Viv called me at work the next morning. “What time are you getting off?”
I checked my list of dogs. “Barring any unforeseen standard poodles, probably around two.”
“Perfect. I've been thinking about what Serena said all night, and I think I know what to do about it.”
“My navy blue aura? Fantastic! What are we doing?”
“Not your aura. Nigel's.”
“What color is Nigel's aura?”
“How should I know? But the point is, he needs to get back into the flow of his purpose. Then all my problems will fade away.”
I sighed. “I honestly don't think that's what she said.”
“Of course it is. And I have a plan. Come up here as soon as you get off work.” She hung up.
By 2:30, I was sitting on Viv's sofa, watching her fluff her hair and frown in the mirror. “This had better work. That cap is going to do a number on my hair.”
“What exactly are you doing?”
“I'm giving him a chance to rescue me. You know what a hero he is. I'm going to give him a chance to relive his glory days. Tap back into that part of him that wants to save the day.” She turned and gave me a confident nod. “Get him back into the flow of his purpose.”
It actually sounded like a half-decent idea. But execution, of course, was everything. “And how are you going to accomplish that?”
She applied a fresh coat of clear lip gloss and smacked her lips. “I'm going to get a cramp while I'm swimming laps and flail around so he can save me.” She waggled her eyebrows. “In a bathing suit. Just the two of us, locked in a life-saving embrace. I will, of course, show him my sincerest gratitude.”
“Gag,” I said. “What is my part in all this melodrama?”
“Okay.” She turned to me and put her hands together, old-school prayer style. “You are crucial. First, you have to make sure the “Pool Closed” sign stays up until Nigel heads for the pool. Then you rip the sign off and get out of there.”
“The pool is closed? How are you going to—” The look in her eye had a light bulb going off in my head. “You got the pool closed? How did you manage that?”
“I put up a “closed for repairs” sign.” She shrugged.
“Okay, in the first place, that is outright deceit and I want it known—” I looked at Viv's ceiling “—that I had no part in this charade. And in the second place, won't anyone think it's a problem if you go into the pool while it's closed?”
“That is also your part. You are going to create a diversion so I can slip in unnoticed.”
“I already don't like this.”
“Oh, come on. It's not going to be a big deal. Cecil Turnbull is on activity desk duty. We're timing it so we go in right before Cecil goes off duty, and then Glen Baker comes on. Glen won't know about the pool closure so it won't be a problem.”
I did actually feel better when I found out Cecil was on duty. We could probably talk him into anything.
“So, I'm creating a diversion to keep Cecil and all other residents—”
“I can handle Cecil. I'll get me in the door. Your part is just to get the sign down once I'm in and keep everyone else out.”
I nodded, mentally gauging whether my conscience would allow me to do this. I would be taking down a sign that's not supposed to be there anyway. I could do that. And I would be engaging in conversation, hopefully for only a few minutes, with anyone headed toward the pool so the fateful events could unfold. I didn't see any problem with that either. In my experience, most Belle Court residents were open to a nice hallway chat when the opportunity arose.
“So what we're going to do is, we'll walk through like we're headed to the car. You'll stop and chat with him, get him to go back into the office for something, and I'll slip into the pool. When he comes back, just tell him I went on to the car. Easy peasy.”
“So how is Nigel going to get in?”
“Once you see him coming, rip the Closed sign off and hightail it out of there.”
“What if someone else is with him?”
“I did think of that. If anyone is with him, stop them. Start a conversation. Ask about their grandkids or their cat or something. That should give me enough time to get him engaged.”
“So you're going to launch into the drowning bit as soon as he comes through the door?”
“The very moment. I don't want to take the chance of someone else coming in and taking over. So make sure he comes in alone.”
I saluted her, thinking that Tony was going to owe me a back rub or something for this.
As promised, Cecil was manning the activities desk, where residents went to check out ping-pong paddles, chess boards, and pool noodles.
“Morning, ladies. How are you this fine day?” He stood as he usually did, with the back of his hands on his waist, elbows out. He reminded me of a toddler in their first dance class, preparing for their first recital. Any moment I expected him to start singing “The Good Ship Lollipop.”
“We are in excellent health, Mr. Turnbull.” Viv declared. “We are headed out for brunch and shopping, but first I wanted to stop by and reserve the bridge table for 4:00 pm tomorrow.”
“Vivian Kennedy.” He leaned from the waist, wrists still on his hips. “How many times am I going to have to tell you. Call me Cecil.”
Viv gave him a flat smile. “Of course. Cecil. Will you please get the appointment book from the office in the back and reserve the table for me?”
Cecil reached under the counter and pulled out a calendar.
“What's that doing here?” Viv asked with a frown. “Glen always keeps that book in the office. By the phone.” She nodded toward the office behind the desk.
“I know, and it's inconvenient if you ask me. I have made some changes since I took over this shift. Okay, 4:00 pm tomorrow? I've got you down.” Cecil smiled.
“Did I say bridge? I meant ping-pong.”
“No trouble, no trouble at all. That's why I do this in pencil.” He scrubbed away with the eraser, then flipped to another page in the book. “Ping-pong for Viv Kennedy at 4:00 pm on Tuesday.”
“You keep both calendars in one book?” Viv was starting to look put out.
“We are becoming the very model of efficiency around here.” Cecil closed the book with a satisfied smile and folded his hands on top of it. “Will there be anything else?”
Viv pursed her lips, thinking. She craned her neck to see the pool door down the hallway.
“The pool is closed,” Cecil said. “Must be cleaning it or something.”
“I see.” She took a deep breath, still frowning. Finally, she turned back to him. “Listen, Cecil. Last time I played ping-pong, I think I lost a ring. It's...” She stopped, slowly dropping her hands beneath the counter. “A sapphire ring. Gold.” As she talked, she slowly slid her sapphire ring off her pinky finger. It hung on a knuckle and she bit back a grimace as she tugged. “We looked all over the floor, but didn't find it.” Finally, she got the ring off and smiled, dropping her hands into her pockets. “Later, I realized that it probably fell into one of the boxes with the paddles. I asked Glen Baker if he would look, but he refused. You know, I don't think Glen cares for me.” She looked sad.
“Seriously?” Cecil drew his head back, mouth slightly agape.
I shrugged.
“Why, that old grump,” Cecil declared.
“I'm sure he has a lot on his mind with the...” She waved a hand, as if it wouldn't be decent to mention what, exactly, Glen had on his mind. “Would you be a dear, Cecil, and look through them for me?”
“I would be happy to.” He leaned over the counter and smiled. “Why don't you come back there with me? Help me go through those boxes.”
Viv's smile grew brittle. “Cecil Turnbull. I do believe you are flirting with me.”
Cecil waggled his eyebrows a little.
“This is becoming awkward,” I said.
“And how is Janine?” Viv asked. “Please tell her I love the way she's wearing her hair nowadays.”
Cecil got the hint. He shook a finger at Viv. “Okay, okay. You wait right here and I'll see what I can find.”
We stood, smiling and nodding, until he'd passed through the office and into the storeroom behind.
“Ick,” I said as he passed out of sight. “I wasn't happy about being part of your deceit, but when you two start flirting with each other—b”“
I broke off because she was heading down the hallway toward the pool.
Once inside the humid room, she immediately began to unbutton her shirt.
“Don't you feel kind of bad for lying to Cecil?”
“Kind of. Until he wanted to get me into the back room with the ping-pong paddles, and then—” She flicked her hand in the air. “Poof. Guilt gone.”
She ripped her blouse off. She wore her bathing suit underneath.
“Still. I'm concerned about what kind of seeds you're sowing and how I could possibly be nearby when you begin to reap.”
She kicked off her shoes and unbuttoned her trousers. “Salem, you need to keep your eye on what we're really sowing here. Not a minor, harmless deceit with Cecil Turnbull. What we're sowing here is bringing a man—a war hero, Salem—back into the flow of his purpose.” She tossed her slacks onto the chair and grabbed a swim cap. “Think of it. He's a strong, virile man, but he's been put out to pasture. He feels unnecessary. He feels emasculated. We are giving him a chance to get his mojo back. Be a hero again. That is huge.”
“It's still deceitful. Thou shall not bear false witness is in God's top ten.”
“Salem, think about God's chosen people during that time. Remember Abraham? Tried to pass his wife off as his sister. Remember Jacob? Stole his brother's birthright. God sees the heart, Salem.”
She tugged the swim cap onto her head and began tucking strands of white hair inside.
Is it bad to admit that it was rather satisfying to see that Viv's thighs were a bit baggy? She still had a knockout of a figure, and I was dying to ask what kind of bra and swimsuit she wore to keep the girls looking so... uplifted. But her thighs proved that even Viv Kennedy wasn't completely impervious to aging. Almost, but not completely.
She faced me, hands on her hips. “Is it all in? I don't want any straggly hairs hanging out.”
For one horrified moment I stood and gaped, then realized she was talking about the swim cap. I shoved some white hairs behind her ear into the cap. “Okay, you're good.”
“Be sure and take that sign down on your way out!” Viv called after me.
I ripped the sign off the door and headed back to the reception desk. Turns out I hadn't needed to rush. It was a full two minutes later before Cecil came back, dusting his hands and frowning. “I'm sorry, I emptied all three boxes, and didn't find a—b” He looked around. “Where's Viv?”
“She forgot her sunglasses,” I said. “She went back to her room to get them.” See? Five minutes in Viv's lying company and I was making up my own tales with ease. I silently repented.
“Oh. Okay.” He looked down the other hallway toward Viv's wing. “Well, tell her I looked very carefully in all the boxes.”
“No, man, you tell her. When she comes in to play ping-pong tomorrow at 4:00.”
He grinned. “Yes, well. I will do that, then.”
“Oooh, here comes Glen!” I looked quickly away and back to give Cecil a conspiratorial wink. He winked back solemnly.
“I'm going to pull around to Viv's side of the building and pick her up there,” I said, as if I'd just decided it.
Cecil winked at me again, then threw Glen a baleful look, and left.
Just in the nick of time. Because down the hall, towel wrapped around his neck, came Nigel.
Alone, I was happy to see. Now I didn't have to worry about distracting any of the old widder women. I gave him a polite nod, then backed toward the outside door.
But, oh no. Was that...? Jeez-O-Peet , yes it was. Imogene Walker was coming down the hall with her swimsuit cover up and beach bag.
Why couldn't it have been Anne? Anne I could handle. Or any of the other sweet little old ladies. Why did it have to be Intimidating Imogene, who was already mad at me for not living up to my potential?
“Ummm, hi,” I stammered, stepping into her path.
She scowled at me. Her mouth said, “Hello,” but her eyes said, “What do you want?”
“That's a lovely...cover up.” I reached out to touch the edge of the sleeve but drew back quickly when she looked down her nose at my hand.
“It's a robe,” she said shortly. “I don't see a reason to make up a different word for something just because it's used in a different setting.”
“Oh, of course not.” I laughed. “Silly, isn't it?” I strained to hear whether Viv had launched into her damsel in distress act yet. Hurry up, I commanded silently and furiously. “Silly how we do that.” I racked my brain for another example to draw the conversation out. “I always say 'pee' unless I'm at the doctor's office, when suddenly I'm all 'urinate.'“
I actually did jazz hands. I tried to laugh, but I kind of choked on it.
I should have racked harder.
Was that a cry I heard? Yes! Thank goodness. Any second now Nigel would come running out with a dripping wet Viv in his arms—
“Help!”
Imogene and I turned to see Nigel, alone, screaming in the pool room door. “She's drowning! Someone help!”
Glen and Imogene both took off running.
For a big girl, that Imogene was fleet on her feet. She shoved past Nigel, who stood stupid and mute in the doorway, and leapt into the pool.
Glen was right after her, but he didn't need to be. Imogene had things firmly in hand. She had Viv firmly in hand, in fact. Imogene flipped Viv onto her back, wrapped an arm under Viv's armpit and began swimming backward.
“Let go of me!” Viv shouted, slapping at Imogene's arm.
“Stop struggling!” Imogene shouted back. “You need to save your strength.”
“My strength is fine!” She spit out pool water and kicked her legs. “I just got a cramp!”
“A cramp? You were flailing around like you were being attacked by a shark!” Nigel shouted from where he stood, safely away from the edge of the pool.
Imogene reached the edge and handily lifted Viv up. “Lie down,” she ordered.
Viv ignored her, sitting up and sputtering. “I am fine.” She glared from Imogene to Nigel. Then she glared at me.
I shrugged. “Are you okay?”
Glen was already calling an ambulance, though.
Things got kind of ugly after that. The ambulance came, and despite her loud and energetic protests, they stuck an oxygen mask on Viv and began to check her out. Half the population of Belle Court seemed to congregate in the activities area, trying to figure out what was going on. I heard a couple of rumors that I didn't dispute. One was that the pool had been closed because of a chemical issue and Viv now had chemical burns that were going to require reconstructive surgery. I made a mental note to tell her about that one. I could see her wanting to capitalize on this by wearing lots of flowing scarves and huge sunglasses.
I stepped outside and pulled out my phone.
“Windy, call Tony.”
“Gettin' him now, honey.”
When Tony answered, I said, “First of all, everything is fine.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. I swear. Viv and I were chasing a good guy, for once, and we still caused a scene. Ambulances and everything.”
I gave him a quick run-through.
He made a sound that was not quite a word, but then stopped.
“I know, right?” I said. “We manage to get into trouble no matter what we're doing.”
“If you're trying to make a case for continuing this private eye thing, you're taking the wrong approach.” I could hear a smile in his voice, though, so I didn't take it too hard.
“I need to work late tonight,” he said. “I'm having issues with one of the teams and I need to supervise.”
“No problem,” I said. “Stump and I will play nursemaid to Viv, if she's allowed to stay home.”
I hung up and went back to check on Viv.
The EMTs had finally agreed that Viv was no worse the wear for her experience, although they did insist on getting her back to her apartment in a wheelchair. Someone had taken her swim cap off and her hair was in a matted mess on top of her head.
I patted her shoulder as I followed her down the hallway.
She jerked away and glared up at me.
“Are you okay” I asked loudly enough for those around us to hear. Then I leaned closed and whispered. “Reaping and sowing.”
––––––––
Genesis 25:26
After this, his brother came out, with his hand grasping Esau's heel; so he was named Jacob. Isaac was sixty years old when Rebekah gave birth to them.
When I read the Bible verse for my prayer time the next morning, I smiled and wondered if I should text Viv to let her know. What did it mean to get this verse the day after Viv had talked about Jacob just yesterday? Was it a warning, or a confirmation that Viv had been on track yesterday? Given the outcome, I had a hard time believing the second one, but I flat didn't want to believe the first. That was kind of scary.
I decided to read the devotional part before I jumped to any freaked-out conclusions.
Because his hand grasped his brother’s heel as he was born, he was named Jacob, which literally meant ‘heel-grabber.’
I wrinkled my nose. Well, now. That seemed kind of mean. He was a newborn, for crying out loud. Maybe he was scared in there and hanging on to his brother for comfort. They were twins, after all. They'd spent every moment of their lives together up to that point. Maybe he just didn't want to be separated from his brother. So the poor guy gets labeled a 'heel-grabber.' It was as if they thought Jacob wanted to be first, so he was trying to pull Esau back in and shove his way to the front. Somehow, I doubted newborns thought that way.
I was so sleepy. I curled up on the floor and put the pillow under my head, wondering what it did to a person to be labeled a heel-grabber for their entire lives. I had read the story of Jacob and Esau before, and always felt bad for Esau. He got the shaft. I couldn't remember what happened to Jacob after the whole stealing-of-the-blessing thing, but I thought it was something good.
I closed my eyes, thinking about dysfunctional families and labels; what would that kind of upbringing do to a person's ability to make good choices?
Maybe being called a heel-grabber was why Jacob turned out to be such a hot mess. He thought of himself as a heel-grabber. He came to self-identify with the label.
Had he become a deceiver because he'd been named one? Or had his parents somehow been able to see that side of him the moment he was born?
Unfortunately, I thought about this for too long. So long that I fell back to sleep and dreamed that I was trying to wash my aura but I kept making the stain darker. Then I realized I had gotten my aura confused with the comforter on my bed, which wasn't supposed to go into the washing machine anyway, and now it was ruined and my aura was still jacked up beyond all repair.
On that happy note, I woke with a start, looked at the clock, and jumped up to head for the shower.
As I was tugging on my shoes, my phone dinged. I didn't recognize the number, and I almost didn't answer it. It always feels a little too much like Russian roulette to me, answering an unknown number. But sometimes I like living dangerously, so...
“Hello?”
“Salem, it's Scott. Watson.”
Instantly, my heart began to hammer. I almost dropped the phone. There was no good scenario for Scott Watson to be calling me.
“What?” I blurted, because I was too shaken to remember my manners. “Is Trisha okay?”
“Yes. Well. No, not exactly. But she's no worse than she has been. It's just...that's still not good. And I wondered if maybe you could...I don't know. Help me.”
“I...what?” I said again. Because this was just too weird.
He sighed. “This thing with Peter Browning. I don't know if it's the hormones or what, but it's like she's obsessed. I mean, she was upset about his death, obviously. But now people are saying it was suicide.”
“I heard that, too. I heard there was a note.”
“Right. That's what Trish said. But she's convinced it couldn't possibly be suicide.”
“Yeah, that's a hard thing to wrap your head around.”
“No, I mean...” He broke off, and I heard him sigh—he sounded very frustrated. “It's like she's taking it personally. She talks about him all the time, talks about Bitsy all the time. How heartbroken she must be. How betrayed she must feel. She talks constantly about how many different scenarios—mostly murder, but sometimes even accidents—I could have been, and is obsessed with each of them. The police aren't helping, either—they won't say a thing. I'm sure they're conducting their investigation, but since they won't tell her anything and aren't keeping her in the loop, she thinks they're not actually doing anything. She thinks they've just written it off as suicide. Or even that they're in on it—like, they're covering for someone.”
“That can't be good for her pregnancy,” I said.
“I know!” He went silent again, but I heard in those two short words just how distraught he was. “It's not good for her. It's not good for the baby. She shouldn't be working at all. She shouldn't be stressed right now. But she can't let this go.”
“Do you want me to have a talk with her?” For the life of me, I couldn't imagine what I could say that would convince her to chill the heck out. Nothing that she didn't know good and well already, that her doctor and Scott hadn't already told her. But I could try.
“No, I want you to see if you can find out anything. She usually has a lot of respect for the police, but she feels like on this case they're blowing it off because of Browning's past stories about the department. You remember all that stuff last year about the toy drive.”
I did remember that—there was some unbelievable scandal about the police department Christmas toy drive, and a couple of people actually lost their jobs over it. Peter Browning had been in the middle of the whole thing, acting like he'd uncovered the scandal of the century. I could imagine how the LPD might not feel too fond of the guy.
But I knew Bobby Sloan fairly well. He could be a pain in the neck, but he was earnest about his job. He wouldn't not follow through on an investigation because of a personal vendetta. “I have a hard time believing that,” I told Scott.
“Me, too. But she keeps typing stuff into her phone, and I found out she was keeping all these notes on different stories Browning was working on, different calls to the station, different groups he'd offended. She's got a whole file that she can access from her phone and her computers, and she's adding to it all the time. When she's not looking at baby stuff, I mean, she's looking at all these conspiracy theories about Browning. I even found a search on our computer about how to murder someone and make it look like suicide. Maybe you and your—your, you know—partner—could look into it.”
For a moment, I was too stunned to think of a reply. Viv considered us actual private detectives. My G-Ma had come to think of us as actual private detectives. But most sane people understood what I did—that we were two people with too much time on our hands who had gotten lucky a few times and accidentally solved a few crimes.
“Well, sure,” I said. “We'd be happy to.”
“I can pay you,” he said. “I don't know what your rate is, but—”
“No!” I blurted, still shocked. Rate? Viv and I had never even discussed rate for our “services” because we were happy just getting away with asking people nosy questions. “I mean, this is Trisha. It'd be...what do you call it? Pro bono.”
“Well, thanks. But I am happy to pay. I mean it. At least I could pay your expenses. You know, gas and supplies or whatever.”
I quickly wracked my brain, but couldn't think of anything I could legitimately call “supplies.”
“I'll let you know,” I said. “Is it okay for me to tell Trish we talked?”
“No,” he said flatly. “Absolutely not. Her hormones are all over the place. One moment she's perfectly normal and the next she's crying—I mean, full-on sobbing—because I bought the wrong brand of ketchup. I'm not even making that up. If she knows I called you, she'll think we're ganging up on her.”
Poor guy. He sounded shell-shocked.
“How about this? How about I come to her office, tell her Viv and I have a feeling the police aren't seeing the whole picture, and ask her thoughts on the matter? Ask if she has any ideas who might have wanted to kill Peter and make it look like suicide? Maybe she'll just turn over her notes to us.”
“That would be fantastic,” he said. He let out a deep breath. “Yes, that sounds really good.”
My heart squeezed in my chest. Seriously, the poor guy! How bad off did he have to be to look to me and Viv for his salvation?
“That's what we'll do, then. Right after work tomorrow. Viv and I will meet with her and try to convince her—we'll be subtle, I promise—convince her to turn over her notes to us and we'll take it from there.”
“I hope it works.”
“Me, too. I just...Scott? What's the good news we're looking for here? Would it be so much better to find out he was murdered?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but yes, I think that will give her some comfort. I mean, you should see the way she looks at me when she thinks I'm not looking. I think, in her head, her pregnancy and Bitsy's pregnancy are getting kind of tangled up. She talked to Bitsy and, I don't know...the enormity of the betrayal, I guess, is what knocked her for a loop. That Peter would rather end his life than spend it with Bitsy and their child. Then she looks at me like...like she's wondering what secrets I'm keeping.”
“But she knows you're not Peter. And you two have a solid foundation.”
“That's what I keep trying to tell her. But...this is going to sound weird, but did you ever have a superstition about something? Like, if this happens, everything will be okay? If I make it all the way to the loop without hitting a red light, it's going to be a good day? When that has nothing, really, to do with what's going to happen when I get to the office. But it feels like an omen. You know?”
“Sure, I know.”
“It's like that. It's as if, if she can make some sense of this thing with Browning, she can relax about our own situation. And man, would it be good if she could relax about our situation. She's freaked out about everything. It's as if we have to already know every single word we're ever going to say to this kid, and it's not even born yet. We have to make a lifetime of decisions, today. Gender-neutral toys. Church or no church. What kind of discipline for what kind of infraction. Nicknames. I mean, we're not even sure if it's a boy or a girl, and I have to know for sure what age we're going to let them date. And if I don't know, or I say I need to think about it, she freaks out and says we're not prepared for this. We're going to screw it all up.”
That was weird. Trisha was the type to face everything head on, make a plan, work the plan, and then dust her hands and move on to the next challenge without skipping a beat. It really must be the hormones. I kind of remembered those fears from my own pregnancy. Trisha did not have the benefit of youthful ignorance that I had, but I had known enough to know that I had no clue what I was doing. When I panicked, I turned to G-Ma, and she assured me that no one knew what they were doing. The best you could do was pretend you did and then stick to your guns.
Trisha spent roughly half her work day talking about people who had made bad decisions, so her level of awareness of bad people was different than mine.
“I'll go see her tomorrow afternoon,” I promised, then hung up.
Immediately, I felt guilty. Had what I'd just done violated what Tony wanted me to do? I mean, this one was kind of iffy, because general consensus was that there was no murder. Ergo, I was in no danger from confronting a murderer.
Still. Did I really want a letter-of-the-law kind of relationship with Tony?
No. No, I did not.
On the other hand, I didn't think I had it in me to tell Scott Watson no to anything. I owed him too much. I would just...have to make Tony understand that.
Chapter Six