My God! How was I going to mother my children if I couldn’t hear their complaints and arguments? I wasn’t smart enough to figure out how to live in a silent world at this point in my life!
Aided by the driver’s emphatic gestures, I lip-read his words: “I’ll call nine-one-one.”
“No, I’ll just drive myself to the hospital.” I started to get back into my car.
The man grabbed my arm. I looked him straight in the eye and he immediately released his grip on me. He shook his head and, as best as I could lip-read, said, “No, you shouldn’t do that.” Then he said something along the lines of: “Baa baaa baa baa,” but I doubted that was accurate.
“What? I can’t hear.”
“No,” he said again, shaking his head, though this was one word I could lip-read easily enough. He reached out and touched my back, just past my shoulder, then brought his hand back to show me.
His fingertips were covered in blood.
My good Samaritan, using a small first-aid kit in his car, devised a makeshift compress for my worst injury, a cut just behind my right shoulder. He then waited with me until the ambulance arrived. In the meantime he also called Jim for me on his cell phone. I hoped that he conveyed the message that I was mostly fine—just a bit more daft than usual.
The young man’s first name was either Brendon or Brandon or something of the kind. I thanked him profusely and asked for his last name, but I couldn’t understand him, and he ignored my request for him to write it down. I wanted to send him a written thank-you. It was so difficult to monitor the volume of my own voice that I kept my talking to a bare minimum.
It hit me on the ride to the hospital that I’d ruined my sexy blouse, just after learning I actually owned one. The emergency room physicians examined me and told me that only the one wound in the back of my right shoulder required stitches; the cuts to the back of my neck were cleaned up and covered with butterfly bandages. Fortunately, the headrest and the back of my seat had taken the brunt of the shrapnel.
Jim got to the hospital just a few minutes after my arrival and joined me in the examining room. He listened to my tale as I told it to the police officer whom someone had dispatched to meet me. Possibly, the hospital didn’t get all that many car bombings and had contacted the police. My statement to him was straightforward—that my Jeep had been in a school parking lot most of the day, then parked in front of Nadine Dahl’s house for just over an hour. The officer told me that they were towing my car to the police station so it could be examined for evidence.
The doctor assured me my hearing would return to a hundred percent within the next day or two. For now it was at least fifty percent restored. Just in time for a lecture from my spouse as he drove me home. He felt that I had been irresponsible by having gone to Nadine’s house. I feigned more hearing loss than I was still experiencing, but he wasn’t fooled.
My mother was at my house fixing dinner for Karen and Nathan when we arrived. Noting that I appeared to be completely unharmed—I’d left a sweater and T-shirt in Jim’s trunk, and so was even wearing clean clothes—the kids gave me halfhearted hugs. Their indifference wasn’t personal, I realized. They were glad I was all right; it’s just that they were hoping for more compelling visuals to share with their friends at school the next day.
I took a seat at the stool alongside the kitchen counter so I wouldn’t be tempted to lean back. Jim and the kids went into the family room. The moment they’d left the immediate vicinity, Mom gave me one of her patented glares that always makes me feel five years old. “Jim called me and told me what you did. Honestly, Molly. Just who do you think you are, the Lone Ranger?”
“No. He rode Silver as his main source of transportation and never experienced a single car bomb.”
“Why must you always get involved in these murder investigations? Can’t you just let Tommy do his job and stay out of it yourself?”
“Mom, I went through this with Jim already. I had no intention of getting myself blown up. From now on I fully intend to use more caution and never get into the car again without first checking for pipe bombs.”
She furrowed her brow but said nothing. It occurred to me then that the idea of my being a magician’s assistant so soon might not sit too well with my family.
Jim came into the kitchen as we were dishing up Mom’s tuna casserole. Figuring I might as well get the matter resolved immediately, I said, “Today Martin Henderson reminded me that I’d agreed to be his assistant tomorrow night.”
“Can you get out of it?”
“Not without guilt. It’s at the children’s wing of the hospital.”
Jim frowned and said, “Maybe I can go in your place.”
“I think you’ll look even worse in Stephanie’s gown than I would.”
“Fine. I’ll just come with the two of you.” Jim had a determined look that warned me there was no sense in arguing the point. Besides, as I sat there clutching my Tylenol-with-codeine prescription, it struck me as a good idea to have my husband serve as my constant bodyguard from then on.
“Your father and I have bridge club tomorrow night,” Mom piped up, sensing an imminent baby-sitting job.
“Since when do you play bridge, Mom?”
“Since nineteen sixty-eight. I just took a forty-plus-year hiatus, is all.”
“Weren’t you rusty?”
“Not compared to your father.”
I returned, my attention to Jim. “Who’s going to watch the kids?”
“We’ll bring them along. They like magic shows.”
“True, but they’ve only seen professional magicians on TV. Martin is not exactly David Copperfield. More like…David Plug-nickel-field.”
“Who’s that?” Mom asked, then called, “Dinner’s ready,” for the sake of the children.
“I was trying to make a joke. Plug nickel instead of copper.”
She looked at me blankly. Explaining a joke was about as effective as explaining the sensations of a kiss. She said to Jim, “Karen and Nathan could always come watch us play bridge. They’d probably find that more entertaining than this David person.”
“Martin person,” I interjected.
“What’s bridge?” Nathan asked as he and Karen joined us and grabbed their plates to carry to the table.
“It’s a card game,” I replied. “So tomorrow night you can choose between watching your grandmother play cards or watching Martin Henderson do magic tricks.”
“Is he Brittany Henderson’s dad?” Nathan asked.
“Yes. He’s the man who came to your class right after me this afternoon.”
“That guy? He’s terrible. He was making this stuffed rabbit appear, and you could see the lump in his sleeve the whole time. And he tells these stupid jokes where he’s the only one laughing.” He looked at his sister. “Let’s go to Gramma’s. She’s always got the good kind of cookies.”
Just after dinner the doorbell rang, as heard by the dog and my other family members. Jim got the door. I’d assumed it would be my father, but it was Tommy whom Jim led to me in the living room.
“Got one of the guys to follow me over here with your car,” Tommy said to me. “We already finished collectin’ evidence.”
“Can I get you a cup of coffee or anything?”
“Glass of water is all. Lauren sends her regards.” Tommy and Jim followed me into the kitchen. Apparently Jim was taking his vow to keep an eye on me seriously. I poured Tommy his water and jazzed it up a little by adding ice cubes.
“What did you find out?” Jim asked.
“It was a small pipe bomb. Fortunately, it was designed to have almost no explosive force.”
“Tell that to the shrapnel that was embedded in my shoulder.”
Ignoring me, Tommy continued. “Pretty basic construction, ‘cept for the timer. Most home jobs don’t use timers like that.”
“Were there any fingerprints?” Jim asked. “Nope. Wiped clean.”
“Oh, great,” I said under my breath. “So we stil
l have no idea who did this?”
“Could’ve been much worse. Like I said, the thing was constructed to make noise and leave a mess, more ‘n anything else. I think it was meant more to scare you than to kill you.”
“It went off when I was in traffic, Tommy. I nearly had a head-on collision with a pickup truck. That sure could have killed me.”
“Wouldn’t’ve done much for the pickup truck, either. What kind was it? I sure like the looks of those Chevy king cabs.”
“Tommy, this isn’t funny. What if my kids had been with me?”
“Thing that I find int’resting is, what if you hadn’t been in the car at all? How’d whoever put it there know you were gonna be drivin’ then? ‘Course, that’s what I mean. Prob’ly figured odds were you wouldn’t be in the car. Whole thing was prob’ly just meant to put a scare in you.” He shifted his gaze toward Jim. “Really made a mess of your upholstery, by the way.”
Jim paled a little. “I’d better go take a look,” he muttered, and left the kitchen.
Tommy gulped down his water, then said to me, “The shrapnel was also interesting. Not that I’m a bomb expert, but I have seen more than one or two. Never seen shards of porcelain used before.”
“Porcelain?” I repeated. “Such as in porcelain dolls?”
“Uh-huh. As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what the pieces seemed to be.” He rose and re-centered his cap into the band it had left in his red hair. “It was smashed-up doll faces.”
Jim took the next morning off. He reminded me that the emergency room doctor had instructed me to make an appointment with my own doctor to get everything rechecked, just in case. Jim drove me to the doctor, but they’d gotten backed up and we spent an inordinate amount of time in the waiting room.
As a result of the doctor visit, we learned that there were no random pieces of porcelain embedded in my skin. Except for my shoulder, which was sore to the touch or when I made a sudden movement, I felt fine.
I convinced Jim that there were better uses of his precious free time than keeping me under surveillance, and gave my promise that I would not so much as leave the house without calling him first. He dropped me off, changed clothes, then went back to work.
When I got home, I spent a suitable amount of time greeting Betty Cocker, then listened to my phone messages. The messages consisted only of hang-ups, which always indicated sales calls. I’d once calculated that, because I worked at home and was almost always the one to answer the phone, I was nearing twenty thousand calls from telemarketers that I’d declined.
The thought gave me an idea for a cartoon: A woman answers her phone and says, “Congratulations! You’re about to be the twenty-thousandth telephone solicitor I say no to! Hang on while I get my firecrackers and referee’s whistle.” The caption reads: “Mildred Krumwalker has mastered the only technique known to cause telemarketers to hang up first.”
The phone rang in earnest, shaking me from my reverie. I said hello, and was greeted in return with, “It’s about time you got home. Oh, Molly, we are in the worst possible predicament.”
I braced myself. “What’s wrong, Stephanie?”
“Olivia Garrett, that’s what’s wrong. Believe me, Molly, that old saying is so true, ‘No good deed goes unpunished in this world.’”
“What good deed have you done lately?” Or ever, for that matter.
“Adopting Jenny, of course. I need you to come over here right away. Though I sorely hate to do this, we have no choice.”
“Much as you flatter me, Steph, I’ve got work to do.”
She clicked her tongue. “As I already stated, the problem is Olivia. It’s been mandated that Olivia have supervised visits only, and that I am not to be the supervisor. Understandably, Jenny wants the visits to take place within her new home. I’d thought that maybe Tiffany could be supervisor, but she can’t come home right after school, and Olivia’s going to arrive at three. She wants to talk to Jenny for an hour at the most, she says. Therefore, you need to do it.”
“You want me to be your supervisor?”
“If you insist, fine. You’re my supervisor.”
“Aren’t there any next door neighbors you could ask to—”
“No. It’s you or nothing. This is a big enough imposition on me as it is. I have some rights, after all, to say whom I want in my house and whom I don’t.”
“Boy, Steph, you really know how to charm the warm ‘n’ fuzzies right out of me, don’t you?”
She let out a puff of air. “Molly, please. You’d be doing me a big favor. Besides, this is right up your alley. Olivia is clearly going to try to convince Jenny to move back home, and you’re such a do-gooder, you’re going to want to help convince Jenny to do what’s best. For all your faults, you’re a devoted mother and you try to be impartial. You’d be the best person I can think of to advise Jenny.”
I was stunned into momentary silence. “That was almost complimentary, Stephanie. Did you mean what you said?”
“Clearly if my words just now have convinced you to do what I want, I’d be an idiot to say anything but yes, now wouldn’t I?”
I was tempted to retort, That’s never stopped you before, but held my tongue.
“The truth, though, is that Olivia and I already discussed our dilemma with regards to supervised visits. You were the only person we could both agree we would tolerate.”
“I’m touched. It’s such an honor to discover that I’m so universally tolerated.” More to the point, though, Stephanie was right. I did want to see that Jenny was making the right decision for herself, and the more I’d seen of Olivia lately, the more inclined I was to support the judge’s decision to remove her daughter from her custody. “All right. I’ll be there at three-thirty. I need to spend some time with my children, and I’ve got plans this evening, too. Which reminds me…I’m filling in for you tonight at a magic show.”
“I remember. All the more reason for you and me to get together this afternoon. I can help you prepare to be my understudy.”
I preferred to think of myself as her supervisor, but a bit of rehearsal could only help. “Okay. Thanks.”
“You’re going to need all the help you can get.” She chuckled. “Martin called me yesterday evening to ask if I could lend you my evening gown. I hope you didn’t plant that silly notion in his head.”
“No, in fact I already told him that your dress would never fit.”
“Not unless you’ve gotten breast implants since I last saw you. I’ll see you at three-thirty.” She hung up.
I slammed down the phone and let out a little roar of frustration and anger that energized BC immediately. She rushed up to me and put her front paws on my thighs as if to ask what this new game entailed and whether she could play with me.
I ignored her and dialed my husband’s office. He wasn’t there, so I left the message, “Jim, we must move immediately. Anyplace where Stephanie Saunders doesn’t live would be fine.” I took a calming breath, then said, “By the way, I’ve got to go over to Stephanie’s after school. Don’t worry, though. She’s not a suspect. And there will be too many witnesses for any violent acts to occur. And remember that I’ve got to be a magician’s assistant at six-thirty tonight.”
I hung up, cheering myself at the thought that whatever else could be said about me, I seldom left dull or predictable messages on my husband’s voice mail.
Olivia Garrett pulled into Stephanie’s circular driveway right after me. She greeted me cordially, thanked me for agreeing to do this, then rang the doorbell.
“Have you gotten any interest on that self-portrait of Dave’s?” I asked by way of small talk.
“It’s turned a few heads already,” she replied. “Of course, I have to keep apologizing for the frame and asking people to envision it with a forest-green matte.”
I murmured in what I hoped was a sympathetic tone, but was thinking how similar Olivia’s and Stephanie’s narcissistic personalities were. No wonder they despised each other.
&nb
sp; Olivia rang the doorbell a second time. Stephanie answered the door and led us to the “sitting room,” where Jenny was already doing her part: seated in a fancy wing-back chair.
“Well, I’ll leave you alone now,” Stephanie said. She glanced nervously in Jenny’s direction before doing so. “I’ll be upstairs if anyone needs me.”
Olivia’s eyes fell immediately on her daughter. “Oh,” Olivia said, clasping her hands over her heart. “How are you, sweetie?”
“Fine,” Jenny answered, avoiding her mother’s eyes.
Olivia turned her head slightly and listened to Stephanie’s footsteps as she climbed the stairs. I took a seat. The instant she could hear an upstairs door shut, Olivia dropped onto her knees, sobbing. “I can’t take this, Jenny. You’re my whole life. You can’t do this to me.”
Horrified, I sat there, wondering how—if her emotions were genuine—Olivia could have managed to remain so perfectly under control until the precise moment that her rival was no longer able to overhear.
“I gave birth to you, met your every need, sacrificed everything for you. And it was worth it. I’d do it all again. A thousand times over, just to see you turn out so wonderfully. But I don’t deserve to be shoved out in the cold this way. Come home to me, baby. Please. This is killing me.”
“You lied to me, Mother!” Jenny retorted. “You said that my father died in a car accident!”
Olivia got to her feet and dabbed at her eyes. “I didn’t consider that a lie. He died of carbon monoxide poisoning in our garage. It very well could have been an accident.”
“According to the papers, he left a note.”
“I was trying to protect you from a painful truth.”
“You were a suspect, Mother! The police finally ruled suicide only after investigating whether he could even have been conscious with that much alcohol in his system!”
Olivia’s face turned as stony-looking as it had in my house the day after the shooting. “I did not harm your father. The police were wrong to suspect me. They cleared my name.” She started to cry once again. “I didn’t want you to know that you…have that link of suicidal tendencies from both sides of your family.”
Death at a Talent Show (Book 6 Molly Masters Mysteries) Page 11