Imperfect Contract (7 page)

"Sophia, I don't want to be alone.  At first, I refused him because I worried about getting AIDS.  I didn't know where he went at night.  He said he was drinking with his friends.  But after a while, I knew he wouldn't go that long without sex.  I figured he was getting it somewhere.  I found Viagra in his pocket, so I knew he was able."

"That didn't bother you?"  I felt my eyebrows rise.

"No, not really, because I didn't know for sure.  I put it out of my mind."

"How is this different?"  I struggled to keep my expression supportive.

"Stone . . . Stone found out Barry was living with a woman.  He had a steady relationship.  They shared an apartment on the other side of town."

"And you didn't know?"

"I had no idea.  I mean, he stayed out more, sometimes overnight, but there was no pattern.  He never called, so how would I know?"  She turned in her chair and looked into my face.

"What did they tell you about the woman?  If you don't mind my asking, that is."

"They said she was in her fifties and worked in a legal office on the other side of town.  And, I still don't believe it—she's white."

"So?"

"That makes it worse."  She knitted her brows together as if she was stricken with a severe migraine.

"Why?" 

"I don't know, but it does.  He insisted Jamel date African-American girls, his own kind Barry would say.  I can't believe he'd take up with a white woman."

"Amelia, it happens all the time."

"Not in my family it doesn't, not to me."  She pointed at me.  "Sophia, what about my son?  When he finds out about the girlfriend, it'll make me look like a fool, and he'll lose respect for his father."

"Maybe he doesn't have to find out."  I said.

"He will.  Stone said he was going to talk to Jamel and see if he knew about the woman.  He implied that if I didn't admit to trying to kill Barry over it, maybe Jamel would."

I was having trouble reading her.  There was something strange in the exchange.  She started out weepy and sad, and now she was angry.  Was it because she had found out about the girlfriend?  Did the race issue make it more insulting for her?  Or, had she known all along, but now it was exposed?

10

When I left the hospital that evening, getting out on time for a change, Ray Stone stood next to my car in the parking lot.  "Fancy meeting you here."  I said, digging into my pocketbook for my car keys.

"I've been trying to reach you.  Don't you return your calls anymore?"

I glanced at my cell phone.  "Oops.  It's not on."

"Makes it hard to get in touch with you."  He laughed, but the accompanying smile was over-confident and annoying. 

"Yup.  I should leave it off more often."  I stuck the key in the car door.  "Look, Ray, I'm tired.  I want to go home." 

I wasn't in the mood.  I hadn't processed the information from Amelia yet and felt he had somehow set up the poor woman.  And why was he here?

He stuck his long arm out, over my shoulder, and braced the door shut.  I thought he was trying to be casual about it, but he didn't fool me.  "I interviewed Amelia today.  We need to talk."

"Questioned."

"Huh?  We're on the same side.  I don't need to question you."

"Questioned.  I said questioned.  Amelia, I mean.  You questioned Amelia.  Maybe interrogated, confronted, and accused would be better ways of putting it."  I frowned at him while I continued to fiddle with the lock.

"If you like."  He stepped back a few steps.  "Clue me in.  Why are you concerned?"

"I don't know why I'm concerned.  Earlier, I was anxious to hear from you and find out your side of the story.  But it seems you destroyed the woman.  Here she is.  Her husband is critically ill.  She doesn't have a clue if he'll ever be a shadow of his former self.  Her life and business are in ruins.  You tell her he was cheating on her, then accuse her of trying to have him killed.  I guess I have sympathy with the wife of the victim."  I took a breath.

"You don't think she had motive?"

"What motive?"  I knew where he was going. 

Nurses are trained problem solvers.  We're critical thinkers.  That's why we're good at finding solutions to our patients' problems, and it's why we're good at solving mysteries.  We know how to collect the facts, study them, and arrive at reasonable conclusions. 

But we get involved.  Caring and compassion motivate us to be safe and accurate.  Sometimes it clouds the mind.

"Look at it this way."  Ray held up his left hand, using his right index finger as a pointer to tick off the issues.  "There are five thousand dollars missing from their money market account.  The withdrawal emptied the cash reserve of the business, I might add.  The withdrawal slip bears her signature.  She denied knowing about it."

"Maybe she didn't," I said with as much venom as I could muster.

He ignored my contribution to the conversation and proceeded to touch his fourth finger.  "Hutchinson had a long-term girlfriend."  He touched index finger to thumb.  "Amelia asked Barry for a divorce.  Everyone in the strip mall knew it.  Heard them fighting over it."

"She said she changed her mind.  They were sleeping together again, and they were trying to reconcile."

"That's not the way the girlfriend tells it.  She says he was going to leave her as soon as he worked out the details of keeping the business and finding something for her to do.  He was trying to make a deal with Michael Wiley to hire her.  The problem is, the girlfriend said, Amelia is not a good real estate agent—talks too much and doesn't make a lot of sales.  Wiley wasn't interested in hiring her."

"Did you check with Wiley?"

"Not yet.  I pulled it together yesterday and today.  Wiley hasn't called us back yet, but we'll talk to him."

"I'll bet you will."  I looked at Ray.  "Do you think she had her husband killed because he was ditching her for another woman, leaving her destitute in the process?"

"Something like that."

"Any life insurance?"

"Yes as a matter of fact, a hundred big ones."

"No kidding.  Amelia was the beneficiary?"

"Amelia gets seventy-five, and the kid gets the rest.  She also gets the business, the house, and the cars.  She'd be much better off with him dead.  With no mortgage on the house, she was set for retirement.  If he left her, she'd have next to nothing."

"Shit."

"Motive."  He smiled.  It was annoying.  I hated it when he was right.

"Do you want me to pursue anything in particular when I go to the realty office on Thursday?" 

"Let's get dinner and talk about it.  I'll bring you up to date on the progress in the case overall."  He waved his arm in the direction of his car, which he had parked two spaces from mine.

The last couple of days were draining.  I wanted to go home, collect my thoughts, make a few notes on the subject, and sleep until next Tuesday.  "Ray," I said, "I'd like to."  I stopped.  "No.  I wouldn't like to.  I want to go home."

"We need to talk."

"I'll meet you for breakfast."

"Can't, I've gotta be in court."  He opened his mouth, closed it, exhaled, and said, "Thursday for breakfast?"

"Works for me.  I have an appointment with the realtor at eleven.  You'll have plenty of time to prepare me for the occasion."

Ray opened the door to my Mini and stood back as I climbed in.  "Sophi," he said through the open window, "the best thing would be for you to stay out of it.  But I know you, so can we lighten up and just exchange some info?"

"Sure," I said without conviction.

"What's the problem?"

"I don't know.  Old baggage, I guess.  Old questions."

"Maybe we need to talk about them—clear the air."  He sounded sincere.

"We'll see.  You didn't want to tell me then." 

"You didn't ask."

I looked away and started the engine.  As I was backing out, I stuck my head out the window.  "See you Thursday morning.  Denny's near me okay?"

"Fine."  I noticed his cheeks were tugging at the edges of his beard.  He was pissed.  That's his problem, I thought.

11

On Wednesday morning, Vanessa was responsible for Hutchinson's vent care.  I tried to keep a close eye on her.  She had to work with someone she detested, and I wanted to make sure my patient received the best care. 

She was attentive to his needs, spending extra time in the room.  She cleaned his tracheostomy tube, drained the water from the vent hoses, and checked the settings, making entries in the computer as she worked.

Amelia sat in the armchair watching everything Vanessa did, but there was no conversation.  I didn't see Vanessa look at Amelia even once.

Around ten, Vanessa and I took a late breakfast, before the cafeteria closed to prepare for the next session.  I'd gotten three calls from the intensive care unit.  They had several patients for us.  It was typical of them to complete the transfers before their meal break.  That way the ICU staff enjoyed an uninterrupted lunch before the next round of patients filled their beds.  I didn't blame them.  They often didn't get time away to eat.  They sometimes didn't get to pee.

I'd given a short report to Connie, who had the group of patients in the rooms next to mine, and hurried to meet Vanessa in the cafeteria.  She sat in a booth near the windows on the far side.  I'd anticipated finding her outside on the patio and felt relieved she stayed in the air conditioning. 

There wasn't a line at the counter, but the dietary aide was collecting the big metal trays.  He stopped his work and smiled as I studied my options.  The scrambled eggs—powdered, reconstituted, over-cooked—looked like they were returning to their original pulverized form.  The aroma of bacon hung in the air.

I selected an egg from the bin labeled
soft-boiled,
suspecting it would be hard in the center by now.  That was okay with me.  I felt hard-boiled myself. 

The toast had dried out, so I grabbed a bagel and found a package of cream cheese.  Not bad.  I took a small sealed cup of orange juice and stopped by the coffee pot.  The coffee was fresh, which meant it would not be fresh when the lunch crowd converged on the small dining room. 

The cashier had closed the register.  I dropped the money in the honor system bowl left for late diners.

By the time I reached the booth, Vanessa had finished her powdery eggs and was sipping her coffee.  "Hi," I said, sliding onto the bench across from her.  "Sorry I'm late."

"No problem.  I needed a few minutes to think about my real estate problems anyway."  She smiled as if she had said something delightful.  I wondered if she was losing her grip.

"What's happening?"  I opened my orange juice and took a sip.  It tasted too sweet.

"The son of a bitch Hutchinson screwed me.  I parked myself in the mortgage broker's office yesterday.  I've been trying to call him since I talked to Amelia, but he wouldn't return my calls.  I decided to show up." 

"How was the reception?"  I glanced at her face as I worked on the shell of my egg.

"He welcomed me like a long lost relative—one he could fleece out of a bunch of money."  She frowned, looking frustrated.  That suited me.  At least her expression was appropriate for the conversation. 

"I thought you planned to cancel the contract and get your deposit back."

"I did, really I did.  After I talked to Amelia on Saturday, I thought about what you and Connie said, and I figured I'd find another house.  I even negotiated an extension with my landlord."  She leaned forward and put her elbows on the table.

"Van, I'm missing something here."  I salted my egg and lifted it to my mouth, waiting for her to fill me in.  I took a big bite of the egg, the liquid center gushed like a cream filled donut, sending cold yellow yolk down the side of my face and onto the collar of my uniform.

Vanessa laughed, and I cast her a dirty look. 

She said, "Sophia, do you always eat soft-boiled eggs like that?"

"Damn."  I wiped at my face and went to work on my uniform using the shiny metal napkin dispenser as a mirror.  "Who would think the boiled eggs would be soft at this time of the morning?"  I kept dabbing, using water from Vanessa's glass.  "Tell me about the real estate deal."

"Like I said, when I got home on Saturday night, I gave it some thought and decided to take my time before finding another house.  I called Amelia Monday.  She told me she had great news.  The seller signed the contract—it was
now
a contract—and agreed to the stipulations."

"I asked her how that happened given the delay.  She said there were no time limits in the contract.  That's the way I signed it.  I told her I wanted out, and she threatened me with losing my down payment.  I know ten grand isn't a lot of money, but it's my money, and it's all I have.  I begged, I pleaded, and she held firm.  She said the sellers were prepared to close on schedule, and I'd better get a mortgage."

"Did you mention the promises about interest rate and terms Hutchinson made to you?"

"Sure I did, but she said it wasn't in writing.  The contract specifies I have to get a mortgage at the prevailing rate.  I didn't put extra stipulations on it."

"Sounds like you screwed yourself."

"What do you mean, I screwed myself?  I asked the questions and that frigging Hutchinson told me what I wanted to hear.  He hurried me when it was time to sign, summarized it for me, and said, 'Don't worry.  I'll handle everything.'  He acted real happy and congratulatory."

"I understand how that can happen.  But Van, you know you have to read everything.  If you don't look out for your own interests, no one else will either."

"Craig used to read all of that stuff.  He wouldn't give me a chance, said I was too damn dumb.  Guess he was right about that at least."  She put her head in her hands for a moment.  I thought she was going to cry, but she looked at me clear-eyed.

"Van," I said, "you're as smart as the next one, but you're inexperienced for a woman your age.  You need to get help with the things you don't understand."

"Now you tell me."  She stuck an end of a napkin into her water glass and reached her long arm across the table.  She worked on my collar a moment.  "Okay, you'll pass for another day."

"What happened with the mortgage broker?"

"He's trying.  It looks like I'll have to pay a couple of points more than the prevailing rate.  If I forego a few things, I shouldn't starve to death.  What I'll have to do, I think, is put the house on the market as soon as I own it.  But it's a tough market.  I think that's why my sellers changed their minds and signed."

"Maybe you need to get a lawyer to check it out."

"I tried, but they want a couple of hundred dollars an hour.  By the time it's checked out, I'd spend as much money as I would lose walking away from the contract."

"You're in a bind."  I ate the last bite of bagel.  When I took the last sip of my coffee, I asked, "Vanessa, as angry as you are with Hutchinson and Amelia, shouldn't you excuse yourself from his care?"

"No, why should I?  I work on the unit, and I didn't invite him.  Why should I disrupt my work life because of him?  Really.  My personal and financial life may be in chaos because of his damned incompetence, but I'm a professional.  I'll take care of him just fine."

"Point taken," I said, sliding out of the bench.  I wasn't comfortable with it.  She was confused, had been screwed over, though she asked for it, and she was being trapped into a deal because she hadn't read the contract.  And Amelia, for her part, pushed it forward rather than helping out.  

I went upstairs and found Connie in Hutchinson's room seeing to his needs.  She took him as her assignment when I wasn't working and relieved me for meals or breaks when I was.  She formed emotional attachments to long-term ventilator patients, and Hutchinson was no exception.  Nothing distracted her from the patient's needs. 

I watched her clean around the tube in his neck then fluff his pillow and put it back under his head.  She spoke to him all the time she touched him, just as we learned in school.  I noticed she'd changed the dressing on his head as well.  The putrid smell in the room had diminished.

Connie wore a new uniform.  It reminded me of her swimming suit.  Matronly.  It was a jumper with a dropped waist and gathered skirt over a short sleeve pullover.  It came to about three inches over her shapeless ankles and accentuated her broad behind.  When I realized it was new, I touched it, and said, "Nice fabric.  It'll wash well." 

She beamed and said, "Thank you." 

I don't think she stopped to think about what I didn't say.

As Connie finished, Amelia entered the room with a coffee cup in hand.  Perfect, I thought, Vanessa's in the Respiratory Therapy department for a few minutes.  I can validate what she told me.

Though Amelia and I had greeted each other earlier, we hadn't had time to chat.  We passed a few moments with the customary pleasantries, then I popped the question.  "Vanessa says her contract is finalized, and she's working on a mortgage."

"That's true."  Amelia settled next to the window in her favorite chair.  The chair was on the opposite side of the room from its customary place.  She must have moved it after I left on Tuesday evening.  I noticed she didn't say hello to her husband.

"The mortgage is going to be higher than Barry led her to believe, and she'll have trouble affording it."  I glanced in her direction as I pulled back the covers to check Hutchinson's belly.

"She must have misunderstood.  Besides, she didn't ask him to say anything about it in the contract."

"She said the seller completed the contract this week.  Didn't it have to be signed in a couple of days?"

"Yes, usually that's true, but what happened, I think, is they were out of town.  Barry had her initial a change which gave the buyer unlimited time, unless, of course, Vanessa withdrew the offer."

"Didn't she tell you she intended to withdraw her offer?  I heard her tell you on the telephone on Saturday she was thinking about pulling out."

"Sophia," she said, her voice edgy, "are you questioning me?  The last thing the woman said to me was
fix it
, which is what I did.  What interest is it of yours anyway?  Take care of my husband and stay out of my business."

"Amelia, you asked me to check around, to keep my eyes open.  I did, and I have a question."

"Yes," she said, her manner sweet, "I remember.  The truth is that I thought it was a good deal and that she shouldn't back out.  I rushed over and asked the sellers to sign, but Vanessa never called to tell me to withdraw the offer.  The last direction I had from her was to push the sale through."

I raised an eyebrow in disbelief.  "I don't believe that was in the best interest of your client.  You should have checked with her again first."

"Sophia, the buyer and the seller are both my clients.  I think it's in the best interest of the seller.  That's where my first loyalty has to be, to the seller.  After all, it's our listing, and it's sales that produce the income." 

It didn't sit well with me.  I thought a realtor couldn't represent both parties.  I was confused, and I walked out of the room shaking my head.  I had vehemently defended this woman to Ray two days ago.  Live and learn.