indeed.”
“Ask me anything.”
“Ask you anything about what, Miss Bracken?”
“’Bullet.’ That was his name.”
“Whose name?”
“Your first dog. Your uncle used to have a collection of Roy Roger’s comics you liked to read. His—Roy’s—dog’s name was Bullet. Which you named your own dog.”
“Fascinating. Probably find it on Wikepedia—I am somewhat known—but fascinating. I’m deeply flattered. Have a nice evening, Miss Bracken.”
“You loved him very much but what you really wanted was a horse, a palomino, which you’d name ‘Trigger.’ After Roy Rogers’ horse. You still catch the reruns on TV. But somehow they looked better on your Dad’s old Sylvania. With Halolight.”
Something scuttled around inside my stomach. “You read that on the book flap.”
She pursed at the mirror again, touched the edge of her mouth with her little finger. “Well, I doubt that, Elliot, as I’ve never read your book and as you’ve never, never mentioned Bullet to anyone.”
I took a step back.
She caught the movement in the mirror, smiled. “It’s just a trick. I’m not psychic. Elliot? Please. Get that look off your face.”
“What look is that?”
“Holier than thou conservatism. You’re not smarter than almost anybody even if you like to think so. Especially about women. ‘Intuition.’ One of those words you truly detest.”
I threw up my hands. “Well! As you’ve already seen my penis I suppose there’s little else to know about me! Good night!”
She went back to her mouth. “Lots more to know about you. And I didn’t mean to imply your wife—“
“Fiancée.”
“—isn’t pretty. Clearly she is. I can certainly understand you wanting to hit on that. Little big in the shoulders but she has that yummy mouth. Needs to watch the forehead, though.”
“Forehead?”
“Frown marks, right here and here.”
“What do you want, Katie?”
She turned to me. “You, of course.”
“No you don’t.”
“Oh, I do!”
“To what? Fuck?”
She looked mildly surprised. “Listen to you! Pretty puffed up for a guy with phobias.” She looked me up and down. “Hadn’t thought about it, frankly but—“
“Bullshit. You’ve been flirting with me all night.
Footsteps outside the door. The glass knob turned, caught the lock.
“Taking a dump!” Katie yelled.
Footsteps retreating.
“I have to get back, Katie, what do you want me for?”
She took a thoughtful breath. “Several weeks, actually. Possibly months. You can never tell with these things.”
“I teach—“
“Not over the summer you don’t. Which dovetails nicely with our timeframe.”
“Your timeframe?”
“Our case. A toughie. But you should be flattered, Elliot, I’ve never asked anyone for help before. Ever. I have an ego as big as…” she looked around, finally settled on my crotch.
“Then why are you asking for help now?”
She took a step toward me. “Because you already know it. Pretty much top to bottom.”
“What? What? Quit talking in goddamn circles!”
“Your film, Elliot.”
I looked at her.
“Your 16mm masterpiece. It’s all there, scene for scene, practically the whole thing.”
“What is?”
“The paranormal case you’re going to help me solve.”
I heard noise outside the bathroom window, turned and glanced down. The shimmering pool was e
mpty, a dead calm square of light; food must have been served.
I looked back at the woman in the white, strapped evening dress. “What am I thinking right now?’
Katie rolled her eyes. “Elliot. Must we?”
“Tell me or no help. What am I thinking about?”
She sighed. “The lithesome Miss Sanders. Specifically her tits. Which are bigger and firmer than Rita’s. And shame on you, professor.”
I shrugged. “No different than noticing her eyes, her smile…”
She rolled her eyes. “Uh-huh. Next you’ll be suggesting that as long as I saw your penis you may as well see my—“
I started back for the door.
“It’s a trick, Elliot! I saw you earlier, staring at her in the pool! Staring at them in the pool! They won’t bob like that when she hits forty.”
“Wait a minute…” my mouth felt abruptly dry.
“What’s the matter now?”
“How’d you get in here? I locked the door!”
She smiled, held up the big brass key. “Apparently not.”
I started for her, hand out, patience gone.
“You have to sort of twist it,” she purred, “just the right way…”
“Give me the key, Katie.”
“Will you help me?”
“Give me the key. Now.”
She pushed it down the front of her dress, made a ne-yagh-nagh face.
“Jesus. You’re like a child.”
“But then so is Miss Sanders, right? I need you on this case with me, Elliot.”
I jerked back to the window suddenly, flung up the sash. Warm air and sumac pushed back the lilac momentarily. I lifted a shoe to the old iron heater under the window and hoisted myself up.
Katie sighed weariness. “Don’t be an idiot, Elliot, even if you hit the pool from this height you can’t swim.”
I threw my legs over the sill, perched there a moment, then craned back at her. “Don’t come near me again. Not my house, not the school. I’ll have you arrested.”
“Elliot…she’s not getting tenure. The sex is only going to get worse and sooner or later you’ll start drinking and do something stupid with Miss Sanders…”
“Leave me alone!”
And I pushed off the sill.
My shoes hit the top edge of the wood trellis and, remembering my army training, I went hand in hand downward into the night.
I only looked back up once before the wood lattice snapped beneath me and I plunged backward into the void.
FEVER DREAMS: A Bracken and Bledsoe Paranormal Mystery Page 3