A Teeny Bit of Trouble (18 page)

“Sure. On one condition. Have dinner with me tonight.”

“You know I can’t.”

“I’m asking you to dinner, not an orgy.”

“I’d feel safer at an orgy.” An image flickered behind my eyes, Son and me rolling together in the orchard, our bodies slick with dew and sweat.

“What are you scared of, Boots?”

“Rats and bees,” I said, silently adding, Norris, Lester, Irene O’Malley. Son Finnegan.

“Stay here and think about dinner,” he said. “I’ll check on the Code Blue.”

After he left, I sat on the floor and pressed my forehead against the cookie tin. I hadn’t told Coop everything about me and Son. Not that it was a disgrace. In my whole life, I’d had four lovers. That might sound like a lot until you compared it to other things. Would you only try on four pairs of shoes in your whole life? Would you only eat four Lindt Truffles?

A long while later the door opened, bringing in a gush of cold, medicinal air, along with Son Finnegan.

“Kendall was admitted this afternoon with a concussion and a scalp laceration,” he said. “All tests were negative. No skull fracture. No intracranial bleeding. But she had a blood alcohol of .12.”

“Is that high?”

“Yeah. According to the nurse’s notes, she was talking crazy. But she was alive. Twenty minutes later, the patient’s mother went to the cafeteria, and while she was gone, a nurse stopped in the patient’s room to take her blood pressure. The patient was unresponsive. The nurse called a code. I guess that’s when you walked up.”

“But I talked to Kendall before the accident. She didn’t sound drunk.”

“A blood alcohol level doesn’t lie.” He helped me to my feet, and I handed him the cookie tin.

“There’s more, Teeny. Your friend’s not going to make it. The docs are working hard, but they can’t get a heartbeat. There’s no telling how long she went without oxygen. She’s probably got massive brain damage.”

I felt light-headed and forced myself to breathe through my nose. “Why would Kendall have coded in the first place? She’s young and healthy.”

“A small bleed might not have shown on the CT. Or the radiologist could’ve missed it.”

“What would a small bleed do?” I asked.

“The brain would swell. And the pressure would kink off the arteries that feed the brain. The patient would stop breathing and go into cardiac arrest.”

“I’d hate to be a patient here.”

“Why?”

“Too many people are dying. I heard the nursing students talking about a botched tonsillectomy. A sixteen-year-old boy died.”

“It’s a hospital, Teeny. Bad shit happens.” His forehead puckered. “Last week I lost a twenty-two-year-old patient. She sailed through the breast augmentation. Nurses found her dead during a routine vital sign check. Cold and blue. Pupils fixed and dilated.”

“What killed her?”

“The post showed zip. I’ve lost two other patients. Both were young women. But I’ll explain everything over dinner.”

I shook my head. “Coop and I are together.”

He glanced at my left hand. “I don’t see an engagement ring.”

I lifted the necklace.

Son peered down at the diamond. “No wonder you’ve got it on a chain. That ring would fit Sasquatch.”

“It’s a family heirloom.”

“Cooter’s too cheap to buy you a ring that fits?”

“Coop, not Cooter.”

“We ought to talk about this so-called engagement. If you’re afraid to be seen in public with me, I’ll bring dinner to your house.”

“I’m staying with Coop’s parents.”

He drummed his fingers on the cookie tin. “Oh, come on. One chicken dinner won’t kill you. It’ll be strictly business. Cooter head won’t know.”

“But I will.”

“You’re still attracted to me.”

“Not anymore.”

“Then why are your nipples hard?” He lifted one hand from the tin and pointed to my blouse.

I glanced down. Two hard nubs jutted against the cotton fabric. I pushed past him, flung open the door, and rushed into the hall.

“Teeny, wait!”

I bolted down the stairs, out the front door, into the hospital parking lot. Heat waved over the pavement, distorting the cars. A white van sped by. Black letters were written on the van’s side:
BIOSTRUCTURES.

I climbed into my truck. The steering wheel burned my palms and I let go. Dammit, I had no business coming to the hospital. And I’d made things worse by asking for Son’s help.

First things first. Get out of the parking lot. I rooted under the seat, found a pair of socks, and pulled them over my hands. Then I started the engine and drove to the Square. My plan was to talk to the woman at Baskin-Robbins. Maybe she knew something about Norris. Something that could link him to Barb. Because I felt certain that they’d been selling body parts.

I was a sweaty mess by the time I stepped into Baskin-Robbins. The frosty air felt good, rippling over my hair. A young, brown-eyed woman stood behind the glass counter, running a damp cloth around the ice-cream bins, her hairnet bulging with dreadlocks. She looked to be in her early twenties, close to Kendall’s age.

“Get you anything?” she asked me.

“I’m looking for Zee Quinn.”

“I’m her. What’s up?”

I stared at the glass case, as if my thoughts were on ice cream rather than the illegal sale of corneas. “Got anything low cal, Zee?”

“Not much.” She laughed, and her dark eyes swept over me. “How about a smoothie?”

“I’m allergic.” I patted my hips. “I break out in fat.”

“Girl, you ain’t big. Get you a Peach Passion Banana. It’s made with fat-free vanilla yogurt.”

“Sold.”

Her smile widened, showing a slightly crooked front tooth. “You won’t be sorry.”

While she made the smoothie, I ran through options. I could get to the point and ask if Norris was a homicidal maniac, but Zee didn’t know me. She might not talk.

“Kendall McCormack told me to look you up,” I said.

“Yeah?”

I leaned over the counter. “She said you might help me.”

“With what?”

“Norris Philpot.”

Zee’s hand shook as she set my smoothie on the counter. “That’ll be $9.44.”

I looked up at the menu. “Um, I thought a large smoothie was $4.99.”

“When I get upset, my dyslexia gets stirred up. Plus, I forgot to add tax.”

I handed her a five-dollar bill and change. “I had a little incident with Norris.”

Zee’s gaze sharpened. “What’d he do to you?”

“He asked me on a date. He was very persistent, but I turned him down.”

“Smart move on your part.”

“Kendall told me that you had a run-in with him.”

Zee stared at me a long moment. “Why do you care?”

“Because I’m a little freaked out. Is he dangerous?”

She looked over her shoulder. “Lucy, watch the counter for me. I’m taking a break.” Zee turned around, her hairnet shaking. “Meet me outside.”

I plucked napkins from the box and hurried out the door. She stood beside a stone picnic table, her arms crossed. “Girl, I’m going to tell you something, and you can’t tell anyone. Not your mother or your daddy or your best friend.”

“Don’t have any of those. But I can keep my mouth shut.”

“Okay, then.” She folded her arms. “A year ago, I was helping my auntie clean her garage. I got a splinter in my eye. She took me to Dr. Philpot. He had a fancy office with a surgery room. He put me to sleep. When I woke up, a tiny white dick was in my hand. And the dick belonged to Dr. Philpot.”

I opened my mouth.
Chu-chu
sounds came out of my throat.

“At first, I thought I was having some sort of drug-induced nightmare.” Zee spat on the pavement. “Then he started moving my hand. I don’t have to tell you the rest.”

“Did you confront him?”

Her eyes filled. “I should’ve broke that ding-dong in two. But I just lay there, pretending to sleep. Let him do his thing. From what I hear, it could’ve been worse.”

“He raped a woman, didn’t he?” I dabbed a napkin over my face.

“The police didn’t do nothing about it.”

“Pervert. I think he broke into my house.” I told her about my cell phone, the gardenias, and my soiled nightgown.

She wiped her eyes. “That sick mutherfucker.”

She spat again. “You’ll be all right. Don’t let his skinny white ass get near you.”

That sounded like a good plan. She went back inside. I carried my smoothie around the corner, into the shady arcade. I dropped coins in the pay phone and told the operator I wanted to make a collect call to Coop O’Malley. You’d think I’d asked for a year’s supply of free martinis. I was pouring sweat when she finally put me through. Coop accepted the charges.

“I’ve been ringing you for over an hour,” he cried. “I was just about to make Red turn the van around.”

“I’m okay.”

“Please tell me you didn’t go to the hospital.”

“Just for a second.”

“Dammit, Teeny. A criminal broke into your house. You shouldn’t be gallivanting around town. It’s not safe.” He yelled so loud, I held the receiver away from my ear.

When he stopped shouting, I explained about Kendall’s Code Blue, skipping over the part about Son. I also told him about Norris and Zee Quinn.

“Hearsay,” he said. In the background, I heard a knocking sound, as if he was beating his fist against a dashboard. “If you keep asking questions, he could file harassment charges. Where are you now?”

“Oglethorpe Square.”

“Go to Mother’s right now. She’s expecting you.”

Great. Just what I needed. An evening with my biggest fan. I exhaled harder than I’d intended.

“Teeny, I know you’re upset about your friend. You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t care about people. But I need to know you’re in a safe place. Just put up with my mother until I get there.”

Not without a cattle prod. But he sounded so upset, I promised I’d try. After we hung up, I threw away my melted smoothie. I went back to the farm, intending to collect Sir. But I was shaking all over. I couldn’t stop thinking about Kendall. And what about that printout? What were the chances that Norris had worn that Bill Clinton mask?

Before I faced Irene O’Malley, I needed to collect myself; instead, I went into the parlor and put a stack of records on the hi-fi. I knew I could count on Elvis and “Jailhouse Rock” to give my mood a boost. Sir and I went upstairs. We both stretched out on Mama’s old bed. A dormer window looked out into the front yard, showing a wash of blue sky.

I wished I’d had time to make peach preserves. The recipe is simple, but the process is tricky. Cooks should never attempt to make jam if they are in a sour mood. The fruit will grab hold of bitterness. If the cook is upset, the lids won’t seal. Unless you wish to be poisoned, you’ll have to eat your jam right away. Hot preserves are just like anger: When the mixture cools, it sucks out the oxygen in the jar, bends the lids inward, and creates a protective seal. Nothing can seep into your preserves. Or you.

I stopped thinking about food and hummed along with Elvis. Sir snored. Then I fell asleep with my boots on.

seventeen

I awoke to the sound of a growling bulldog. I opened my eyes. The dormer window was backlit with leaden dusk. The Elvis music had stopped playing. How long had I slept?

A car rumbled down the driveway. I leaped out of bed and jerked back the curtain, expecting to see Coop. But a navy Jaguar pulled in next to my truck. Son Finnegan climbed out, holding brown paper sacks.

My pulse beat behind my eyes. I ran downstairs, skidded to the porch, and collided with him. The bags crumpled, giving off the smell of fried okra. I lifted my chin, trying to seem taller. “I told you not to come,” I said. “Why didn’t you listen?”

“Why is a mattress in your front yard?”

“Leave.”

“Not until you eat. Didn’t know if you still liked red wine, so I got white, too.”

I spread my arms, blocking the door. “Take your fried okra and go.”

“You’ve got a good nose, Boots.”

“If you aren’t gone in two seconds, I’ll sic my dog on you.” I waved at the screened door. Sir pushed his flat muzzle against it. “He hates tall, blond doctors,” I added.

“Yeah, he looks ferocious.” Son looked at the dog. “Hey, puppy. I brought sustenance. Ask your beautiful mama if you can have a chicken tender.”

Sir licked the mesh.

“Traitor,” I said.

Son reached around me, opened the door, and strode into the house. He set the bags on the dining room table.

I rushed after him. “You should’ve called.”

“And spoil everything?” He pinched my cheek. “After dinner, we can go over my patients’ charts. Then we need to talk.”

“I don’t have time.”

“Since when?” His hand lingered on my face. “If you had to pick between O’Malley and a chocolate pie, you’d pick the pie.”

I jerked away. “I’m spending the night with his parents. I’ve got to leave now.”

“Be glad I brought wine.” He winked. “You’ll need it.”

“I’m not having dinner with you.” I breathed through my mouth, trying not to smell the okra and chicken and corn bread.

“I love it when you’re caught between food and anger, Boots.” He lifted a Styrofoam carton from the bag.

“Quit calling me Boots.”

“You used to like it.”

“I lied.”

“Your nipples say otherwise.”

I folded my arms over my breasts. Son opened the carton, revealing plump, batter-fried chicken strips. They had a nutty, bacony smell. My mouth filled with saliva, and the craving for good food threatened to trump my common sense.

He grinned. “Which cabinet holds the dishes?”

I hated to encourage him, but I could already imagine my teeth sinking through the chicken tender. “Right behind you on the sideboard.”

While he set the table, I couldn’t resist opening the other Styrofoam boxes. Fried jalapeño grits, batter-fried green beans, pecan pork nuggets, grilled Georgia shrimp, Vidalia onion rings, and strawberry shortcake. I blinked at the onion rings, and my rudeness vanished. I swooned, imagining the sweet, translucent ribbon caught inside the crunchy coating.

“I asked them to put the whipped cream in a separate container,” he said. “Think it’ll melt, or should we eat dessert first?”

He looked so distraught, I couldn’t stop smiling.