Hugh Drammen refused to go to the hospital. Or as he put it, “No way in hell am I going anywhere.” In response to Tammy’s pleas that he get checked out, he’d responded that he’d be perfectly fine because his daughter-the-doctor was right there.
It was a short-lived argument, which told me that they’d had this discussion before. And that Hugh had won before. He’d rest in his study, with his cold Guinness in his Ocktoberfest mug. His plate of seven saltines topped with Edam cheese and seven gherkin pickles, all counted out. And of course, his beloved Humphrey.
Poor Humphrey. He’d been stressed out of his doggie mind. Tail tucked up between his legs, ears pinned back, the old dog had looked completely woebegone.
The only person who looked worse was Glori. She’d been crying non-stop.
Oh, and no one was going to be fired either. Not Lois, to whom the maple syrup belonged—seems she had a pretty severe French toast addiction and she kept her own personal stash. And not Glori, who hadn’t even known about Hugh’s allergy, but who swore she hadn’t added a drop of it to the recipe.
“And didn’t you see me, D, putting the syrup back when you were done with it this morning?”
I hadn’t.
“I did.” I said. “I’m sure of it.”
Yes, I lied. Why not? I could tell just by looking at her—the hand-wringing, the brokenness on her face—that Glori hadn’t put maple syrup in the dinner.
But someone had. This was no accident.
Now that her father was okay, Tammy allowed herself to be extremely pissed. Roma mumbled something about wondering how sturdy the table was, and Allen…
After the near-crisis, Allen had to sit back down—elbows on table, head in hands. By all appearances, he was as unsteady as Glori and Lois. Caryn stood back from the table, shaking her head in disbelief. Morris had his arm around her, awkwardly offering comfort. Elizabeth? Despite Tammy’s presence, she was still checking the vitals. Well, when she wasn’t shooting incinerating death rays my way.
And I deserved every damned one of them.
An hour later, Dylan and I waited with Mrs. P in the big screen viewing room. Spectacular? It was awesome. Dark paneled walls. Two rows of theatre-red padded seats. Remote control, adjustable lighting, and a screen that was almost as tall as Dylan.
Speaking of Dylan, he put his arms around me and whispered in my ear. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Dix?”
I nodded. “I think so. Porn, right?”
His head shot back. “Football.”
A studied him for a moment. “Liar.”
He smiled, as he pressed a little more hip into that hug. Yeah, I was thinking it wasn’t football that was giving rise to that promising semi…
Semi? Oh, surely I could do better than that. I held him closer, and in a breathy voice, I whispered, “Maybe we could make a little movie ourselves. Something...I don’t know...animalistic. We could play our own little game of personal best. Get out some warm oils, light some candles, maybe we could finally try out those fur-lined hand—”
“You two know I’m here, right?” Mrs. Presley said.
Dylan and I shot apart.
Right. Mrs. Presley.
Bingo wouldn’t be for another forty minutes or so, but she wanted to be ready when that first bingo ball dropped. And was she ever: troll dolls on alert, dabbers on standby. And cards assembled on a folding card table that no doubt Morris had set up. Assembled for two, no less.
But bingo wasn’t the only reason for her love of that room; I knew better. I knew better because she told me—seriously, sometimes being a PI is just that easy. She wanted to see if she could find wrestling on the giant TV.
Mrs. P found her wrestlers, all greased up. Tammy would be along shortly. But in the meantime...the door banged open.
The heavy door hit the stopper and snapped back against Elizabeth’s open palm. She slammed it closed behind her as she blasted into the room.
“Dix Dodd,” she yelled. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
What was wrong with me?
Not a damned thing. Hey, I’m a woman over forty; I’ve beaten what’s-wrong-with-me with the goodbye stick, baby. A few times.
Maybe I’m too humble? Wait...nothing wrong with that.
It turned out Elizabeth’s question was rhetorical. Before she could tear into me, Mrs. P spoke.
“Well, if it isn’t my little Boo-Boo! Come to play bingo?”
Elizabeth had eyes only for me. “Looking for Dix.” And those eyes were flaming mad. “I looked all over this freakin’ house.”
“Oh, did you check our room?” Mrs. Presley asked.
“Of course.” Elizabeth spared Mrs. P a puzzled glance. “Why?”
“Did you see Dix’s new penis?”
“You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all,” Elizabeth replied, unfazed.
That was so not true. But I didn’t think she was really looking to discuss that right now.
Mrs. Presley was smiling.
Elizabeth was not. Oh boy, she looked pissed. Maybe she had a right to be. And honestly, despite my afore-attested-to perfection, I’d already started berating myself.
I had been given a job to do. So far, not so good.
Elizabeth had paid me well to do that job. Damned well. And, in our own odd little way, she was my friend, as well as a client. I’d let her down on both counts. I hadn’t yet figured out who was trying to harm Hugh. Correction: who was trying to kill him. The stakes had definitely been upped at dinner. That fact hadn’t gone unnoticed by Mrs. Bee-Drammen.
Dinner had been pure fiasco. More specifically, it had been my fiasco. Well, near fiasco. But now it was time for something else. Time to cover my own assets.
Fists clenched, Elizabeth looked ready to light right into me. I cut her off.
“Before you say anything else, Elizabeth,” I said “Let me say right off the bat—you’re welcome.”
“I’m welcome? What are you talking about?” Her eyes looked like they would pop right out of her head. “Are you completely nuts?”
“Weren’t you going to get that printed up for your business cards, Dix? Are you completely nuts?” Dylan said, attempting to inject some levity into the situation.
Mrs. Presley laughed out loud. She was the only one. Then she sat back and watched as I tried to dig myself out from under the shit storm I was in for.
I took a deep breath. “Let me explain.”
Elizabeth’s chin jutted forward. “Go for it.”
“The EpiPen,” I said. “Do you think I carry one around just for the fun of it?”
Crack. Already I could see the ice breaking around her, but she still looked skeptical. “I take it you have allergies?”
“No,” I said. “Sure, I have aversions. Strong ones. Am I the only one who gets it that tofu is actual bean curd? Like...from beans. Blech!”
“Dix, stick with the question.”
Fair enough. “Do I have allergies? No. You wanted me to keep your hubby safe. And dammit, Elizabeth, that’s what I did.”
“You knew Hugh was allergic to maple syrup?” She sounded skeptical.
“I figured some kind of allergy was a possibility. And in the off chance that whoever’s trying to harm him took that route, I was going to be ready.”
Holy crap! It sounded so good I was starting to believe it myself. “Now you know what separates the good PIs from the great PIs.”
“Meds?” Mrs. P offered.
“No.” I pointed to my head. “It’s up here.”
“That unibrow thing you get waxed away every month?”
Jesus H. Christ! The woman just was not helping.
I glanced at Dylan. Ah, a nut sack and unibrow, just what every boyfriend wants to picture…
“It’s forethought!” I shouted before Mrs. P could offer any more suggestions. I stared at Elizabeth. “I’d heard you asking Starla what was in the smoothies at the Cuddle Club. You wanted every single ingredient. When she told you flavoring, you told her to be more specific.”
Elizabeth looked thoughtful. “And from that, you concluded Hugh might have an allergy?”
“Like I said, the good from the great, Elizabeth.” I fought the urge to bow humbly. “The good from the great. So when I was preparing for this case, while I was getting everything in order, my mind, my notes, every damned thing a great PI would need, I remembered that conversation. And grabbed my EpiPen.”
“Don’t you need a prescription for those?” Elizabeth asked.
“I’ve a friend who’s a beekeeper,” Dylan said. “He fixed us up a while ago with a couple.”
Nice. Quick thinking on Dylan’s part. Actually, I did have a prescription for the EpiPen, but to say so would blow my story.
Elizabeth studied me a good two minutes before she sat down and exhaled a long sigh. “Sorry, Dix. Thank you...thank you for saving my husband.”
Crap. Now that she said it, I felt kind of guilty. Guilty enough to come clean? Nah. I’d get over it.
Elizabeth looked exhausted now that we were out of confrontation mode. In a very un-Elizabeth-like moment, she looked very small to me. Scared. Even Mrs. P held her tongue as the young bride lowered her head in her hands. “We always keep Hugh’s EpiPen in that drawer in the sideboard,” she said. “Whoever took it knew damned well what they were doing.”
“Who knows about Hugh’s allergy?” Dylan asked.
She looked up at him. “Everyone. It’s not like a corporate secret or anything.”
“Lois?”
“Yes, she’s been here for years. And let me tell you, she wouldn't be here another minute if it wasn’t for Hugh. He’s too damned soft.”
I was gonna suggest some pills for that...but I let it go.
“Despite what she said, I’m not sure whether Glori knew about the allergy or not,” Elizabeth continued. “We hired her right before Caryn got out of the hospital. Surely it didn’t slip Lois’s mind to tell her.”
“Out of the hospital?” That piqued my interest. “Why was Caryn in the hospital?”
“She hurt her back,” Elizabeth said.
“Right. That I got. But no one ever said how she hurt her back.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Is it relevant? Hugh would rather we didn’t talk about it.”
Reluctance again. But loyalty again. Already, Elizabeth was part of the hush-hush, keep-it-in-the-family mentality. Protect one another; protect Caryn. Whatever the reason, by that reluctance, I knew the answer to my next question.
But I asked it anyway. “How drunk was Caryn on the night she hurt her back?”
Elizabeth hesitated long enough for me to know I’d guessed correctly. Finally, she answered. “Pretty damned drunk. Pissed.”
“Been there,” Mrs. Presley said.
“Haven’t we all?” Dylan put in.
I could certainly attest to that too. There were more than a few times when Rochelle and I had overdone our celebrating. Or lamenting. Or when the ball game went into extra innings. Oh, look, another Friday. And then there was that Stones concert…
“It was a one-off thing,” Elizabeth said. “But you’re right, Dix. It was a day or two before the wedding. She poured herself the first stiff drink she’d had in years. Actually, a couple of stiff ones. Then she decided to go for a midnight stroll.”
“Where?” Dylan asked.
“The trails.”
“You mean, around the yard?” I asked.
“Farther. The trails are mostly snow-covered now, but they weren’t in November. The stretch beyond the gate connects with the city walking trail. Caryn took a tumble. Luckily, she had her cell phone on her, and she called the house. Allen was home. He went looking for her and found her flat on her back on the icy ground. By the time they got back, Caryn was so sloshed. God, she reeked of booze! Tammy came home a half hour later. Wow, she was upset.”
“Upset as in mad?”
Elizabeth leaned back as if exhausted. “Upset as in worried. Caryn’s worked for the Drammens forever—since she was in high school. She’s part of the family.”
“Was that why she wasn’t at the wedding?” Dylan asked. “Because of her back?”
Elizabeth nodded.
I had a better question. “Was that the only time Caryn got intoxicated? Just that once when Allen retrieved her?”
“That was just the beginning of it,” Elizabeth said. “Poor Caryn—it got worse. She was in a great deal of pain with her back, and because of her problem with substances, Tammy was reluctant to prescribe much in the way of pain killers. Just very low dosage. And so…”
“And so Caryn started medicating herself,” I said.
“She did,” Elizabeth said. “She spent a week either drunk or passed out. Hugh convinced her to take a stint in rehab. It was really sad.”
“Poor thing,” Mrs. P said.
“Hugh sent her to a facility in New Jersey,” Elizabeth said. “Very private. Very expensive. She came home sober. Incredibly remorseful.”
“Caryn’s back was never the same. It still bothers her. A lot. She’s—”
Elizabeth’s cell phone rang. Immediately, she stopped talking and dug it out of her pocket.
“It’s Hugh,” she said, looking at the call display. She sat up straight and put a smile on her face before she answered brightly, “Hi, Hugh-Bear.”
I watched that smile fade away. “Okay. I’ll tell her. We’ll be—” A pause, one that brought a frown to Elizabeth’s forehead. “If that’s what you want.” She ended the call, and looked at me.
“Did your husband just call you from inside the house?” I said.
Her lips tightened with the implied criticism. “He’s not lazy, Dix Dodd. And he’s perfectly fit enough to come and find me. But he does call sometimes when he wants to save the old dog some steps. Otherwise, Humphrey would tag along after him.”
Crap. “Of course. That makes total sense.” In an effort to shift the focus from my insensitivity, I said, “What did Hugh want?”
“He wants to see you in his study.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
Dylan stood. “Let’s go.”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “He wants to talk to Dix alone.”
The door to the viewing room flew open. Elizabeth stood as Tammy entered.
“I was just leaving,” Elizabeth said.
As they parted, Tammy and Elizabeth exchanged glances but no words. At least that time those glances weren’t filled with animosity. Just a boatload of worry.
“Right on time for bingo,” Mrs. Presley announced happily. “And girl talk, naturally.”