Sleight of Hand

by Robin Hathaway

  “Is Sapphire all right?” she asked.

  I told her what Dr. March had told me and that we would be staying another night. Dad and Lolly looked happy; Max looked resigned. Lines of pain etched his face. I prepared a morphine shot and gave it to him. I knew he would never ask me for it, but he didn’t complain when I gave it to him, either. I decided if his hand wasn’t better by the time we returned to Bayfield, I would have to get him to a specialist somehow.

  Not in the mood for TV, I went into my bedroom, where I continued to think about Max. There were times when I thought he trusted me—even liked me, such as that night when he had suggested we have wine with dinner. But other times, I would catch him staring at me with a look of pure malice. Well, we were bound together for the time being by one of the oldest ties in history—doctor and patient. I wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was he—at least for the moment.

  I spied an old Dick Francis novel, a favorite of mine when I was in my teens. I had collected all his books. I settled down on the bed with Come to Grief. I was totally caught up in the story, my troubles forgotten momentarily, when I came to a paragraph in which Francis described how the jockey communicates with his horse through his hands. Sid Haley, the jockey hero, could no longer do this. He had lost one hand and had a prosthetic replacement that worked electronically. Horses don’t respond well to electronics.

  I closed the book and laid it aside.

  CHAPTER 41

  Dr. March called early the next morning. His diagnosis had been correct. Sapphire had improved enough for her to travel, and I would be in charge of giving her the antibiotic. Great. We picked her up and headed for the turnpike. Dad had told me about a route to the turnpike that avoided going through Manhattan, and I managed not to get lost this time. Of course, it was daylight, which helped. And Sapphire was feeling better, so she didn’t yowl as much. Max dozed, as the result of his medication, and Lolly was preoccupied with looking after her cat. I was relatively free to think during the trip back, for better or worse.

  Since the search for Regina had proved futile, I pondered what my next step was going to be. I could try again to persuade Max to take a risk—reveal his identity and have the necessary surgery. But I already knew what his answer would be. And he had a point. Not only was he implicated in Regina’s crime but now he was suspected of some connection with the murder of a Mafia counterfeiter.

  By the time we reached Bayfield, I was not only depressed but also numb with fatigue. I dropped off my three passengers and returned to the motel. I couldn’t face taking the rental car back to Bridgeton yet. I waved to Maggie, who was covering the front desk, and shot upstairs. My room had never looked so welcoming, with its dark red comforter and cheerful Dufy prints. I shook off my shoes, curled up in the comforter, and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 42

  The phone woke me.

  Tom. “Two trips to the Big Apple in one week? Are you getting homesick?”

  “Uh … how did you know?”

  “Maggie. How do you think? Nobody tells me anything.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You could at least let me know when you leave town.”

  “It was an emergency.”

  “Your dad?” He was instantly concerned.

  “No, not that kind of emergency.”

  “I see.” He was offended.

  I couldn’t deal with him now. “Look, could I call you back?” “Anytime.” He hung up before I could soften my abrupt request.

  “Hell.” Me and my double life. It was starting to affect my normal life. Normal life? Ha! Who are you kidding? When have you ever led a normal life? When I was nine, things were pretty normal. That was the year I was almost expelled for throwing a dictionary out of the window and having it land on the principal’s head. When asked to explain, I’d said, “I had an impulse.” Poor Dad. He’d had a tough time talking our way out of that one. The principal, sporting a large bandage on his bald head, had looked at him coldly and said, “You should teach your daughter to control her impulses.” Later, Dad sat me down and told me a story about an impulse he had once had—and the consequences.

  As a boy, he had lived in the country. There was a quarry nearby where he and his brothers liked to swim. One day, my dad was angry with his brother Mike for something. On an impulse, he held Mike’s head under the water for over a minute. He almost drowned. When his brother recovered, his dad didn’t punish my dad. He just said, “Think how you’d feel if Mike had died.”

  “Could the principal have died?” I’d asked in horror.

  “Of course.” Dad had looked at me gravely. “You were very lucky.”

  I didn’t waste much time worrying about the principal, but I had nightmares for weeks about being locked in a cell on death row. From then on, I controlled my impulses—mostly.

  CHAPTER 43

  Sapphire recovered. Max’s infection subsided. But the window of time during which he could have corrective surgery was shrinking. It was beginning to look like I would have to take a residency in hand surgery and do the operation myself.

  Meanwhile, life went on as usual. I saw patients, had an occasional archery lesson, sometimes followed by lovemaking, and made daily visits to the farmhouse to check on Max and Lolly.

  Max kept to himself. Partly because the medication made him sleepy and he dozed in front of the TV. Our encounters were brief. I examined his hand, changed the dressing, and made suggestions regarding his health. I was afraid he might be slipping into a chronic depression. I recommended more exercise—both physical and mental. I suggested he take walks around the property. The weather continued to be incredibly beautiful—blue-and-gold days sharp with the smell of wood smoke. Bayfield still allowed wood and leaf burning. The safety frenzy that had swept the country had somehow missed this remote corner of south Jersey. To stimulate Max’s mind, I gave him crossword puzzle books and whodunits. But he preferred the hypnotic drone of the boob tube. With an ordinary patient, I would have called in Social Services. But there was no chance of Max agreeing to that. He needed to keep his identity secret at all costs.

  Lolly had simple pleasures. She liked to cook, clean, play with her cats, and take long walks. She would often come home bearing bouquets of wildflowers from the fields and fill every available receptacle she could find—buckets, baskets, bottles—and set them around the house.

  One day, I saw her carrying a bunch of wildflowers away from the house, toward the woods. Curious, I watched from the kitchen window until she reemerged through the trees—empty-handed. When she came in, I asked, “Where are the flowers?”

  She frowned, and for the first time, the usually straightforward Lolly was evasive. “I … uh … left them in the woods.”

  Intrigued, I said, “It was such a beautiful bunch it seems a shame to let them die. Let’s go get them.”

  Lolly stood rooted by the refrigerator. “I can pick more,” she said.

  My curiosity thoroughly aroused, I grabbed my jacket from the chair and said, “Come on. Let’s go. I need some exercise.”

  Reluctantly, Lolly followed.

  When we reached the edge of the woods, I stepped back to let her lead. She moved slowly, walking with her usual lumbering gait. The leaves crunched under our feet and the rays of the late-afternoon sun glanced through the trees, lighting on a branch here, a rock there. A rabbit darted across our path and some crows squawked angrily above us in a treetop. Lolly trudged on, seemingly unaware of her surroundings. Once she paused and looked back. I waved encouragingly. Again, Lolly frowned but continued on.

  Soon we came to a small clearing. In the center was a rock about the size of a football. Next to the rock stood an old whiskey bottle overflowing with flowers. There was no mistaking the site; it was a grave. My first thought was, Lolly’s buried one of her cats here. “Who’s buried here?” I asked.

  Fixing me with her calm gaze, she said, “Mommy.”

  After Lolly spoke, the first sound I noticed was the crows cawing. Their squawks
had reached a hysterical pitch, one that exactly matched my thoughts and feelings. I started to cover my ears but realized that would do no good, because the sound was inside my head. I grabbed Lolly’s hand and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  I half-pulled her through the woods, stumbling over rocks and dead branches, until we came out into the sunlight. I hurried her across the field and didn’t slow down until we reached the house. We were both panting as we came into the kitchen. Max was eating a sandwich at the table. He looked up. “Where have you been?”

  Lolly was about to tell him, but I jumped in first. “We took a walk,” I said. “It’s such a beautiful day. You should try it.”

  He went back to his sandwich. I saw the loaf of bread and a knife lying on the table and wondered how he had cut it. “I’d better be going,” I said. I did have patients to see.

  Max grunted. Lolly was silent.

  I worried that she would tell Max where we had been as soon as I left. But there was nothing I could do about that. As I trolled down the drive, I glanced across the field. The sinking sun had struck the woods, and the trees looked on fire.

  CHAPTER 44

  By the time I arrived back at the motel, I’d cooled down and my skeptical side had kicked in. Lolly had a fanciful nature. She had probably dreamed this up. Even abused kids love their moms. It probably helped her to accept her loss to pretend her mother was buried nearby. Relieved to have come up with such a reasonable explanation, I stopped by the lobby to pick up my mail. I looked absently through the pile of junk—bills, ads, and solicitations—while making small talk with Paul.

  “How’re you doin’?”

  “Pretty good.”

  There was only one personal note mixed in with the junk mail. The envelope bore a poorly typed address. I tore it open and drew out a piece of paper—blank except for a small imprint in the center. I looked closer. A rubber stamp of a black hand!

  My first impulse was to laugh. Then cold tentacles of fear crept up my spine and I shivered.

  “Bad news?” Paul asked.

  I tore my gaze from the imprint and focused on him. “What?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, sure.” I forced a laugh. “Just some old friend’s idea of a practical joke.”

  “I hate practical jokes,” Paul said.

  “Me, too.” I shoved the paper back in the envelope and took off.

  In the sanctuary of my room, I glanced in the mirror. I looked haggard, closer to forty than thirty. Two shocks within an hour had taken their toll. This would never do. I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I shoved an exercise disc in the computer and did some push-ups. After working up a good sweat, I perched on the edge of my futon to think.

  But what should I think about first? The unmarked grave or the black hand? Could the two be connected? If Lolly’s mother was really in that grave, how had she died? Of natural causes—or had Max killed her? I thought of his gun nestled among my undies. I opened the drawer and gently rummaged through the bras and panties until I felt the hard muzzle. I went back to ruminating. If he had killed Regina, he could have killed the counterfeiter, too. Maybe they’d been partners and had a falling-out. But Max wasn’t the partner type. He was a loner if there ever was one. Except for Regina. They’d been partners—until Lolly came along.

  My head hurt. I went in the bathroom and took two aspirin. Maybe I was in over my head this time. Maybe I did need help. But from whom? I ran through my meager collection of friends and relations. Dad? He would just get upset and want me to drop the whole thing. Tom? He wouldn’t get upset, but he would also want me to drop the whole thing. Paul and Maggie? I loved them dearly, but they couldn’t be trusted to keep their mouths shut. They were an integral part of the Bayfield grapevine. Peck? Not a friend, an acquaintance, and he might turn Max in—and then Lolly’s fate would be left to every do-gooder in town.

  I was getting nowhere. Maybe I needed food—and drink. I couldn’t remember when I’d last eaten. But I was tired of being alone. I was sick of myself and my negative thoughts. On an impulse, I called Tom and asked if he’d like to meet me at Harry’s, the local bar and grill, for dinner. He eagerly agreed. I showered and changed. As I rode to the bar, I reminded myself that I was just taking a break. I needed company. I wouldn’t tell him anything.

  I got there first. It was still early and there were just a few people—two regulars at the bar and a young couple billing and cooing in one of the booths at the back. I headed for a booth at the front and slid into the seat with a sigh. It was quiet except for the soft clink of ice and glasses from the bar and the murmur of Frank Sinatra from the jukebox. The smell of beer, hamburgers cooking, and the faint odor of cigarettes and cigars, were comforting. Smoking had not yet been banned in bars in south Jersey. Or, if a law had been passed, no one paid any attention to it. I ordered a Miller Lite and waited.

  Tom came before the beer. When he slid in opposite me and grinned, it was all I could do to keep from jumping across the table and embracing him. Tall, lean, brown—he looked so fit, so normal. So unlike all the people I had been associating with lately. I limited myself to returning his grin and reaching for his hand. He squeezed my hand hard and ordered his brew.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I watched his hands as he picked up his mug with one and rested the other on the wooden table. “Carpenter’s hands,” he’d once called them. Square and blunt, they were strong, useful, workaday hands. He never fidgeted with them; he was always at ease with himself, a trait I envied. He reached for a menu and held it out to me.

  “Just a burger and fries,” I said, forgetting about dieting.

  “Same here.” He gave the waitress our order. “Both medium rare,” he added, and stuffed the menu back behind the salt and pepper shakers. With a quizzical look, he asked, “So, what have you been up to?”

  I ached to tell him. He looked so sane, so practical, so down-to-earth. He might be able to solve my problems. The world of guns and graves and black hands seemed galaxies away. I wanted to stay here with him in this cozy booth forever.

  After the second beer, I thought, Why not just tell him? What harm would it do? At least the part about looking for Regina, and Lolly showing me her mother’s grave. Maybe he would have an idea. I began, “I have this patient who—”

  The waitress brought our burgers.

  “He injured his hand, and—”

  “Boy, this smells good. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.” He took a big bite. When he had finished chewing and swallowing, he said, “Sorry—you were saying?”

  “Nothing.” I nibbled at my fries as he told me about a new job he had landed—restoring one of the oldest houses in Bayfield.

  “This couple lives in New York and plans to use the house only on weekends, but they want to restore it to its original state. He’s a banker and she’s a lawyer, so I guess they can afford it. It’ll be a two-to three-year contract at least.”

  “That’s fabulous! How did they hear about you?”

  “The postmistress. They came in one day and asked Lucy if she knew anyone in the area who did restoration work, and she gave them my name.”

  “Wow. It pays to know people in high places. You better give Lucy a nice Christmas present.”

  “Yeah. I’ve got something all picked out.”

  “What?”

  “A new stove.”

  Lucy Peterson, the postmistress at Bayfield, worked out of a small log cabin that was still heated in winter by an old woodstove.

  “Great. That place is freezing in winter. The stove is on its last legs.”

  “The legs aren’t the problem; the stovepipe has a hole in it. I’m going to fix that for her, too.”

  “She’ll be eternally grateful and send you an endless stream of clients,” I said.

  “I hope so.” He held my gaze longer than usual.

  I blinked and felt my stomach begin to churn.

  “Jo, I want to—”

  Oh go
d, I panicked. “Just a minute. I’ll be right back.” In my hurry to get out of the booth, I stumbled. Safely in the rest room, I took a series of long, deep breaths to keep from hyperventilating. Why did he have to spoil it by getting serious? On top of everything else, I couldn’t deal with another major decision. Not now.

  I sat in the stall, my head in my hands, until I felt calmer. I must have been there longer than I realized, because when I went back to the booth, Tom was standing, as if about to come looking for me. “Are you okay?” he asked anxiously.

  “Yeah. There was someone in there, taking her time.” We sat down and I looked around. In my absence, the place had filled up. It was getting noisy and smoky. “You ready to go?” I asked.

  “Sure.” He caught the waitress’s eye. Again, I was attracted by his hands as he examined the check, took the bills from his wallet, and sorted out the tip. I wanted those hands to touch me, to caress me, to soothe away my fears.

  Before getting into his pickup, he gave me a long, slow kiss. I leaned into him, craving his warmth and strength.

  “Come home with me?” His arms tightened around me.

  Oh god, I wanted to. But I knew if I did, I’d tell him everything. And he, on his part, might ask me something I couldn’t answer. I backed off, murmuring one of my innumerable excuses, and headed for my bike.

  He didn’t call good night, and he slammed the door of his pickup with more force than usual.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  CHAPTER 45

  Throughout the next day, while occupied with my routine, I forgot about Regina’s grave and the sinister little black hand. By the end of the day I had convinced myself that the Mafia note was nothing to worry about. Just a reminder from the boss of omertà—to keep the silence—which I had every intention of doing. The grave was a different story. I had to find out if Lolly was telling the truth. And the only way to do that required action. I would have to dig up the grave Lolly had shown me and see if anyone was buried there. And I would have to do it secretly, at night. I couldn’t ask for help. And I would need equipment—a flashlight, a shovel, and warm clothing. The October nights were getting chilly.