Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures (4 page)

“Elle didn’t see how she got there.” Susan stood beside me. Becky put a protective hand on my arm.

I looked at Dr. Du Bois. “She didn’t want to fall. She tried to take my hand.” That much I knew.

He nodded. Took a breath. “So, it was murder then. Did you see who did it?”

“She’s told the police everything she knows.” Susan tried to fend off his questions.

Again, I watched the woman fall, arms flapping. “I didn’t see anyone but her.”

He leaned forward, watched me for another moment. “Well, I had to ask. At least you agree it wasn’t suicide. I told the police that it couldn’t have been; Claudia was happy. Of course, she still had some swelling, but her neck was already smooth as silk and her jawline taut as a teenager’s. And her lips—I plumped them like ripe strawberries. She looked twenty years younger, with not a wrinkle, not a line. Suicide would be impossible. Unthinkable. The woman was a living work of art. She would never harm herself.”

Susan eyed him. “You seem to have known her well. Are you that close with all your patients?” She had the tone of a criminal attorney, interrogating.

“You are very astute, madam. No, not with all. Claudia had come to me repeatedly, for many procedures. Over the years, yes, we became close.”

“I’m sorry.” My voice sounded far away. “I couldn’t save her.”

He focused on me in silence. His eyes were moist. “How insensitive of me. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. And here
I am, intruding, pressing you for information.” He stood and stepped over to me. Put his hand on my shoulder. Looked into my eyes. “Thank you, Elle. You risked your life to save Claudia. I, like all who cared about her, am in your debt.”

He removed his hand, talked briefly with Jen and, when he left a few minutes later, I was still on the sofa under the blanket. My shoulder still felt the warmth of his hand.

Finally, it was just the four of us. Friends since childhood. Well, not Susan—Susan was older. When we were kids, she hadn’t been our friend; she’d been our babysitter, our role model. Now, the only one of us with children, she still slipped into the role of mother hen as it suited her. And when room service delivered breakfast, it suited her.

“Sit here, Elle. Jen, pass out the mimosas. Becky, don’t remove the covers yet. The eggs will get cold.”

Obediently, I took my seat, slightly sickened by the smell of eggs, feeling distant from the bustle of a meal being served. But Jen handed me my mimosa and raised hers in a toast. “To my BFs effing F!”

We drank.

“To Jen for hosting us.” I lifted my glass.

“And to Elle for being so brave,” Becky added.

“And for not falling.” Susan didn’t smile.

Again, I felt empty air beneath me. I drank my mimosa. Thought about teetering over a six-story drop—or was it tottering? My gut flipped, either way. I felt untethered and ungrounded, as if I might fall at any moment. I held onto the arms of my chair.

“Elle? Be honest. I won’t go if you need me.”

Go? Becky waited for my answer. Jen watched us, stuffing a wad of eggs Benedict into her mouth.

“You didn’t hear me, did you? You’re doing your Elle thing, aren’t you?”

What had I missed this time?

“Chichi invited me to the Salsa Festival today.” Chichi and his partner, Luis, led the hotel’s recreational activities. “I told him I’d go, but I won’t if you need me. Jen has her preop tests.”

“No. Go. I’m fine.” Becky had met Chichi within an hour of our arrival. “I’ll hang out with Susan.”

“You mean it? Because, honestly, Chichi would understand.”

They’d spent one day together, and already Becky talked about him as if they were a couple. Was Chichi his real name?

Becky licked egg yolk off her lip. “Remember Madam Therese?” she asked. “Funny. So far, everything she predicted has come true. We traveled to a place near the water. I met a man I wouldn’t expect to fall for.”

“And I’m surrounded by a dark cloud of death.”

“Wait,” Susan poured another mimosa. “What?”

“The fortune-teller we went to. We told you about her.”

“Oh, I remember,” Jen nodded. “The night we ate at Gnocchi.”

“She said Elle and I would travel and that I’d fall in love.”

“And that my aura is stained with blood.”

Susan shook her head. “That’s bullshit.”

Becky swallowed. “No, really. She said dead people were attracted to Elle. And look, our first day here, Elle meets a dead person.”

“It was just a con,” Susan insisted. “A lucky guess. Anybody with half a brain can see that Elle is depressed.”

Really? I was depressed? Anybody could see it? “But she knew about Charlie,” I said. “She knew my husband had died. She said the dead are drawn to my aura—”

“Please, stop. Don’t tell me you buy that crap.” Susan chewed.

“Did she actually mention Charlie by name?” Jen asked.

“Of course, she didn’t.” Susan didn’t give me a chance to answer. “She probably asked if someone had died, am I right?”

She was.

“Pretty safe way to pull you in. Everybody knows somebody who’s died. So she says that and then you guys say, yes, and you tell her about Charlie. And off she goes. It’s a scam, nothing more.”

Becky shook her head. “No. She asked if someone had died and then she looked right at Elle.”

“She probably followed your eyes. You must have glanced at Elle and she picked up on it. Look, the woman’s a pro. She read your cues. Anyone can be trained to pick up on them.”

“Really. Well, how did she know I’d fall in love?” Becky crossed her arms.

“Seriously?” Susan smiled as if the answer were obvious. “Think about it. Who goes to fortune-tellers? I’ll tell you who: women. Not just women. Lonely women. Women looking for love.”

“That’s not true.” Becky’s cheeks were apple red. “Elle wasn’t looking for love and she went.”

“I didn’t go on purpose. You dragged me. And remember, she told me I’d meet a man, too.”

“Standard procedure. You go in. She sees no wedding or engagement ring on your finger. She sees ripe, healthy women coming in for a reading. What are the chances she can go wrong by promising you new love?”

Becky pouted.

Jen tore off a piece of pecan roll, popped it into her mouth. Jen weighed maybe a hundred and ten, ate like a linebacker. With her mouth full, she said, “I don’t know, Susan. I’ve been to lots of fortune-tellers. They’ve always been spot-on. One told me that I should break up with Joey—remember Joey? The MF was cheating on me, and she knew. And one summer at the shore, a gypsy on the boardwalk told me to be careful. Next day I fell on my roller blades and broke my arm. And here’s the best one: a fortune-teller told me I’d marry the next man I dated, and the next man I dated? Norm.”

“Stop.” Susan was exasperated. “I can’t believe that three otherwise semi-intelligent women are lending credence to any of this horse manure.”

“Madam Therese said we’d travel. We did. She said I’d meet someone unusual. I met Chichi.”

“First of all, you’re picking and choosing, remembering the parts you want to. And you know what else? If you like her predictions, you act in a way that makes them come true. You follow the suggestions.”

Jen flapped her massive eyelashes. “Excuse me? You’re saying I married Norm because some fortune-teller said I would?”

“And that Elle and I came on this trip because Madam Therese said we’d travel? That I’m with Chichi just because she said I’d meet someone?”

Susan didn’t answer. She just raised her eyebrows and looked slowly from one of us to the other as if the answers were obvious. Her cell phone was ringing. She pushed a lock of black hair out of her eyes, picked up her coffee cup, and went to take the call.

We sat in ruffled silence, Becky sulking, Jen playing with her nail gel. Finally, I picked up the pitcher of mimosas and refilled our glasses. Clearly, Susan was right. Madam Therese was a fake. There was no such thing as a person who could see the future, let alone discern bloodstains in an aura or dark death clouds over a person’s head. I felt foolish for giving her even a moment of credibility. And relieved that that moment had passed.

“How about another toast?” I lifted my glass smiling at Jen. “To successful procedures and a happy future with a flat tummy!”

“And a week of good times with good friends.” Jen raised her glass, clinked it with mine, then Becky’s. I reached over and clinked Becky’s.

“Oh my God,” Becky shrieked, yanking her glass away, glaring,
splashing mimosa on the table. “Damn, Elle. You clinked with the stem!”

I what?

“That’s bad luck. What’s wrong with you?”

My face got hot. Becky gawked at me, shocked. Accusing.

“What the eff, Elle?” Jen looked at the ceiling, panting. “Just what I need. Bad juju. Now I’ll probably scar.”

Susan came back from her call, fuming, cell phone in hand. “My damned office can’t get along without me. This is a Saturday. And I’m out of the freaking country.” She looked from Becky to Jen. “What?”

“Elle toasted with her glass stem,” Jen whined.

“Really?” Susan chugged her mimosa. “First you believe fortune-tellers, now stupid superstitions. You’re frickin’ pitiful.”

“Sorry.” I tried apologizing. “I’ve never heard that—”

“Oh, please. Everyone knows you have to clink with the rim.”

“What does that mean, Jen?” Susan scoffed. “That Elle deliberately tried to bring bad luck? Do you hear yourself?”

“Let it go.” Becky picked up her glass. “Let’s have a redo. Elle’s been through enough today. Cut her a break.”

We toasted again, but the conversation went on without me. The three of them referred to me in the third person as if I weren’t there. They did this from time to time, and I didn’t mind anymore. It wasn’t deliberate. We were like family. We bickered sometimes. We knew each other’s weaknesses and loved each other anyway. And we each had our designated roles to fill. Mine was to be the eccentric, the odd one. The one who spaced out under stress. And most recently, the one who messed up by clinking glasses with the stem, bringing bad luck on all of our heads.

I wondered what would happen if Jen’s operation went wrong. If she scarred, would she blame me and my stem clink?

But never mind. Nothing would go wrong. Jen was just
nervous, having preprocedure jitters. It was normal. And it was also normal that when she was tense, she’d pick on one of us—often me. I bristled thinking about it. Did Jen ever blame herself for anything? The operations were elective. If she scarred, wasn’t it her own fault? Besides, her scars would be only on the surface. Skin deep. Not the really serious kind, scars that were invisible to the eye but that disfigured the heart or the mind.

Somewhere in my head, I heard the scrape of furniture and the slam of a sliding door. I clutched the railing, felt the indifferent glow of sunrise on my back. The woman saw that I couldn’t get to her, realized that I didn’t dare move. But she knew that I’d tried. Hadn’t that been in her eyes? Wasn’t that why she’d let go of the railing, swinging her hand toward me? I closed my eyes. My bones felt the thud of her landing.

“Elle,” Jen nudged me, “you have a phone call.”

A phone call?

I blinked at her. Who could be calling me here? Unless—oh, damn. The police? More questions? No. I couldn’t deal with them, needed a break.

“Tell them I’m resting,” I whispered. “Say I can’t talk.”

But Becky told the caller I’d be there in a second and held out the receiver. She grinned, watching me. What was she grinning about? Did she think it was funny that I was being hounded by the Mexican police? I got up, heard Susan on her cell again in the bedroom, arguing. “But that’s impossible. We can’t file that fast—”

Becky handed me the phone and stood close, trying to listen in.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Elle. But I want to make sure you’re all right.”

It wasn’t the police. It was Dr. Alain Du Bois. To show me his concern and to express his appreciation for my courageous efforts that morning, he wondered if he might have the honor of taking me to dinner the following night.