A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries) (20 page)

After I hung up with Pete, Dad started making gagging noises.

“Pull over. Pull over,” Mom yelled.

I couldn’t. We were on the highway into the city and there was nowhere to go. Mom panicked. She opened her purse and dumped it out on the floor. It was her favorite Prada bag, but Dad could not barf all over the car. If that happened, there would be repercussions, to say the least. Mom started to crawl into the back seat.

“Wait. I have a salad in the glove compartment. Toss it and use the container.”

Dad’s long arms waved around as the gagging got worse.

“Why do you have a salad in the glove compartment?”

“Who cares? Hurry!”

“What do I do with the salad?” Mom looked around with the Styrofoam box in her hands.

“Throw it out the window.”

“It’ll get on the paint.”

“Christ, Mom. It has six thousand coats of wax on it. Just toss it.”

Mom flipped my salad out the window and it flew straight back. A Buick swerved and dodged it and my salad splatted onto the Escort’s windshield. Much honking and, I imagine, cursing ensued as the Escort ended up on an off ramp and we sped away.

“Mercy, look what you made me do. You could’ve caused an accident,” Mom yelled.

I could’ve caused an accident. She flew Plague Man halfway around the world, and I could’ve caused an accident. I was sure all the people from the plane who would be barfing their brains out in a day or two would think I was the bad one. Recycled air was the curse of all travelers.

Dad made a chest-deep honk like a water buffalo. I’d never heard a water buffalo, but I was sure that’s what they sounded like, low and phlegmy.

“Mom!” I yelled as Mom crawled into the back and murmured soothing sounds into Dad’s ear while he spewed into my salad box. When he was done, she came back to the front seat with the box.

“I suppose you want me to throw this out the window too,” she said.

“I do not,” I said.

Actually, I did, but I could live with the smell for another ten minutes in order to take the high road.

I pulled into the alley in record time and saw Pete leaning on his ancient Saab parked next to our trash bins. He looked wonderfully cool and confident. The sight of him made me want to cry with relief.

“Is that him?” Mom asked.

“That’s him,” I said with more than a little apprehension.

“Nice, and he drives a Saab. Your father will be pleased.”

“I’m sure that’s what Pete was going for.”

“Don’t be snide. I’m saying it’s a good thing.”

“I know.”

I parked in the garage, got out, and kissed Pete. Then I turned to Mom and introduced the two of them. Mom shook his hand, apologizing for both calling him and her appearance. She was stunning, as she well knew, and Pete said so. That brought a smile to her face and we were off on the right foot.

Pete listened to Dad’s heart and lungs, took his blood pressure and pulse in the car in case we had to take him in. He pronounced him safe to keep at home for the time being and asked me to get a bag out of his back seat. Pete and Mom slid Dad out of the car and Pete carried him into the house. There was a lot of strength in that skinny body. I never would’ve guessed it.

There was no sign of Dixie or anyone else as we walked up the stairs to the second floor. Mom decided to settle in the largest guest room since Dixie was entrenched in their room. Dad lay on the bed semiconscious while Pete unpacked his bag. It was filled to the brim with hospital supplies, IVs, several bags of saline, some lancets, tubes for collecting blood samples, several prescription bottles, syringes, and liquid vials from the pharmacy.

Mom took off Dad’s stained shirt and we got a view of his sunken chest. Mom and I pulled on a fresh pajama top. I’d never seen him wear one before. Dad had pajamas although he never wore them. He usually slept in boxer shorts and he wasn’t shy. He was known to answer the door first thing in the morning without adding to his wardrobe. And by God if he wanted to get the paper like that, he did. As a teenager, I complained that my friends didn’t want to see him in his skivvies. Dad couldn’t see why they’d care. He couldn’t care less what they wore. Half the time, I would’ve sworn that he didn’t see them at all, unless they said something that interested him, which was rare.

Since I was the nurse, I had to do the IV. Dad’s arms looked like he’d been bludgeoned. I hated the idea of poking a needle into those traumatized arms. I might’ve asked Pete to do it, but I’d look like a wuss. So I pictured Dad as an intravenous drug user -- he had the body -- and got started. I blew three veins and got lucky on the fourth stick. Dad was so out of it, he barely complained. I hooked the bag on a coat hanger and hung it on the headboard. Pete measured out a dose of Zofran and injected it into the IV line.

“That should take care of the nausea and vomiting,” Pete said. Then he looked at me. “You can give him another two cc’s in a couple of hours, if you think he needs it. We’ll see how he’s doing then and reevaluate.”

“So you don’t think he’ll need to go to the hospital?” Mom asked.

“I don’t think so, but he’s right on the edge. It depends on how he responds to the Zofran and if we can get him hydrated in a reasonable amount of time.”

“What’s a reasonable amount of time?” said Mom.

“I’d like to see him hold something down within two hours. Apple juice or a cracker will do.”

“I’m certain he’ll be able to do that now that he’s medicated. Why don’t you two go downstairs while I put his pajama bottoms on?”

Pete and I went down to the kitchen. I found a can of Jolt for Pete and made hot chocolate for myself. I needed it, even if it was ninety degrees outside.

“I can’t believe an airline would let him fly in that condition,” Pete said.

“Dad can be very persuasive.”

“I still don’t see how he talked them into it.”

“Let’s just say he knows people,” I said with a smile.

“People in high places?”

“And low places. All layers of the stratosphere really, and they all owe him or want him to owe them.”

“Airlines have regulations about illness and injury. It doesn’t matter who you are or know. Someone wasn’t doing their job.” Pete frowned at me. I didn’t respond immediately and his gaze hardened. People shouldn’t break the rules and certainly not because they admired or feared someone. Debts should never be considered. Rules were rules and for the world to run correctly, they must be obeyed. Pete didn’t live in Dad’s world. I didn’t either, but I visited on a regular basis.

“Well, you know how overworked all those airline people are. They’re more concerned with keeping weapons off planes than viruses, I imagine.” I looked into Pete’s blue eyes and tried to look as innocent as possible. I loved his big eyes with their heavy fringe of lashes, almost feminine in their thickness. His expression changed from suspicious to affectionate and he relaxed. He pushed back and balanced his chair on its hind legs. He looked elegant and easy. I could smell his scent despite the distance between us. I filled my lungs with it. Pete smelled like the color forest green looks.

“Light day?” I asked.

“Yes, we’re nearly empty. Why do you ask?”

“You smell good,” I said and Pete laughed quietly. Mom walked into the kitchen. She had a funny look on her face like she was intruding, which she wasn’t.

“I just thought I’d get some juice and crackers for Dad,” she said as she walked past us into the butler’s pantry. We listened to her search until she came back into the kitchen empty-handed. “I think we’re out of saltines.”

Pete stood up. “I’ll get some.”

“Good. Could you pick up some smoky cheddar, too? Tommy likes it when he’s sick.”

“How do you know?” I asked. “Dad hasn’t been sick in twenty years.”

“Well, he liked it twenty years ago. Stop arguing. You’re as bad as he is and drop those casseroles on your way.” Mom pointed to the dishes that The Girls had brought their famous casseroles over in. Pete picked them up and I told Mom we’d head to The Girls’ house first.

Chapter Fifteen
 

THE BLED MANSION lorded over the avenue six houses down and across the street, past the invisible line that separated the upper class from the truly rich. Hawthorne Avenue was a gated street so from the outside we were all lumped in together. It takes bucks to be gated, but on my parents’ half of the street those bucks could’ve been earned the hard way. Doctors, lawyers and businesspeople owned those houses. The rest of the street was another story. Those people didn’t work for corporations, they owned them. Their mansions ran in the high seven figures, but it was rare for one to come on the market. The last time was five years ago and caused quite a stir. Highpoint House went for a cool million seven to the heir of the Lange auto empire and a sigh of relief was breathed by the neighborhood. They lived in constant fear that someone would buy in and try to commercialize their world for boutiques or bed-and-breakfasts.

Myrtle and Millicent Bled didn’t worry about such trivial concerns. I doubted they realized that anyone could or would want to change the world in which they’d lived their entire lives. They lived in the house they’d been born in, been raised by nannies in and received their ultra-private tutored education in. As far as I could tell they had no desire for a different kind of life, but they would hardly have spoken to me about it if they had. In many ways, I was like their child. I, too, was born in the Bled mansion, delivered by a private medical staff and surrounded by an unbelievable collection of art, including framed leaves from the Gutenberg bible, a Matisse, a Degas, and a Vermeer sketch. The Girls said I should be born in the presence of greatness and so I was. The Girls had insisted on caring for my mother at the end of her pregnancy. They liked to call it her confinement. Neither of my parents denied The Girls anything, since they loved them and owed them for their entrance into the exclusive world of Hawthorne Avenue. Neither Myrtle nor Millicent said that we owed them. They didn’t operate that way. I think they fell in love with my parents and did as they pleased. The Girls wanted to give them a house, so they did. They wanted to care for my mother and they did that, too. There was no question of Myrtle and Millicent’s intentions — they were good, always good, even if they infringed on our lives a bit.

“I love this street,” said Pete as we crossed Hawthorne Avenue. “I never knew it was here until we met. It’s like another world.”

“It is another world, believe me.”

My phone rang, but it was an unknown number, not Dad having a seizure. I let it go to voicemail. I could check the heavy breathing later.

“It must’ve been strange growing up here with all these rich people and your dad being a cop. No offense, but you know what I mean.”

“I do and it was, but I think they always liked having us here. Dad made them feel safe when the neighborhoods around them were going down the crapper. He used to check out their security for them and install new locks. The rich can be pretty paranoid.”

“Did they pay him?”

“Are you kidding? The rich don’t pay; they expect.”

“That’s nice. All the money in the world and they won’t pay some guy to put locks in for them. They make your dad do it for free.”

“It’s not about the money. It’s about trust. Dad’s a known entity. He’s a cop and lives here.”

“He’s one of them.”

“Sort of. Close as a regular guy can get and still be able to install locks.”

“Does he still change their locks for them?”

“He would if it came up.”

“Which house is it? Or should I say mansion?” Pete shifted the dishes to one arm and put his arm around my shoulder, rubbing it gently.

“It’s the next one. The one with the green marble columns.”

“Whoa. I’ve seen it before in some book. I can’t remember which one,” he said as my phone rang again.

He took it out of my hand and said, “Hello.”

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Do you do private parties?” Pete asked with a big grin.

“Shut up!”

“They’ll pay three thousand for two hours.”

“That’ll happen.” I took the phone and switched it off. Dad probably wouldn’t die in the next ten minutes.

We stopped at the front gate and I pushed the buzzer. It made a little buzzing noise that made me think I was about to be electrocuted. A couple minutes later there was another buzz and the eight-foot-high black wrought iron gate swung open. We walked through the gate and I looked up at Pete. He stared up at the house, his eyes jumping around as if they didn’t know where to land. I’d seen plenty of people look at the house that way. It was that kind of house. It wasn’t unusual to see a tripod set up across the street with a camera clicking away or an art student working over a sketchbook. It wasn’t hard to see why; the house was just plain weird. Nicoli Bled, The Girls’ father, built it in 1920 after Prohibition was passed. He took the act as a personal attack since the family fortunes were linked with the consumption of beer. The house was his act of defiance again the whims of public opinion. He wanted it to be noticed and it was.

I stood by Pete, looking up at the mansion with my own feelings of devotion. It was big by Art Deco standards, but whether it truly was Art Deco was difficult to say. The mansion was two exaggerated stories high. In any other building, it would’ve been three. The main structure was rectangular with a flat roof and rounded corners with the exterior covered in pale gray stucco. Four green marble columns decorated the front façade. It was the columns that caught the passerby’s eye. They were huge and spanned the height of the building and bowed out against the house like a child blew them up with a tire pump. Large green ceramic tiles, each with hand-painted palm fronds, edged the top and bottom of the house all the way around. All the many windows were covered in black wrought iron in geometric shapes. None of the windows matched and on either side of the building were glass rooms that The Girls called conservatories. Neither conservatory had walls; only iron columns that held up the flat ceiling. The panes of glass were held in place with elaborate ironwork that suggested Egyptian hieroglyphics, although there were no people done in iron.