by Gail Lukasik
“I gave him a restorative class because he said his back was bothering him. Then, like always, I ended with Savasana. You know, corpse pose. Where you lie on your back, arms at your side, eyes closed. He hadn’t brought an eye pillow, so I placed one over his eyes once he was in the pose. And—”
Chet interrupted, “That’s enough, Lydia. You know what I told you.”
“I was only going to say, and he suddenly sat up, vomited and grabbed his chest, then fell backward. That’s all. Can I go upstairs now and change?” Lydia’s living quarters were above her shop.
“Not a good idea. Leigh, how about you take her to your place? We still have some work to do here.”
What was going on with Chet? Why couldn’t she go upstairs and change? He was acting like this was a murder investigation, not a natural death, and that Lydia was the prime suspect. “Chet, do you suspect foul play?”
His face went scarlet. “There you go again. How many times do I have to tell you this isn’t Chicago here? This Nate Ryan died suddenly. Famous or not famous, this is standard police procedure in a sudden death.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t bite my head off.”
“Can I get a few of my things?” Lydia repeated her request. Again I was struck by how Lydia didn’t sound like herself. Normally she’d be flirting with Chet, tousling her hair, smiling and deepening her dimples to get her way. But the circumstances were anything but normal.
She was still dressed in her yoga outfit, tight-fitting black pants, spaghetti-strapped black top, and she was still barefoot.
“Sorry, not yet. I’ll let you know when. Leigh, I’m sure you have something she can wear at your place,” Chet grumbled.
“C’mon, Lydia. My truck is out back. Can she at least have some shoes?”
Chet pointed to her flip-flops by the door. Lydia was so shaky, I had to slip them on her feet. Something was off with Lydia. As a nurse, she dealt with life and death on a regular basis. Why was she so shaken up?
Lydia kept her eyes down as we walked back into the studio room, not even glancing at Ryan’s body. Once outside she put her hands over her eyes, shielding them from the sun’s glare and the stares of the tourists. I helped her into the truck’s cab and headed south on Highway 42 to avoid Fish Creek with its gaggle of tourists. I’d cut across the peninsula at Route EE, taking the back roads.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you?” I coaxed her. She was huddled against the door, hugging her arms.
“A man died in my studio, and I couldn’t save him. Isn’t that enough?” Then she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep.
There was nowhere for Lydia to hide in the Airstream mobile home. So after she changed into a pair of my sweatpants and a t-shirt, which hung on her petite frame, she went outside and sat in one of the lawn chairs perched on the rise overlooking Lake Michigan.
Salinger, sensing something was up with Lydia, followed her. I decided to give Lydia some space. Besides, I needed to call Jake and tell him about Ryan.
When he didn’t answer his cell phone or his office phone, I left a message explaining what had happened and that I would be in the office as soon as I got Lydia settled. Though it wasn’t even one o’clock yet, I grabbed two glasses and a bottle of chardonnay, along with a box of crackers and a block of cheese, and joined her.
After I poured two generous glasses of wine, we sat silently gazing out at the lake, its restless surge like the undercurrents I could feel moving inside Lydia.
“What were the odds?” she asked, then paused to take a deep swallow of wine. “If he was going to die, why at my studio? Why not while he was doing drugs or—” She stopped, maybe realizing how selfish that sounded. Lydia’s fallback position was always narcissism.
“You know what’s going to happen, don’t you? The media is going to descend on me like a hoard of locusts. They’re going to dig into my life. They’re going to imply things. Nasty things. None of which will be true, but does that matter? Maybe I need a lawyer.”
Her eyes were brimming with pain. I reached out and put my hand over hers.
“Yes, the next week’s going to be tough,” I reassured her. “But then some other famous person will die or do something outrageous or criminal, and the media will move on. You’ll be nothing but a footnote.”
“Maybe.” She swirled the wine in her glass, then drank the last of it. “Did I ever tell you why I left my life of money and privilege behind to live here?”
“Something about you being your family’s conscience?” When we’d first met after my embarrassing fainting spell at the hospital, she’d joked about being the family’s conscience.
“That was only part of it. The other reason was I saw that if I stayed, my life would be a series of shallow moments, one after another. Days filled with choosing the right clothes, the right schools for my children, charity luncheons and business dinners. My father spent his entire life courting fame. He had the money, but that wasn’t enough. He wanted to be known.”
“You’re not him.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Leigh. I am very much my father’s daughter. Why else did I hunt down Nate Ryan last night and literally force myself on him? You know how I can be with men.”
“You slept with him?” Her ironic smile said it all. Lydia was attractive, fun, and Ryan was a womanizer. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I was. Why? Because I’d resisted? I wasn’t like Lydia either in temperament or in body.
“You make it sound so pretty. No, we didn’t sleep together. We had sex in the back of my car like two horny teenagers. Quite the aphrodisiac. While everyone was inside at the party, we were having a party of our own, right there not ten feet away from the house. What’s worse, I think he felt he owed me the private yoga class and massage. He handed me three hundred dollars before the class. You know, kind of payment for my services.”
Lydia had a tendency toward melancholy, which she kept at bay with self-created dramas. Now the drama had become unmanageable. I could feel her spiraling downward.
“You know that’s not true. When I interviewed him, he asked about a massage. You’ve got to give yourself a break. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
A few seagulls squawked and circled overhead. “Did you tell Chet that you had sex with Ryan?”
“You think I want that out there? Besides the sex had nothing to do with his dying in my studio this morning. Believe me, when we had sex, he was just fine. In fact, more than fine.” She smiled, then shook her head. “I didn’t mean to say that. See? I can’t help myself.”
“You’re in shock, that’s all.” I knew that wasn’t all. Lydia was feeling guilty about something. But what? I wasn’t sure I should pressure her; she seemed so brittle.
She poured herself a second glass of wine and took a long gulp. “Can I stay here until all this blows over? I’ll sleep in Sarah’s art studio. Too cramped in that tin box of hers.”
“Sarah’s coming back in two weeks. But until then you can have my bed. I’ll take the studio for the time being.” Though Sarah hadn’t left me a key to the studio, I still hadn’t fixed the broken lock from the break-in last year.
“What about your shop and the hospital?” I asked, the lingering question of her guilt still rumbling around in my head.
“Carrie can cover for me at the shop. She needs the extra money. And I’ll call in sick at the hospital.”
The thought of sharing the living quarters with Lydia was fraught with all kinds of problems, space being the least of them. But she was my friend, and she was in bad shape.
“Just another one of your strays, huh?” Lydia teased lamely.
I smiled and then plunged in. “Lydia, I have to ask you something. Why are you feeling so guilty about Ryan’s death? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Her mouth went tight and her jaw rigid. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea, my staying with you.” She jumped up from her chair, knocking over the bottle of wine. “I’d forgotten how you can be. Nothing stands
between you and a good story, not even friends.”
I righted the bottle and followed her as she strode toward the mobile home, slamming the door before I could go inside. I heard the click of the lock. “Lydia, c’mon. Open the door.”
Through the window I heard her sobbing.
“Lydia, I’m sorry. Please open the door.”
Finally I gave up, got in my truck and drove away.
What was Lydia holding back? I wondered. Chet had been quick to cut her off when she’d been relating how Ryan died. What hadn’t she told me?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Haven’t gotten to the dog tags yet,” Marge said as I walked into the Gazette office. “Jake’s got me working on a special project. But it’s next on my list. By the way, Jake says you’re not to leave until he gets back from Green Bay. How’s Lydia doing?”
How did she already know about Lydia and Ryan’s death? “You sure you don’t want to cover the news beat, Marge?” I teased.
“Honey, I’d much rather talk about it than write about it. You didn’t answer my question about Lydia.”
At the mention of Lydia’s name, Rob Martin’s head popped up. He was sitting at our shared desk, the only one with a computer, typing away. He was doing a series on how the inordinately hot summer was affecting Door County’s flora and fauna. As the Gazette’s environmental editor, nature he was good at, people not so much.
We had a love–hate relationship—more hate than love. Of late, however, we’d come to a truce based on the realization that we were stuck with each other.
“She’s in shock, but she’ll be okay.” I didn’t want to elaborate on Lydia’s fragile state or my suspicions that she was keeping something from me.
The phone rang. “Not another one.” Marge held up one finger. “Just a sec, hon.”
“Door County Gazette, this is Marge. No, I really don’t know. That I can’t say. You’ll have to call the police department. Have you tried Mr. Ryan’s publicist? Sorry you feel that way.” When she hung up, her cheeks were flushed. “Damn rude reporters.”
“When did that start?” I asked.
“About a half hour ago.”
Martin strolled up to us. “Marge, did you show her?”
“Show me what?” I asked warily. Whatever Martin wanted to show me, I knew I wasn’t going to like it. He looked too smug.
“Not now, Rob,” Marge said.
“She’s going to see it sooner or later.”
He leaned over Marge and opened the search engine on her computer. Under the Today’s Highlights section was the headline, “Nate Ryan dies suddenly after yoga class.” And over the headline was a photo of Lydia being escorted from her shop by me. The story read, “Nate Ryan died today of unknown causes after taking a yoga class. He was performing with a Wisconsin residential theater company owned by his ex-wife Nina Cass.”
Martin smiled up at me and his normally ruddy complexion seemed to be glowing. “You want to read the rest?”
I did, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing my reaction.
“No, thanks.”
“You sure? The article names you and Lydia. You’re famous.” He smirked.
How was I going to protect Lydia now? It wouldn’t take too much digging before reporters figured out where I was living.
“Damn,” I said. “I gotta get home. Tell Jake I’ll talk to him later.”
As I started down the gravel driveway to the mobile home, I spotted only one TV van: Channel Twelve News, Green Bay. Good, I thought. One, I could handle. Then as I neared the mobile home, I realized it was too late.
Alison Foster, the news anchor, was standing outside the home, a microphone in her hand, a cameraman shooting and Lydia talking.
Quickly I parked the truck next to the TV van and strode over to them with Salinger nipping at my heels. “Lydia, what are you doing?” I shouted.
Allison answered, “Here’s Leigh Girard, the Door County Gazette reporter who’s doing an in-depth article on the BT for the Chicago Reporter.” Gosh, how much had Lydia told her? This was way beyond my ability to do damage control.
The camera swung my way. Instinctively, I put my hand up to shield my face. If I’d had a newspaper, I would be using it to cover my face like a guilty criminal.
“Shut that thing off, right now!” I demanded.
The cameraman kept shooting until Alison said, “Turn it off, Josh.”
“Lydia, get inside.” I gestured toward the mobile home. She looked unfocused, as if she didn’t know where she was. She was still wearing my baggy sweatpants and t-shirt. Her hair was flattened on one side. The other side stood out from her head.
“Leigh, it’s okay. I know Alison.” She was slurring her words. “She’s going to handle this whole thing. So chill.” Had she finished the rest of the wine while I was gone? She sounded delayed, like a satellite feed. Had she smoked a joint? I’d never known Lydia to do drugs.
“You’re in no condition to be giving an interview,” I said, taking her by the arm and dragging her up the wood steps to the door. She didn’t resist, letting me guide her inside and into the bedroom where I eased her down and pulled the thin blanket over her. She stared up at me with a stupid grin on her face.
“Thanks, Leigh. You always know what to do.”
“Just rest, okay?” I said, and then closed the door. Through the kitchen window, I saw Alison still outside, holding the microphone against her cotton jacket. I wanted to shout at her to leave; instead, I hurried back outside for the inevitable confrontation I was dreading. “You took advantage of her,” I accused.
She put up both of her hands as a sign of innocence. “Look, she called me.”
That was a surprise. What was Lydia thinking? “Why would she do that?”
“She and I go way back. We’re both Mount St. Mary’s girls. You know, the private girls’ school on the North Shore in Lake Forest. She knew the press was going to hound her, and she asked if I could do an interview and then feed it to the national news outlets, and that’s what I did. It’ll buy her some time. How about you?” She held the microphone out to me.
“I’m not giving you an interview, if that’s what you’re asking. You can read what I have to say in the Gazette.”
“Your choice. Okay, Josh, we’re done here.”
“Wait.” I realized I might have been too quick to dismiss her. “What did she say?”
She looked me up and down, then smiled knowingly. I did the same. Up close she was even prettier and thinner than on TV, with her carefully highlighted blond hair and taut, trim figure. “Guess you’ll have to watch the news at five.”
After the van left, I went inside the mobile home and checked on Lydia. She was out cold. I carefully inched the door closed, then peered into the kitchen trashcan. There on top was the spent bottle of wine. I didn’t think her spacey condition was just the product of too much wine. She was stoned. Where had she gotten the stuff? Had to be Nate Ryan. His place had reeked of marijuana. What had happened this morning between them? More than yoga, that’s for sure. Did they continue last night’s sexual hijinks? Was that why she was feeling guilty? Did she think she caused his death with the potent combo of sex and drugs?
I walked outside and sat down on the steps. Salinger nestled close to me, resting her head on my leg and looking up at me as if to say, “It’s too hot for all this drama.”
As I watched the green shadowy leaves rustle in the hot breeze, I considered where to take Lydia so she’d be sequestered from the media. Clearly my place wasn’t safe anymore.
Jake had offered to put me up at his place, but how would he feel about Lydia? Then there was Joe Stillwater. Lydia and Joe both worked as nurses at the Bay Hospital. And Joe had no connection to the media or this story.
I took my cell phone from my pocket. When he picked up, I said, “Joe, I have a favor to ask.”
Before I could make my request, he cut in, “Hey, Leigh, you get my messages? Thought we might catch some dinner. Yo
u know, nothing serious.”
“Yeah, dinner sounds good.” I’d been avoiding calling him back. Now that my divorce was a done deal, I was a free agent—and all that it implied.
“I hear you’re looking for a place. Got just the house for you. Though knowing you, you’re probably gonna say no. But hear me out. There’s this little cabin. It doesn’t look like much, but it’s cheap and clean. Guy who owns it, Ray Brill, a professor from Iowa, had a medical emergency, so he had to head back to Iowa. I only know about this because I took care of him in the ER. You interested?”
“Sure, whatever.” My mind was elsewhere. “Look, you probably know about Nate Ryan and Lydia. Well, I’ve got her at the mobile home with me. But she’s in bad shape and needs some place to crash until things calm down.”
Before I could finish my request, he said, “Bring her here to my place.”
“You sure?”
“What are friends for, right, Leigh?” His words were freighted with meanings I didn’t want to explore.
“Right. I’ll be there in a few.”
As I started to get up, I noticed the garbage bin lid was flipped open. I went over to close it and saw an unfamiliar can on top of the pile. I picked it and sniffed. Inside was the tip of a marijuana joint. My hunch had been right.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Surprisingly Lydia hadn’t fought me when I told her I was taking her to Joe’s. All she said was, “I probably should have called him first anyway. Saved myself the trouble.”
“I’ll go by your studio later and pick up some of your things,” I answered. Chet had left a message on my cell phone that they were done and Lydia could go home. The nap hadn’t improved her appearance or her demeanor. There were dark circles under her eyes, her face was puffy, her disposition mean.
“You’ll need these.” She threw her keys at me. “I don’t see why I can’t go home now.”