There is something fundamentally wrong, I thought after Jerry hung up, with standing in my boyfriend’s bedroom, stark naked, dripping wet, and not having a good time.
Back to the steam, which restored breathing to my struggling nose. The food arrived on the heels of Marie, who looked as if she’d just put on her morning makeup. It was a gift of hers I stopped envying in high school. She could be hiding in a storage closet and come out looking freshly pressed. I knew this for a fact; I was hiding with her at the time and ended up with a torn blouse from a broken broomstick. Fortunately, Sister Mary Olivia had been both farsighted and flighty and didn’t notice.
Not worrying about germs, Marie gave me a hug and relieved the deliveryman of two large bags of food that smelled like garlic, pepper, and hot oil. Dinner was delayed further by the harried man producing a credit card slip and demanding an imprint of my credit card. Feeling just a little bit silly, I dug the Visa out of my purse. He leaned on the wall and passed his hand over the paper a few times. “My boss, he’s been ripped off, has to have imprint.”
“Fine,” I said. “Marie, tell me you have a pen.”
Marie was unpacking food on the kitchen counter. “In my purse.”
I found a burgundy Cross ballpoint, signed the slip, and took my receipt. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen carbon paper. “Tell your boss he needs to modernize,” I said, with half amusement and half annoyance.
“Believe me, I do it all the time. My brother’s a great guy and a fantastic cook, but he’s a cheap bastard. Maybe when he uses up all these old carbon-paper slips, he’ll get one of those machines. Buy bulk and save, he says.” He looked at the total where I’d included a generous tip. “Thanks!”
“You look better than you sounded on the phone.” Marie said to me as the deliveryman departed. “Are you hungry?”
I had to stop and think about it. “Not really.” I thought some more. “No, not at all. Hell, I don’t even feel like drinking coffee.”
“Damn, that’s serious. But you’ve got to eat something. Put some soup in a bowl and pretend you’re eating for my sake.”
I knew where things were, so it wasn’t long before I found the plates and napkins and set us up at the breakfast bar. I did more cooking in this kitchen than its owner did. “They found his car.” I said quietly.
“What?” Marie was opening a Dixie beer she’d found in the fridge.
“Michael’s car.” I gave her a pint glass with the Guinness logo on it. “Jerry called me about half an hour ago. They found his car.”
“Where?”
“At a rest area on I-10.” I put orange chicken and some lo mien on her plate and put the leftovers in the fridge. “The cops are treating it like a carjacking. I may get a visit from them tonight. Just what I need to feel worse.”
“You might want to get dressed at some point. Unless you want to meet them while wearing your boyfriend’s bathrobe?
I snorted. “Considering my run-ins with a certain few members of the NOPD, I could be dressed in an Ursuline nun’s habit and they’d suspect me of something.”
“Well, you’d look funny in a habit. Most nuns are a lot shorter than you. Except for Sister Joel, I think she was over six feet.”
“Who do you think taught Carla Chambers to dunk?” Carla had been the center on Sacred Heart’s basketball team. She had a good passing game, too. I managed a weak smile, before getting serious again. “Marie, I think whatever’s happened to Michael has to do with Ian MacKay, but I can’t think of any way I could prove it.”
Her chopsticks stopped halfway to her mouth. “How could it?”
“I don’t know.” The idea had come to me during my second shower. “But to quote our least favorite detective, I don’t like coincidences.”
“You don’t like not knowing what’s going on.” She said tartly.
“That too.” I sipped a little soup off a spoon. It tasted funny. More like the metal of the spoon than the soup. I went back to drinking the tea.
“Does anyone know where he was going on this lunch of his?” Marie asked.
“Nope, and if Jerry--or more likely someone who works for him--cracked the password on his palmtop, he didn’t mention anything. I think he would. Scratch that. I know he would. He’s almost as worried as I am.”
“We are,” She corrected. “And you’re right, he would tell you. Even if it was something you didn’t want to hear.”
“Don’t go there, okay? I’ve got enough on my mind.” I sneezed.
“God bless you. Eat your soup.”
We were silent for a while. Marie ate and I finished my current cup of tea.
“Would you like me to make you another cup of that?”
“Maybe in a little while.” I got up to pour myself a glass of ginger ale. “I want some of this for now. Ginger ale and tea are the only things that taste good at the moment. I haven’t been this sick in years.” Before now, if I got the flu in the wintertime, it maybe knocked me out for a day or two. Usually, I was healthy as the proverbial horse.
“I’ve had enough dinner. She got up and put her plate in the dishwasher. “Take a look at what I brought you.”
She’d brought a small suitcase. “Perfect!” I found a couple pairs of the silk pants I loved lounging around in. Since working around books tends to get me a little grubby, I spent workdays in jeans and some of my more casual clothes were the ones I spent a few extra dollars on. I put on a pair of black pants and found a light blue cotton mock turtleneck, underthings and socks, plus a pair of tennis shoes.
“That’s a little better,” I said after I changed. “I feel a lot more like a human being, instead of death on toast.”
“You’re worried.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Of course I’m worried. I love the guy.” Plus there’s this tendency of people I love to die or disappear. It tends to make one a little wary.
“He’ll be fine. I hate to sound like your mom, but you’re going to have to be patient.”
“You don’t hate sounding like my mom. You loved her almost as much as I did.”
“Well, sure. She was a great lady, especially for an almost-nun. I miss her too, you know.”
“I know. I do too. And Gene.”
“What about your dad?”
I laughed, my voice so full of irony it could have rusted if it was wet. “I really wish I could talk to him right now. Maybe he could help me understand. Or tell me how to find someone that makes fake I.D. Ian would need that if he’s playing dead, wouldn’t you think?”
“Not around here or any city with a lot of crime. A lot of people live--what’s the expression?” She asked, and then answered her own question. “Off the grid, that’s it. All you’d need is connections and had sufficient cash. You said the family was well-off?” I nodded. “You also don’t need I.D. to buy a bus or train ticket last I checked. Just to get on a plane.”
So much for asking Jerry to look into that option.
I tried something else. “Marie, have you ever sold real estate to the MacKay family?”
“I don’t think so, but the agency might have brokered something.”
“Could you look?”
She raised her eyebrows into a skeptical expression. “Do you really think I can find something that will help?”
“You might. I’m trying to find out anything I can about my not-dead man. The family’s been in New Orleans for a long time. The firm’s office is in Slidell.” I remembered that from my Internet search. “You’ve had listings in that area, haven’t you? That’s where their firm’s office is.”
“Yes, I have.” She patted my hand uselessly. “I’ll see if their family has done any business with us. You really should try to get some more sleep. It’s nine-thirty, I don’t think the cops are going to come by tonight.”
“It’s not like I have anything to tell them anyway.” I replied.
We talked a little bit more about inconsequential things. Marie was trying her damnedest to get my mind off of Michael’s disappearance and my growing hunch that it was tied to my not-dead man. Ultimately, a response on craigslist, eight missing hours and a bribed bartender were not proof. In any other universe, it would be enough to bring to a private detective or a friendly member of the city’s finest.
I let her talk me into another dose of Nyquil before I turned in for the night. “Zo, you’re dead on your feet. Knock yourself out. All the way out. Let your body heal. That’s why there’s alcohol in it, for crying out loud. Staying up and worrying is only going to make you more sick.”
“What if Jerry calls and I miss him?” It was a weak argument and I knew it, but I felt obliged to put up a fight.
“Then Jerry can be called back. You won’t miss any calls. I brought your cell phone over too. You’ll see the number on the caller ID if you don’t wake up in time, and we both know you will. And leave the computers alone. You’re only going to get better if you rest. I’ll see you tomorrow. What time was the doctor appointment again?”
“Four. It was the only one I could get.” I downed a shot of the medicine, making a face at the chemical licorice taste, and extracted a promise from Marie that she’d see if she could find anything out about the MacKay family. I thought of Magdalene, no, Madeleine, and wished I knew what side of the family she was on. It’s a little hard to find someone without a last name. Marie headed for the door after giving me another hug.
I rifled through the suitcase. “You didn’t pack me any pajamas?”
“Do you ever wear pajamas when you sleep here?”
“No, but . . . “
“Why start now?”