The Bride Wore Dead

by E M Kaplan

  “It happened over there,” Patrick said suddenly, watching her face. She looked across the room where he pointed. It was by the side of the fireplace. “When I came in, the chairs were knocked over. There were a couple of EMTs. Medical supplies, like latex gloves, wrappers and stuff on the floor. It was a mess. Then they took her to the hospital. But I think she was already gone—uh, passed away by then. Peter went with them to the hospital.”

  Josie looked intently across the room at the table by the fireplace. She imagined the two, Leann and Peter, coming to the dining hall for breakfast. Sitting together, voices hushed, maybe their heads leaning in toward one another. Then…chairs pushed back, knocked over. A tablecloth pulled to the floor. Frantic calling for help. And when it was over, an empty room with just the echo of trauma. Sirens outside. Josie’s mental image was still unclear. She stood staring, nodding her head at nothing, as if appeasing the silent plea of Leann’s specter that she would try to understand what had happened.

  A touch on her arm took her out of her thoughts. “Can we get out of here? It’s too freaky. Will you take a walk with me?” Patrick asked.

  They went outside along a path that took them away from the bungalows around another constructed waterfall. The pepper trees and tall mesquites shaded the path and kept it cool. Fragrant rosemary bushes hummed with bees.

  “My parents got a divorce when I was a kid, growing up in L.A. I was about seven then. In true L.A. style, they lived together for another few years after the divorce,” Patrick said.

  “That’s different.” She tried to imagine her parents having such an oddly cerebral, highly-neurotic arrangement.

  “My dad was a screenwriter.”

  “Oh, that explains everything,” Josie said, thinking Arthur Miller, Woody Allen, and other messed up creative geniuses. “A writer.”

  “Not just your run-of-the-mill food critic, either,” he goaded back, clearly having gotten more of a scoop on her than just her private fax. “A Hollywood screenwriter.”

  She grimaced, which, again, seemed to encourage him. She was doomed to be a misanthropist, yet a people magnet. Why? Was it her face? Was she not a classic example of the “inscrutable East,” that stereotypical impassive Asian face that showed no reaction and, therefore, let people draw their own conclusions about what she was thinking? Apparently not.

  “I guess that’s why it was inevitable that I work in the industry now.”

  “So, you actually work out there in L.A.?” It was hard not to rib him. She kept yearning to take him down a notch or two.

  “Hey,” he protested. “Acting can be hard. It’s work, too.”

  She shrugged. “Have you ever worked at a place where cleaning toilets was part of your job description?” She’d spent a summer in maid service at a hotel trying to earn money for room and board before college. By the end of the summer, she’d been more than a little grateful that housekeeping was not her lot in life, that she was going off to college and to bigger and brighter things, unlike her coworkers. That summer had certainly been an education in itself.

  “No, I can’t say I’ve done that,” he agreed. “Money was always readily available when I was a kid. But when I became I teenager, it all stopped. My parents split up for real because my dad had met someone else. He finally moved out, and my mom decided to ship me off to boarding school. I guess it was for my own good. I was too much for her to handle on her own.”

  “So, you’re saying that you would have turned out worse than you are?”

  “Geeze, cut me some slack. You’re such a grouch. It never stops with you, does it?” He tried to sound hurt, but he couldn’t suppress his amused smile.

  She shrugged, unapologetic. “The boarding school—is that where you met Peter and Michael Williams?”

  “I’m being grilled now, is that it? Are you going to get all the details out of me to see if I slip up. Is that it, Detective Tucker?”

  She squinted at him. “Spill it, rich boy.”

  He laughed, somehow delighted at her rudeness, which he took to be playful teasing. Her outward playfulness, however, was mixed with a tinge of disgust. Here Patrick was, indolent, aimless, lying around a resort for crying out loud, where a woman had just died. Yes, he was pleasant and handsome, but seriously, didn’t he have any depth? One minute she liked him, the next she found him irritating as hell.

  “Yes. I knew them in school—in boarding school. Sometimes I wonder how people like that actually live to be adults. But then, I remember that they often live in a protective bubble. A bubble of wealth that is. You call me ‘rich boy’? Well, I wasn’t even in their strata.”

  Josie raised her eyebrows. “So they were trouble makers back in school?”

  “I like this thing you’re doing,” he said suddenly and traced her eyebrow with one finger. So much for the inscrutable East. She pulled away slowly and he went on talking.

  “Peter more than Michael. Michael was actually a good student. But he has a strange, scheming way about him. Peter’s more in-your-face about things. But yeah, we all got into a few tight spots back then.”

  “But you managed to survive.”

  “You mean, because I’m still their friend?” Patrick looked uncomfortable. “After a while, I didn’t like hanging out with them. I could tell when things were spiraling out of control. Things started happening that were pretty bad.”

  “Like what?”

  He was silent and seemed to be weighing things in his mind. “I guess I can tell you. If it gets back to Greta Williams, it doesn’t really matter. She knows about everything they did back then. She has a way of getting into everyone’s business. I don’t think there’s one thing Peter or Michael has done that she doesn’t know about. She’s like the NSA when it comes to them. And that’s no conspiracy theory.”

  “Tell me about it,” Josie said. “I’ve met her.”

  He smiled. “Intimidating lady, isn’t she? But I bet you could give her a run for her money.”

  Josie shrugged, then wondered what was wrong with aspiring to be as powerful a woman as Greta Williams, to have a finger in every pie, to have a network of underlings doing her bidding. Josie could only hope to be so strong one day. “Tell me what happened back in school.”

  #

  Patrick hemmed and hawed, then said, “Well, there was this girl that Peter was dating. I think Michael had dated her at one point, too. I don’t know the details about that, really. But anyway, the girl was a townie—you know, a local girl, not at our school, Welton Prep. Our school was an all-boys place anyway. But this girl, she wasn’t a regular townie. She was from a wealthy family. I think her father was a town councilman or something like that—one of those local politician guys. So, you know, they had some pull in the town. I remember seeing her around. Seemed like the three of them were always together. Inseparable, you know?” Josie nodded, thinking vaguely about Susan, Benjy, and Drew. And how they probably weren’t anything like these brothers and their flavors of the month.

  “She was really pretty in an unconventional way,” Patrick said with a distant look on his face. “Dark skinned, which was unusual for anyone to date back then and, well, for our school. We were pretty white bread.” He gave her an apologetic look. “We were all just dumb kids. Didn’t know anything about ourselves and the world. Being fair to people of other races. Stuff like that. We just lived in our isolated little world of blue blazers and drag racing our cars out in the country on the weekends.” He looked away, running a hand over his chin. “We were just stupid kids,” he said again.

  If he thought she might accept his apology on behalf of brown girls everywhere, he had another thing coming. She just looked at him and waited.

  “Michelle…Jennifer…no, it was Denise. Denise Cross. That’s what her name was. Her mom was, like, Saudi or Pakistani or something. You know, Middle Eastern. And Denise was just a gorgeous girl. Really beautiful. Like, Bollywood crazy beautiful. She had this creamy mocha skin and high cheekbones and a straight, thin nose tha
t was a little longer than a white person’s nose. And really large, gorgeous hazel eyes. Long eyelashes,” he added. “I guess we were all kind of infatuated with her—and jealous of them for having the balls to break the barrier and go out with her. God, it was hard not to watch her when she was with you. She was like an exotic creature or something. She also had this quiet, deep voice that sounded really intelligent. And she always wore this silver bracelet that had a little silver bell on it. Like how cats wear a bell on their collar? You could hear her walking toward you—or you knew when she came into a room even without looking. I can almost smell her perfume still. It wasn’t anything American. I don’t know what it was.”

  “Made an impression on you,” Josie said. It sounded like Patrick was a little more than infatuated with the girl—even now, years later.

  “I’ll never forget her.” It sounded like more than an infatuation now. Had he loved her? People rarely forgot their first loves. Case in point: herself and Drew. Though forgetting him was hard when she made it a point to see him as often as she could.

  “So where is Denise? Maybe you should look her up.”

  He twisted his fingers together as they walked. “She died. She…ended up committing suicide.”

  Josie could feel her eyebrows shoot upward. “That’s very sad.” No wonder his memory of her was so clear. Denise Cross was frozen in time. Then, a chill ran through Josie. “What did Peter and Michael have to do with it?”

  Patrick shrugged, growing more uncomfortable. “They were long gone from that town by the time it happened.” But from the way he was starting to clam up, Josie wondered if that was all there was to it. She began to hope that she never ran into the Williams brothers again. Wherever you are out there, stay away, she offered up a fervent prayer.

  “And so in school, you kept away from the Williams brothers,” she encouraged him. While she didn’t want to run into either of them, she did want to know more about them.

  “I…distanced myself,” he said.

  “But you’re friends with them now?”

  He shook his head. “I know them. That’s about all I’ll own to. I guess I figured I might see them here, but I thought they might have mellowed a little over the years. Instead, I—I don’t know what to think, really.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re still here,” Josie said. She decided after all this careful stepping around the topic just to come right out with it.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why didn’t you leave Castle Ranch after Leann died? Why did you stay?”

  A strange look crossed his face. “You must think I’m really creepy. It’s not like that.” Then he admitted, “Peter asked me to stay, so I said I would. He knew I was here. He came to me after it happened and asked me not to leave. He said it would help him get through it to have an old friend nearby. I thought he wanted someone to get drunk and cry with, but to tell you the truth, I haven’t seen him since then. Besides, I wondered what he needed me for when he has that brother of his.” He shrugged it off. Then he said, “If you hadn’t arrived, I’d be leaving tomorrow.”

  She tried not to read too much into that comment, not particularly accepting of his flattery. Then they talked about other things. He said Castle Ranch was usually more festive, with people coming and going. He’d been a regular visitor on and off, although never for this long. He was easy to talk with despite her off-and-on irritation with his natural languidness, his indolence. Before they parted, he mentioned off-handedly how he hoped the death wasn’t hurting business too much because he had really enjoyed the tranquility and seclusion of the ranch in the past.

  And Josie hoped the same, for Drew’s cousin’s sake. But for now, she had a pile of clues and no idea what to do with them.

  Part 3:

  First Night

  On Devirginalization—You never forget your first beer. After the pop of the tab top, there’s no turning back. My first time was with a watery, mass-produced American beer straight out of a can in the back seat of my friend’s car. And yes, like many, I took my first drink as a minor, which I neither condone…nor discourage.

  Josie Tucker, Food for Thought

  CHAPTER 14

  That afternoon, Josie went to see the doctor. She had called twice and left messages at Dr. Bosarch’s office, but no one returned her calls. That seemed strange for a medical practice, so she got in her car and drove into Puerta.

  Downtown was where two main streets intersected. Puerta was a sleepy pueblo, but gussied up for tourists with painted storefronts and colorful wooden signs hung above the doors, among them: a candy store and ice cream parlor that called itself a “shoppe” in old-fashioned letters; a touristy children’s handmade clothing store; a barber shop with the iconic red and white revolving spiral; and a local real estate office. At the end of one street, Josie found the doctor’s office. She pulled her borrowed Honda into a large street-front parking space next to a beat-up eighties model Buick that had been a chocolate-brown color before succumbing to the intense sun and oxidation. Patches of paint on the boxy trunk were worn away completely, showing a gun metal gray body.

  Although the office was dark, the front door was propped open. Otherwise, Josie might not have stopped. A young woman in her early twenties with the requisite ankle tattoo was coming out of the doorway, her arms full of green hanging file folders. Josie got out of her car and took off her sunglasses. In any other town, she might have felt ridiculous approaching a business wearing sandals, shorts, and a t-shirt. But everyone else here dressed the same way. The young woman was wearing a halter top, and as she turned to struggle with the doorknob, she revealed another tattoo—a gecko—on her left shoulder.

  “I’m looking for the doctor,” Josie said, not sure how to pronounce his name.

  The woman turned to look at her with eyebrows raised. One was pierced. The folders in her arms started to slip, but she readjusted and caught them. “Sorry,” she said. “Are you a patient?”

  “No, I’m—” Josie paused, suddenly realizing she hadn’t rehearsed how to identify herself to the people. She was saved, however, by the file folders, which cascaded out of the woman’s arms down the front steps into the street.

  “Oh, darn it all,” the woman exclaimed. Josie helped her gather them back into a stack. They were out of order now—and Josie saw they were patient records.

  “I’m Josie Tucker. I’m inquiring into the death of Leann Ash-Williams,” Josie said. “I thought I might be able to talk to someone about it. The doctor, maybe.”

  “I’m Julie Bosarch—his daughter,” the woman said, pronouncing the name, to Josie’s mild relief. Boze-ark. “But he can’t help you.”

  “Was he her doctor?” Josie asked. “Leann’s?” She crossed her fingers and prayed that Julie Bosarch had never heard of HIPAA or privacy of information laws. Although, maybe they didn’t apply anymore when the patient was dead.

  “Yeah, but he had a stroke about a month ago. A serious one. He’s bad,” Julie Bosarch said. She fussed over the papers and didn’t meet Josie’s eyes. The woman’s own were filling with tears.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” Josie said. “I didn’t know. I just arrived in town.”

  Julie dumped the papers and folders into the passenger seat of her car, which was the rusty Buick parked next to Josie’s. “It was a mess—that whole damn thing. My dad knew her for a while. She came out here a lot on vacation, like with her fiancé. But they never stayed at the Castle Ranch before.”

  “No?” Josie frowned.

  “He has a place somewhere around here. Him and his brother. They stayed there.” Julie climbed into her car, clearly wanting to leave, but she paused. “Sorry. I don’t think my dad can help you. He’s really bad. We had to close his practice. Everyone has to travel to Tucson for a doctor now.” She shrugged, a little lost. “Sorry.”

  Josie watched Julie Bosarch drive away, wondering which had made the young woman more uncomfortable—talking about her father’s stroke or talk
ing about Leann. Standing on the steps of the doctor’s office for a minute, Josie peered into the front window. Clearly, Julie was dismantling the place, little-by-little. With an experimental tug, Josie found that the front door to the office was not completely shut. Julie must not have closed it properly with her arms full. Josie paused a half-second, and then taking deep breaths to control her pounding heart, went inside.

  The doctor might have been a tidy man, but it was hard to tell now. When a person became incapacitated, the things that he or she spent a lifetime collecting and organizing become just a big pile of junk for someone else to deal with. On top of everything was a month’s worth of dust—and in the desert, that was not an insignificant amount. The office was small, appropriate for a little town, with a waiting room that had an empty magazine rack and some old hard plastic chairs. A receptionist’s desk held an imposing multi-button, multi-function phone. Strange, Josie noted, someone had been more interested in taking the magazines but had left the phone. In the back there was only one examination room with a paper-covered table for patients to sit on and a counter that might have had jars of swabs and paper towels on it but was empty now. All that was left were a couple of circles in the dust. In the back of the building was the doctor’s private office, which she entered.

  If Josie had been hoping Leann’s medical records and charts would be neatly laid out in the center of the doctor’s desk with a big flashing arrow for her to find them, she was out of luck. In fact, there were no papers or records left anywhere. She stepped behind the desk and slipped the top drawer open. Empty. She checked each one, even peering into the dark back corners. She found two paper clips for her efforts. The filing cabinet drawers gaped, open and empty. A dead plant in the corner of the room looked like it had suffered from Josie’s withering touch. Medical books lined the shelves. Family pictures, which hung on the walls, were the only thing to look at, so Josie stepped closer. A pre-pierced teenaged Julie Bosarch smiled, kneeling with a soccer ball and a Golden Retriever. Josie scanned the walls, noticing that Dr. Bosarch’s diplomas were still up. His M.D. was from the University of Arizona, but his undergraduate degree, remarkably, was from Boston University—perhaps an Ash or Williams connection.