Beads of Doubt (11 page)

When it came to important issues, though, it was Tess who did the research and gave me her opinions. We didn’t always agree, but when we were finished with our spirited discussions, we understood both sides of most topics and I could debate them with anyone. And I did. I got elected, too, and I always say it was in big part because of Tess.

Right after the election, I offered her a full-time position as my assistant in the Senate. She had a few reservations, but I didn’t have any. She did a heck of a job, and we made a difference. Oh, once in a while something would get past her, and we kept a running total of those. When I left office she had a total of eighteen and I had something like eighty-nine. If it hadn’t been for my name we’d have been better off running her for the Senate.

For me, the worst part about leaving office had been the stretch in our friendship. We still felt the same way about each other, but we no longer spent as much time together. I’d started my training company and wanted to take her with me, but Tess loved politics as long as she could remain primarily behind the scenes. She’d gone to work in the governor’s office. She’d gotten married and three years later, divorced. I’d taken over the Manse. She’d been diagnosed with ovarian cancer.

“What are you doing in the hospital?” I asked, helping adjust her pillow. “What are they saying?”

“It’s nothing really.”

I gestured at the IV bag and realized that what was inside was red. “Which is why they’re giving you a blood transfusion? For nothing. Your vampirical tendencies?”

“I don’t think that’s a word.”

“I don’t think you’re answering me.”

“It’s actually a long and very involved story.”

“You don’t tell that kind,” I said. “Just hit the highlights.”

And so she did. She’d gotten a cough that wouldn’t go away, and she had become more and more tired. The doctor had tried antibiotics. They’d done some sort of scan and found some unusual spots on her liver, although a biopsy had come up negative for cancer. I took a deep breath when she said that. One doctor told me that ovarian cancer doesn’t move to the liver, but then we’d both been told things that hadn’t proved true.

“My body can’t fight the infection—if that’s what it is—because I’m anemic,” she said. “That’s the primary reason they put me in here. Also, I can get twice as many tests and see twice as many doctors in half the time. I’m not sure that’s a good thing, but it is easier. I just don’t like this place.”

“What’s your CA-125?” I asked.

Tess sat up straighter and said, “Now that’s a little personal, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t ask about your underwear. I’d tell you my blood pressure.”

“Because you don’t have any blood pressure.”

I waited. The CA-125 is a blood marker used for ovarian or peritoneal cancer. A CA-125 level above thirty-five is considered suspicious—it may even mean you have cancer. After a diagnosis this is the one test that tells doctors if the cancer is spreading, if it’s in remission, if the chemo is working to kill it—all those questions that are so vital to treatment.

“Well?” I asked again. “Are you going to tell me?”

“It’s at 850, but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s just high.”

Way damn high. My heart hurt, even as I pretended I wasn’t concerned. I knew what it meant: the last type of chemo hadn’t worked and the cancer was taking every advantage to spread. “It means,” I said, “that I am going to have to speak sharply to your doctor. Or perhaps we’ll have to try some voodoo. I can also light a candle at several churches, and I may have to take control of the universe.”

“Forget me. Tell me about the Bead Tea. I really wanted to be there.”

“You can be at next year’s,” I said. Then I went on to tell her about the cocktail party and about Rebecca in the blonde wig. She smiled and patted my hand. I don’t think it mattered much what I said, she just wanted some company.

I talked about the vendors and the booths in the big tent, but I didn’t mention Andrew or his murder. I also didn’t talk about Houston or how he was trying to take away the Manse. Even though Tess had bigger problems of her own, I knew she’d worry about what Houston was up to, and how my mother and I would fair. I tried to keep my conversation light and interesting.

When I wound down she said, “How are your grandkids? Is Cliffie still the most brilliant child on the planet?”

“In the universe,” I corrected. “And, of course, he is.”

I could tell Tess was trying to keep the conversation light, and I wanted to as well. If I didn’t, I was afraid I was going to cry. It’s almost unbearable for me to have to face someone I love and know that they have a disease that’s going to take away their life. When Tess was first diagnosed, I saw a grief counselor; she was wise beyond her years and told me that we’re all dying, every day, from the moment we’re born. She reminded me that I could be the next one to go, maybe in a car wreck or in an airplane crash.

Even sitting in the counselor’s office, looking at the calming blue painting on the wall, the words didn’t help. Oh, some part of me knew that she was right, and I still know it’s true, but there’s a difference. With someone who’s terminally ill, death seems more prominent. Every day it’s in your face and in your heart. Every day you’re looking for that piece of magic that will stop the disease. There are also those days that you just don’t believe it’s true. Mostly though, you know it is, and your heart feels as if it’s going to break with the fear.

I thought about Andrew Lynch, so young and still dead. Unexpectedly. Sometimes life made no sense at all.

“Does he read yet?” Tess asked.

“Cliffie? Well, he’s only five, but he has mastered reading in two languages. We’re working on several others.”

She smiled and we went on to talk about my kids.

I have two. Will is twenty-nine and a marketing whiz for some techno-geek company. He’s also single and a workaholic. My daughter, Katie, is thirty-one, married, and going through a snippy phase. Since she is the mother of my three adorable grandchildren—twins Cliffie and Shelby, five, and Gabrielle, three—I try to humor her. Or appease her.

Tess doesn’t have children, just two ex-husbands and a marvelous Airedale terrier named Rafferty. “How is Raff doing?” I asked.

“Wonderful. He’s just a great guy.”

A nurse came in, interrupting the conversation as they do. She was wearing scrubs in orange and gold with some kind of tropical print on the top. “I need to get some vitals.” She checked the IV bag.

I stood up and noticed that the bed on the other side of the curtain was empty. “Hey, Tess, did you know there’s no one over there?” I asked.

“The woman just left a couple of hours ago. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Very. Can Tess move over there?” I asked the nurse. “It’s a lot brighter and cheerier.”

The nurse nodded. “No problem. We can do that right after I finish this, but I’ll have to get someone else in here to help. We’re not allowed to move patients alone.”

Tess looked up at me. “You’re still changing the world—”

“One bed at a time,” I finished. She smiled.

While they went on with the hospital routine, I stepped into the patient bathroom in the corner of the room. There was a toilet, a sink with a mirror over it, a box of rubber gloves on the wall, and a string hanging from a switch near the toilet. It was marked
Emergency
.

The bathroom was overly bright and smelled funny. Actually, I think every inch of every hospital smells funny, so I stay out of them as much as possible. I took my time going to the bathroom, then washed my hands and ran my fingers through my blondish hair. I needed a brush. My purse was outside, so I opened the door to find that I was blocked in by a bed. They were moving Tess over.

I reclosed the door and looked around. Actually, this bathroom was not nearly as clean as I thought it ought to be. The top of the chair rail was dingy, and there was some kind of greenish stain on the wall above the toilet. It didn’t bear thinking about, but I could clean it. Tears welled in my eyes. If only it was so easy to clean the cancer out of Tess’s system . . .

Sometimes the only thing you can do is keep yourself busy—do something constructive. I couldn’t do anything about the cancer, but I could at least give Tess a clean bathroom. I slipped on a couple of the plastic gloves, grabbed some paper towels, and squirted them with antibacterial soap. Then I went to work.

First I cleaned the mirror, then the sink, then around the toilet. Finally I tackled that chair rail. I was only halfway done when there was pounding on the door.

“Are you all right?” someone demanded.

“Open the door!” another said.

“Who’s in there?” a third voice yelled.

Good lord! I jumped and threw the paper towels in the trash.

“I’m in here,” I said.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course!” I said. “I’m fine.”

“Open the door. Now.”

I ripped off the gloves and trashed them as well. Who knew it was illegal to clean the bathroom?

I opened the door to find three nurses staring at me. “What?” I asked.

One of them pointed to the string and the emergency switch. “You must have hit that,” she said.

“Oh.”

“You need to turn it off,” another added.

I flipped the switch and tried to look calm. “I’m so sorry.”

As they walked away, one of them stopped to add over her shoulder, “Oh, and the bathrooms are only for patient use.”

I straightened my slacks, and stepped out into the hospital room to find Tess in her new spot only a few feet from the window. She was smiling. “Leave it to you,” she said, “to make even this place exciting.”

An hour later the sun was going down, and I had
coaxed Tess into eating a little of the food off her tray. Most of the time we’d sat in silence, but I knew she was glad not to be alone. I thought her color looked better, but I wasn’t sure if that was because I was getting used to it or because the transfusion was working.

When she finally drifted off to sleep, I went outside on a patio to make a quick cell-phone call. I didn’t want to break any more rules, and this place seemed to have a lot of them.

I’d forgotten that I had turned off my cell earlier, so when I turned it back on, I was surprised to find that I had missed five calls. That worried me. I never have more than one or two messages. I flipped through the recent calls. There were three from the Manse, one unknown, and one from Lauren.

I hit the button to call the Manse. I could only hope that the abundance of people trying to get a hold of me didn’t mean that something had happened to my mother.

“Let her be all right,” I whispered, listening to the distant ringing.

It was Beth who answered. “Hello? Camden Manse.”

“Beth, it’s me. Is everything okay? My mother—”

“She’s fine, but there are a few other things you need to take care of.”

“Me? What? What’s up?”

“Well, let’s see. First, Sergeant Granger is on his way over. He got loose a little early and he’ll be here at seven forty-five.”

“No, problem,” I said, looking at my watch. It was seven thirty. “I can be there in ten minutes. Just give him some food and tell him to wait.”

“Great. But you forgot one more little thing, too,” she said.

I wracked my brain and then I remembered. “If you’re talking about Lauren, I meant to call and tell you she was coming. You let her stay, didn’t you?”

“Of course. No, Lauren is all taken care of, and she told me she has some information for you,” Beth said. “But that’s not what you forgot. I’m talking about your date.”

“My date—” And then I remembered. I had a date with Nate Wright.

A half hour ago.

The parking lot was empty, and the Bead Tea had
ended its first day. The only sign of its existence was the big teal and white tent. The guard waved as I started toward the house.

“Hey, Charles,” I said.

“Good evening.”

“Do you need anything to eat or drink?” I asked.

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

And that’s when it occurred to me that Charles might have information about the murder that I could use to appease my mother and Aunt Miranda. I wasn’t feeling exactly guilty about not going by the police station, and I wasn’t feeling exactly good about it either. God knows I didn’t owe Houston any favors, but there were other people involved. I always wonder if other families have the same convoluted standards that mine does. For the sake of everyone I know, I certainly hope not, but I’ll bet they do.

“Charles,” I said, moving closer so I didn’t have to shout. “Did Sergeant Granger talk to you today?”

“About the murder? My manager called me at home and woke me up to meet with the sergeant.”

“Sitting here, you have a pretty good view of the parking lot.”

“Well, not the whole thing, but I can see through that split in the bushes.” He gestured and I turned to look.

I could see the light pole rising up above the hedge, and I could see the Dumpster, or a corner of it, beyond the fence. “I guess everyone’s doing their part. My cousin has been at the police station for hours giving information to the officers. Houston Webber. Do you know him?”

“I know who he is.” Charles grinned. “He has a horse that he runs at Retama Park, Rebecca’s Cinder Sage. That horse never loses.”

I presumed by the grin that Charles often bets on the horse, but I didn’t ask for clarification. “I’ll remember that,” I said. “Charles, did they give you a range of times when Andrew Lynch could have been murdered?”

“They asked about some times, and when I saw people leaving.”

Aha. Now I was getting somewhere. “What times did they ask about?”

Even before he spoke, his sorrowful look told me I wasn’t going to get the information I wanted. “I’m sorry, Miss Camden, they asked me not to discuss my interview with anyone.”