A Cut Above (23 page)

With every bit of strength inside me, I tear my gaze away and focus on Chief Clark again. I have all the time in the world for Max. “What do you know about this whole nightmare?”

“Well, Miss Andie, I can’t be saying much right now. It’s an ongoing investigation. But if I need to know something more, why, you can be sure I’ll be asking you.”

I roll my eyes. “No kidding.”

His easygoing façade takes a dive, and a totally serious law enforcement officer stands before me. “No, Miss Andie. I’m not kidding. I’d think you know me well enough by now. I don’t kid when the law’s been broken in my jurisdiction. I said it last night, and I’ll be saying it again. There’s more to this than just them stones. There has to be. I’ll be finding out what before too long.”

Anyone with something to hide who makes the mistake of thinking Chief Clark’s slow drawl and walk match the pace of his thoughts won’t make that mistake for long. If they do, they’ll soon be guests at his lockup.

I nod.

He turns and heads toward the hall. “And if you haven’t been telling me all I need to know, why then, I’ll be finding that out too. And why.”

“Bu—but I don’t have anything else to say . . .” I let my wail fade, since he’s gone. “All righty, then. Now what?”

That’s when I realize Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby had walked in at some point, but hadn’t said a word. Never known that to happen before. I face them, and am stunned by the anxiety in their faces.

Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. This is hazardous to mankind. Womankind. My kind.

Whenever these two have what they perceive as a problem, they don’t quit until they “solve” it. The solution? Well, it usually means trouble. Of the sinking-ship kind.

I’m not up for a cruisin’, if you get my drift.

“Um . . .” I look around. “Don’t think there’s much we can do around here. The hospital won’t be too happy if we hang around and stress Laura out. At least Max and I have a show to prepare. What are you two up to today?”

Aunt Weeby gives a vague wave. “I don’t suppose it matters much anymore, sugarplum. Things have gotten themselves all tied up in a fine kerfuffle since we made us any plans.”

This is scary stuff. Especially since Miss Mona’s letting my aunt do all the talking. The Duo at loose ends.

Think, Andie, think!
“I don’t see where that should stop you from doing whatever you had planned. I mean, there’s nothing any of us can do for Rodolfo—other than pray, and we don’t need to be here to do that. And Laura?” I shrug. “She’s on the mend. The nurses’ll probably tell you the best thing for her is sleep, and lots of it.”

Aunt Weeby’s eyes grow wide. “Are you trying to tell me you’re wanting us to leave that poor child all alone in this hospital again? I spent the most unsettled night, worrying myself sick about her. If you’ll remember, that guy slipped her that something when we weren’t here.”

Water’s up around my chin, folks. “But, Aunt Weeby, you and Miss Mona need your sleep.”

A triumphant smile brightens her face. “Why, of course we do, sugarplum. And we’re going to get it.” She points to the massive tote bag leaning against her feet. “That’s why Mona and I went shopping this morning. We bought us some real cute jammies. We’re ready for duty, taking turns napping on the waiting room couches until we can take little Miss Laura home with us.”

I can see them now. Their idea of cute jammies leaves a lot to be desired. And their staking a claim on the waiting room is nothing but trouble waiting to happen. “But—”

“Mona’s got the sweetest set of pots and jars of yummy toiletries in her bag,” Aunt Weeby adds, oblivious to my dinky shot at objecting. “We’re all set to move in with Laura until we can move her in with us.”

The hospital’s not ready for the Daunting Duo. This is a disaster. I have to come up with something; I gotta pry these two lovable nuts out of here one way or another. First, though, I have to buy myself some time. Maybe Max will do his white-knight impression.

Maybe not. Take a look at his brand-new, wild-eyed panic.

He’s come to know them pretty well, and looks about as freaked out as I am. It’s not hard to get to know my aunt and her pal. They’re nuts. But sweet. And I really don’t want them tossed out on their ears. Nor do I want Chief Clark hauled out here to drag them to the pokey and book them for loitering or as squatters or practicing medicine without licenses.

How’s that, you say? My aunt has a disgusting habit of bringing out her bottle of Great-Great-Grandmother Wil-letta’s cod liver oil. Aunt Weeby’s sure it cures all that ails you.

Gotta move, gotta groove. And fast. “What
were
you two planning for today? I’m still curious.”

Aunt Weeby shakes her head. “It seems so long ago now . . .” She sighs. “We haven’t hit our favorite flea market in ages. You know the one. It’s out by Buck Creek Road, about thirty miles away, and I was wanting to go hunt us up some chamber pots.”

My eyes goggle. “Have you been to see a doctor about this problem?”

She gives a dismissive wave. “Oh, no, no, sugarplum. I’m not plagued with no continence or nothing like that. Chamber pots just make the sweetest planting pots. You know, the ones with red trim for geraniums, the blue ones for pansies or purple petunias.”

“But you don’t even have a house right now. Well, you do, but it’s got to be patched back together since the fire.”

“It’s not for my house, Andrea. It’s for Mona’s garden we’re hunting.”

Yeah, right. Chamber pots on the grounds of Miss Mona’s zillion-dollar mansion. Are they nuts?

Oh yeah. They are.

Me? I’m skeptical. “And you’re trying to tell me you two were going to head to a flea market with only potties in mind?”

Aunt Weeby has the decency to blush. “Oh, you know . . . every once in a while we trip on some splendid doodad or two.”

Uh-huh. And I’m a fireplug on Main Street. What does she plan to do with her doodad or two while the house is being done? They’re not coming into my little cottage. No way, no how. It’s already stuffed to the rafters with Miss Mona’s french-fried frou-frou and gilt.

Why do these two always come up with impossible situations? I mean, on the one hand, they want to crash the hospital. On the other, they want to go junking. The Duo in jail versus the Duo in junk heaven.

Yech. There’s really no choice. “I think you should go junking—er . . . flea marketing. The break will do you wonders.” And when they’re back, lugging someone else’s trash, I’ll have to find some way to deal with the stuff. “Everyone can always do with a bit of R & R.”

For a moment, a spark brightens her eyes. But then she squashes it. “No, sugarplum. A body’s gotta do what a body’s gotta do. And our duty’s with that little girl. Why, her daddy’s in worse shape than a tired ol’ boxing ring punching bag.”

And how would she know what a tired old boxing ring punching bag looks like? But I don’t dare ask. She might just tell me. Something—experience—tells me I’m better off not knowing.

“Okay, Aunt Weeby. Here’s the deal. You tell me. When you were here for your surgery a year ago, would you have wanted someone hovering over you when you were trying to sleep?”

Miss Mona snorts. “She wouldn’t even let me visit more’n a half hour at a time.”

Aunt Weeby glares at her best friend. “But this is different. Laura’s a child.”

I’m not going there, okay? Nothing about pots and kettles is coming from my mouth.

Instead, I say, “She still needs to sleep. Tell you what. Why don’t you two go jun—
flea marketing
, and see what kind of trash—
treasure
you can dig up for Laura?”

I hope and pray the girl will someday forgive me. It might take years.

As lame as my suggestion seems, not just to me but to the about-to-bust-a-gut Max too, it catches hold of my aunt’s imagination. “You might be onto something there, sugarplum. If we do a real bang-up job getting her something, maybe we’ll have us a new partner for our adventures once she’s outta here.”

Max claps a hand over his mouth. Above his fingers, his blue eyes do a mischievous jig. He knows just as well as I do how hard we’re going to have to work to get Laura out of the mess I’ve just put her in.

For the moment, though . . . “Okay. It’s a done deal. Off you go to hunt the elusive Treasusaurus Laurus. I’ll see you both later. For a late dinner after our show. How’s that sound?”

Miss Mona shrugs.

Aunt Weeby says, “Eh. So-so. I guess we might could go.”

Although things are looking up, I’m not about to declare victory until they’re on their way to their junk haven. I wave. “See ya!”

The Duo stands, gathers their toxic-colored totes and, bickering good-naturedly, head down the hall toward the bank of elevators.

I collapse against the back of my chair. “Phew! I was afraid they’d never leave.”

Next to me, Max squirms.

Then he shifts.

Finally, he wriggles, taps a foot, drums his fingers on the armrest. When he starts to hum a monotone drone, I reach the end of my rope. “Come on, come on. Spill it, already.”

He leans forward to brace his elbows on his knees, clasp his hands, and prop his chin on the laced fingers. “Something’s wrong. Miss Mona didn’t say more than two words the whole time since I got here.”

Now that he mentions it, she had been uncharacteristically quiet. But I’m not ready to go borrowing trouble. I’ll worry about her silence some other time, later. “She’s not really as much of a chatterbox as Aunt Weeby. Let’s go see Laura, then head to the studio. We’re due on-screen in a couple of hours, and we haven’t even chosen the merchandise for the show.”

He stands, worry in the tight lines of his face. “You go ahead. I’ll be waiting for you in my dressing room. Tell Laura I’m glad she’s doing better.”

“You’re not coming to say goodbye?”

He shrugs. “It’s best if you handle it in true girly-girl fashion.”

Huh? “Okey-dokey.”

I’m not buying it. He’s up to something. And he wants me out of it, whatever it is.

Fine. Let him be that way. But I’ll find out what he’s up to. And like our show, it’s gonna happen sooner rather than later. I’ll make sure of it.

1500

I spend the day trying to catch up with Mr. Magnificent.

He spends the day dodging me.

Except there’s the minor matter of a show we have to do—together. It’s what cohosts do. By the time the cameras zoom in on us, I’m wound up tighter’n one of the girdles our channel sells by the truckload. The two-hour show feels comfy-cozy, like a session with my favorite—
not
—dentist.

Finally, as the last notes of the theme song fade into the now-dark studio, I whirl on my partner, jab a finger at the middle of his broad chest. “And you have the gall to bug me about partnership? Huh? How about it,
pardner
? Spill the beans, already.”

He shrugs. “Let that poor bee out of that bonnet, Andie. I just know something’s bugging Miss Mona, and they’re not back yet. I won’t relax until they’re home again.”

My nerves set up a rhythmic rattle. I don’t want to consider the awful possibilities, even though unease is playing my song. “How do you know they’re not back yet? You’ve spent the last two hours on-screen with me. You don’t know who’s come in or out of the building.”

“Hannah’s got the perfect view of the hallway. I asked her to give me a heads-up during the show once she saw them.”

I look at our favorite camerawoman, who’s covering her equipment. She shakes her head. My stomach lurches. We’ve just done the last live show of the day. It’s nine thirty now. Unless they’re home, then Max is right. Something’s wrong. Very wrong.

I scoot my chair back and march off toward my dressing room and cell phone. “I’m calling them. They probably went right home. Maybe there’s a message on my voice mail telling us where to meet them for that late dinner we talked about before they left.”

The echo of Max’s footsteps follows me. I race to my purse, pull out my phone—no message.

Then I speed-dial my aunt. It goes straight through to her voice mail. Unless she’s making a call, the phone’s been turned off. Not at all something Aunt Weeby has a habit of doing.

“Well?” Max says.

I shake my head. A queasy wooziness starts in my gut. A chill runs through me. “Maybe they . . . maybe—”

Someone raps on my door. “Come in.”

Chief Clark walks in. The queasy wooziness goes right down the sour road to nausea. His frown doesn’t give me the warm fuzzies, know what I mean?

“Are they hurt?” I ask.

“Hurt?” He looks back out in the hall, around the room.

“Who?”

“Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona. They’re the reason you’re here, right?”

He sighs. “Sure are, Miss Andie, but not on account of them being hurt or anything like that. Leastways, I’m hoping not.”

“Then why are you here?”

He drags off his official hat, scratches his head, then claps the worn-to-a-shiny-edge-on-the-brim thing back on. He rubs his chin, shifts his weight from foot to foot.

What is it with these men and their fidgeting when they’re trying to avoid giving a straight answer? I’m fresh out of patience this time. “Please tell me. You don’t usually come around just to hang and chill.”

The chief clears his throat. “Do you know any reason Miss Mona would be getting dozens of phone calls from Colombia? Real short ones, hang-ups, and not from that Rodolfo guy in the hospital, either. Dozens, Miss Andie. Dozens in the last coupla weeks.”

No wonder she was so quiet in the waiting room this morning. She probably hadn’t said a thing to the chief about those calls. Then he came out with his warning about not telling him everything. I suspect that’s when she began to put the pieces together.

There’s way more here than meets the eye, all right.

Houston? We have a problem.