Read...I'm glad you're free because I'm too cheap to pay you. "Glad I could help, Mr Shumway." Spenser began back-pedaling toward the auditorium doors.
"I'm going to have to put a small monkey wrench in your plans, however." If Spenser had to hold her breath against his odorific presence much longer, she'd turn blue and faint. "I'm attending a caregivers' conference in San Diego this weekend. It will be a tremendous opportunity for us to meet other owners and directors and pick their brains, so to speak."
The image of Shumway picking brains flashed into Spenser's head and made her nauseous.
"I must say, I'm very much looking forward to acquainting myself with the latest in new technologies."
Spenser felt the doors of the theatre against her back. So close.
"I was hoping that Dr Saunders could accompany me, but she has put the kibosh on that. I must say, her devotion to this play is all consuming."
Spenser had to smile. She suspected that Brianne's devotion to the play was more self-preserving than all-consuming.
"I've asked Isabella to join me instead."
Poor, Belle.
"Not to worry, though. I'll have her back and ready to assist by Tuesday afternoon."
Spenser grabbed the door handle and pulled on it. "Good, good...," Spenser's head bobbed in reply. "Enjoy."
"It will be, how shall I say, more a working holiday, you see." Shumway's smile was obnoxious. "With the ocean nearby, the restaurants, the theatres..."
Jesus, was that a wink? Poor, poor Belle. "Well, gotta go. See ya." Spenser entered the theatre quickly before another word could escape Shumway's mouth. She pulled the doors closed behind her with such force the whoosh of air actually blew her sunglasses off her forehead. Bending down to retrieve them, she was startled by a voice in the dark.
"Shumway?"
Spenser retrieved her sunglasses then joined Brianne Saunders sitting two rows down, her smile luminescent in the stark rehearsal lighting. "How'd you guess?"
"The look of terror on your face." Spenser sat next to the director. "That's how I usually look after an encounter with the good Peter. He can be, how shall I say, a bit overpowering." Brianne's laugh was delicious.
"He and his aftershave," concurred Spenser. "Congratulations, by the way." Brianne looked questioningly at Spenser. "Dodging the San Diego bullet."
"Thanks," answered a sheepish Brianne. "But I do feel sorry for Belle."
"Yes. So do I." Spenser turned her attention toward the stage. Before her was a scene of industry and perseverance. Belle and her stage hands were, correctly this time, assembling and painting flats. In the orchestra pit were the Sunflower Players rehearsing their hearts out. Through the sound system came the familiar melody of Prokofiev's "Peter and the Wolf". As the narrator described the action, the Sunflower Players pantomimed it.
Tucker was standing grandfatherly next to a not so ducky Gina Mae. Spenser recognized Anne Marie Asher, the owl; Avery Stanfell, a tall drink of water blinded by diabetes, as Peter; and Geoff, Tony and, oh, what was his name, as the hunters.
The wolf was portrayed by Leigh Anne Beatty, a wisp of a girl, wheelchair bound by Spinabifida, but unbound in spirit. They were all intently engrossed in the music. All except Gina Mae whose demeanor was sad and distant.
"Why's Gina Mae zoning out?" asked Spenser.
"A good friend of hers died last night," whispered Brianne.
Jesus.
"Chloe Newcomb."
Chloe? I know Chloe.
The look on Spenser's face concerned the doctor. "She was gravely ill, Spenser." Brianne distractedly began playing with her wedding ring. Turning it around her finger over and over again. "So many of our residents are. Death, unfortunately, is a frequent visitor to facilities like the Sunflower." She paused trying to think of how to frame her thoughts so they did not sound callous. "But, when someone is suffering...sometimes death is a welcome release."
There was a certainty to her words that intrigued Spenser. It would be nice to be that sure of anything, let alone death. Spenser's focus tracked to the director's hands. She watched the unconscious manipulation of the ring, the repetitive movement almost hypnotic. Brianne noticed Spenser's gaze and stopped suddenly self-conscious. "Nervous habit."
"It's a beautiful ring." Spenser wanted desperately to change the subject.
"Thanks. My husband found it in Ireland on one of his buying trips. He was head buyer for a New York jeweler. I met him in Belgium. I'd treated myself to a European vacation when I received my PhD. I was sipping espresso in a quaint Brussels cafe when this Greek god in pinstripes tripped on my backpack and ruined his favorite tie with a very large coffee stain. He was so damned unperturbed and I was so damned embarrassed..." Brianne's laugh caught gently in her throat. "We talked for hours only to learn that his parents and my parents lived no more than five miles from each other in the Hamptons. It was Kismet."
Brianne fingered her ring lovingly. "We married eight months later." Her bright eyes dimmed perceptively and filled with tears. "We were together for six very short years. He was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis four years after our marriage. Two years later he suffered a massive stroke and was bedridden, unable to care for himself, in pain emotionally and physically." Her voice became hushed. "His death was almost a blessing." Brianne wiped an errant tear and blushed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to unload on you."
"You didn't."
Brianne rose suddenly, forcing her hands to her sides. "You're very easy to talk to, Spenser." The smile was back. "Have you ever considered becoming a therapist?"
"I'm afraid I'd be on the couch more often than my clients." Spenser returned Brianne's smile.
"Thanks for listening."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"It was a long time ago." Brianne gestured toward the stage. "Besides, life goes on."
The Prokofiev ended and the residents began to disperse. Tucker and Gina Mae walked hand in hand up the aisle toward Spenser and Brianne.
"Hi, Aunt Spenser. Hi, Dr Saunders," called Tucker.
"Hey, Tucker," answered Spenser. "Hey, Gina Mae."
"Hi." Gina Mae was distracted in the extreme.
"Am I gonna be a Power Ranger, Aunt Spenser?" asked Tucker.
"We'll have to wait and see what Toots comes up with, Tuck."
"I'd really like to be a Power Ranger," reiterated Tucker, not letting go of the thought. "Gina Mae wants me to be Tommy, the White Ranger. Huh, Gina Mae?" Tucker had puffed himself up but to little effect. Gina Mae was definitely ozone voyaging.
"We'll go see Toots tomorrow, Tucker. Okay?"
"Okay, Aunt Spenser," answered Tucker, his arms extended in Power Ranger karate stance.
He and his girlfriend walked out of the theatre, Tucker "hi-yahing" the seats and Gina Mae concentrating on something that must have been just a millimeter out of her reach.
"She'll be all right, Spenser," consoled Brianne. "Kay will help her deal with the loss."
"Right." Spenser was unconvinced. "I'm gonna see if Belle needs any help."
Brianne lightly touched Spenser's shoulder. "You're empathy is admirable."
My empathy is draining.
Spenser watched Brianne walk slowly out of the theatre then turned her attention stageward. She spent the better part of the next hour dispensing pearls of set construction wisdom to a most receptive group of volunteers. The trees were actually starting to look like trees, and damn, if that farmhouse didn't look real, in a dull light with your sunglasses on. Best of all, Overoye was nowhere to be found.
She was rather pleased with herself as she exited the Sunflower and headed back to Markstone. There was something rejuvenating about theatre work. And she was grateful.
CHAPTER NINE
Tuesday - afternoon
Gina Mae opened her door and let in Tucker. He closed the door, carefully placed an old shoe box on the bed, and slowly took out the contents. First came a PayDay bar. He smiled his brightest smile and handed the precious booty to hi
s beloved. Tucker watched as Gina Mae took the bar, stared at the wrapper, then tucked it into her pants pocket without even saying thank you. He wrinkled his forehead in dismay. He wanted to do something to make Gina Mae not so sad.
He dug into the box and extracted his Special Olympics medal. He cradled it in his hands then opened the ribbon wide, placed it over Gina Mae’s head and onto her neck. Gina Mae looked down at the medal and started to cry.
He put one arm around his girlfriend’s shoulder. “I'm sorry, Gina Mae.”
Gina Mae's sobs became giant gulps of grief. "We were going to spy on Dr Pastor." Her words came out as staccato tattoos. "We were going to catch the thief."
Tucker was at a loss. He put both arms around her and rocked Gina Mae back and forth. He kept repeating, "It's going to be all right. It's going to be all right." Gina Mae cried. And then she cried some more.
Tucker got up from the bed and grabbed some tissues from the box on the bureau. He offered them to his girl.
Gina Mae finally stopped crying and started sniffling. “I think I saw something real bad, Tucker.”
“What did you see?”
“I think I saw Chloe die.” Gina Mae started crying again.
Tucker sat down next to Gina Mae and wrapped one arm around her shoulder. “Please don’t cry.”
Gina Mae took a deep breath. “I saw Chloe last night when I went by her room, I saw her. It was real late, but she was still awake,” Gina Mae said between sobs. “I thought she was having trouble breathing and I was going to go inside and help her. But then she wasn’t breathing hard no more and she was smiling. And then she hit her head on the wall, but she didn’t cry and then I came here. And now I feel bad because maybe I should have gone inside her room and helped her.”
Tucker wasn’t sure what to say. “But she was smiling, right?”
Gina Mae nodded slightly.
“Then,” said Tucker, reasonably, “how could you help her if she wasn’t in trouble?”
Gina Mae looked up at Tucker. “That’s right, huh?” She blew her nose and looked at Tucker. "I miss her."
"I know. Me too."
Tucker smiled down at Gina Mae and kissed her on the forehead like he’d seen George Clooney do. He lifted the Special Olympics medal so Gina Mae could see it better. “This is for you.”
Gina Mae wiped her tears away with the sleeve from her sweatshirt and looked at the medal. She smiled at her boyfriend and said, “Thank you, Tucker.”
Gina Mae gave Tucker a peck on the cheek then walked to her bureau. She opened the drawer where she kept her jewelry box. She removed the medal from her neck and said, “I’m gonna put it right here next to my Mom’s silver necklace.”
Gina Mae then joined Tucker on the bed where he told his special lady, in detail, how he had won the medal. But the whole time he regaled her with his thrilling story, Gina Mae was thinking of Chloe, of how she looked just before she hit her head. And there was something else. Something else that she had seen last night. What was it? For the life of her, she couldn't remember. So, she listened to Tucker's tale of triumph and wished her best friend wasn't dead.
CHAPTER TEN
Tuesday - late afternoon
Tuesday’s routine was sadly routine. After two visits to Ontario Airport (one to pick up and one to ship out), three wasted trips to Tustin ("just one more little revision, honest"), and a raw-nerve-scraping drive in rush hour traffic on the parking lot jokingly known as the Santa Ana Freeway, Spenser was ready for a shower, an O’Doul’s, and a charbroiled steak. She settled for a wet wash cloth, a tumbler of Arrowhead water, and a nuked Budget Gourmet. Spenser re-dressed in fashionably faded jeans and cotton camp shirt.
"Does the Faerie Queen live here?" came the milky, annoying tones of Bea calling from the porch. She entered unbidden and helped herself to a bottle of Ty Nant imported water that Spenser kept in the fridge just for her best friend.
"Wait, wait," said Spenser holding up her hand. "I know this one.” The Faerie Queen... The Faerie Queen. Spenser called up an old drama class memory. “’The Faerie Queen’ was about Elizabeth the First. Right?"
Bea swigged her Ty Nant. "And..."
Spenser concentrated some more. "Ah hah. It was written by Sir Edward Spenser." Spenser's smile was just short of neon.
"Edmund, actually, but very good, Spense. Your Mom would be proud." Bea took another swig and inclined her head toward the front window. “Love what you’ve done to the place.”
Spenser sighed. “I’ve been assured by the insured that everything is covered.”
“Well, I should hope so.” Bea deposited the bright blue bottle into the recycle bin and helped herself to a piece of Panettone.
Uh, oh. Not a good sign. Bea loathed Panettone. This did not bode well.
"Did you know...," Bea took a bite of the Italian sweet bread and made a face. "...that the words idiosyncratic and idiot are linked etymologically?"
Spenser knew that tone far too well. Her soul mate was pissed at something or someone. Buckle up, Spenser.
"So...," Spenser began slowly, drifting cautiously away from her best bud. "How was your day? And do I really want to know?"
"Absolutely fabulous." Bea's smile looked menacing.
It's worse than I thought. "Trouble in River City?"
"Trouble? Hah! I laugh at trouble!"
Spenser reckoned it wasn't work related or Bea would have already laid out her plans for the evisceration of her bosses. No, this was definitely relationship related. Oy vey. Spenser loved Bea unconditionally, but her friend's penchant for worst-case-scenario affairs was wearing.
Bea had gone through an impressive array of wandering/misunderstood husbands, jilted/melancholic fiancés, and ego deflated boyfriends. Not to mention a plethora of garden variety schizo bankers, pyromaniacal fire fighters, depressed CPAs, and kinky college professors. Her libido was strong and healthy. To say the least. But if there was an award for choosing the absolute wrong person, Beatrice McNichols would have a trophy case filled to capacity.
"I have decided," Bea pontificated, "that the only true love is unrequited."
"Love in a bottle?" offered Spenser.
"Love as a single blossom on a dying cactus in an arid sea of sand and dust." Bea ended with a theatrical flourish of her scarf.
"Okay. Let me get this straight," began a doubtful Spenser. "The only true love is the one you keep to yourself."
"Exactly," answered Bea.
"Alone, unanswered, unreciprocated."
"Able to metamorphose into any thought, real or imagined." Bea smiled the knowing smile of a philosopher whose ratiocination was clear, undiluted, accurate.
"And the advantages would be...?"
"No tears, no fears. A perfect idyll."
Spenser shook her head. "You and Tom had a fight."
"Dave," corrected Bea.
"Dave? What happened to Tom?"
"Before Raul."
"Who's Raul?"
"Before Dave."
Spenser felt lightheaded. "Okay, so why don't you just call Dave then and duke it out?"
"And give up my new-found consciousness?" Bea was incredulous.
"Life is never simple," pronounced Spenser, finally giving up all hope of understanding her dear friend. "Come on, we're gonna be late."
"Did you eat the last pecan sandy?" asked Bea rummaging through the trailer's limited cupboard space.
Spenser grabbed Bea and forcibly removed her from her home. She locked the Silverstream and walked to the Shadow - without Bea, who was standing on the tiny porch, arms akimbo, a look of annoyance on her pinched face. "I just spilled my guts to you and you're not even going to say 'oh, you poor kid'?"
"Oh, you poor kid. Get in the car."
"Your sympathy is overwhelming." Bea pouted. "I just might be in crisis, you know."
"You just might be insane, you know." Bea remained unmoved, literally. "Are you coming?" inquired Spenser.
"Not in front of you. Pervert," replied a falsely
modest Bea.
Spenser found it hard not to smile. "Get your mind out of your libido and get in the damn car."
"Ooohh, swear word, swear word." Bea pointed an accusatory finger at her exasperated friend.
She was having far too much fun. Spenser began drumming her fingers loudly on the car's roof in mock impatience as Bea made her laboriously slow way to the car. She grinned a half grin, tossed her beautifully flowing ebony hair, and got in the car. Spenser followed, her mouth shut tight for fear of letting out yet another taboo swear word.
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