Die Before I Wake (21 page)

“No,” I said weakly. “It’s not important at all.

Tom—”

In his most seductive voice, he said, “Let’s go back to bed.”

“But how can we—I’m bruised all over, and I’m wearing this damnable air cast—”

“Jules, Jules, Jules. You’re underestimating my powers of creativity.”

“Creativity?” I said. “Oh. Well, in that case…” Afterward, I lay beneath the covers and watched him dress. There are few sights in this world that give me more pleasure than that of a man in a white dress shirt looping and tightening his necktie. It gives a man such a crisp, clean appearance. Tom straightened his tie, adjusted his collar, and caught me watching him. With a slow, lazy grin, he said, “See something you like?”

This was the Tom I knew and loved, the playful, laid-back Tom, the one who didn’t have worry lines bracketing his mouth. “I see a lot that I like,” I said. “And if I hadn’t already shown you how much I like it…”

“Hold that thought. There’s always tonight.” He went into the bathroom, returned a moment later with a paper cup and a big cylindrical tablet. “Pain pill,” he explained, and I took it without question, like an obedient child. “You should take another one in four hours. The bottle’s right on the bathroom counter.”

He tossed the paper cup into the trash and picked up his wristwatch from the nightstand. Slipping it on his wrist, he fixed me with a stern gaze and said,

“I’m expecting you to behave yourself today.” I didn’t want him to go away, the playful Tom. I saw fewer and fewer glimpses of him these days, and the serious Tom, he of the stern gazes and the worry lines, felt like a stranger. Trying to tease him into sticking around a little longer, I said, “Don’t worry.

The next time I decide to practice tumbling, I’ll use a mat.”

He went to the closet and took out a suit coat. “I had no idea that living with you would be so, ah…

colorful. Are you always this much of a magnet for trouble?”

“That’s not fair. The tree wasn’t my fault. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And the vandalism was random. Some kid saw a new car and decided to mess around with it. Also not my fault. As for yesterday, I suppose that could be explained by my own klutziness.”

Tom shrugged into the suit coat. “I never took you for the klutzy type.”

“I never was before.”

“After you fell asleep last night, I read the girls the riot act. They both swore they hadn’t left those batteries lying around, but who else could it have been?”

My heart contracted. “Oh, Tom. Don’t blame it on the girls. I really don’t believe they were to blame. I really don’t think—” I stopped, inexplicably reluctant to share with him my theory that some unknown person had placed those batteries in that particular location deliberately in the hopes that I’d trip over them and fall. The idea was so far-fetched that the chances were excellent it was a figment of my imagination. After all, I’d suffered fairly severe head trauma. Maybe my belief that they hadn’t been there before was the result of memory loss. Maybe they’d been on the stairs all along and I simply hadn’t noticed them. Until, distracted by the discovery of Beth’s letter, I made that last fateful trip down the stairs.

“Claudia promised she’d be in and out to keep an eye on you. If you need anything, you’re to call her.

I don’t want you traipsing up and down those stairs all day by yourself. Is that clear?”

“I don’t need a keeper, Tom. I’m capable of taking care of myself.”

“Yes. You proved that yesterday.”

I felt like a nine-year-old who’d been reprimanded for something he hadn’t done. Was Tom really blaming me for my accident? That seemed grossly unfair. I’d never been careless. Never been accident-prone. Why would I start now? It looked as though Good Tom had really gone into hiding, and Evil Tom had taken his place. I was hurt, but more than that, I was irked. How could he make such tender love to me, then turn around just minutes later and, with a few well-placed words, tear me down and leave me in tatters? I held back the response I wanted to make; sticking out my tongue at him wouldn’t do much to advance my case for independent adulthood.

“I’ll behave,” I said, because placating him was the easiest way of defusing the situation. He wasn’t going to come around to my way of thinking anytime soon, so I might as well try to adhere to his. That way, everybody would be happy.

There was a knock on the door. It opened, and the girls stood there wearing identical expressions of apprehension, tempered by curiosity. “We came to see you,” Taylor said somberly. “To make sure you’re okay.”

“You look scary,” Sadie said.

I tucked the bedding tighter around me for modesty’s sake and patted the bed. “Come here,” I said. “It looks worse than it really is.” Sadie bounced over and wiggled her plump little bottom onto the bed. Taylor, reticent as always, followed at a more leisurely pace and stood beside the bed, examining my poor, mutilated face. “Does it hurt?” Sadie asked, studying my two black eyes with the same absorption I’d seen her give to some exotic dead insect she’d found.

“A little,” I told her. “But give me a few days, and I’ll be as good as new.”

Taylor fiddled with the zipper to her jacket. Eyes downcast, she said, “We didn’t leave those batteries on the stairs. Honest.”

“I know you didn’t, sweetheart. Nobody’s blaming you.”

She glanced up at me, her eyes steady on mine, as though gauging my sincerity. A brief smile blos-somed on her face before she averted her eyes again.

“Give Julie a kiss,” Tom said, “and let’s get hopping. We don’t want to be late.” Sadie leaned and gave me a mooshy kiss, and Taylor stepped up obediently and planted a less mooshy, more chaste kiss on my cheek. Tom’s kiss was nearly as chaste. I lay there listening as they trundled down the stairs, as his car started up and drove off. When the sound of his engine had faded away, I sat up, threw off the covers, and unstrapped the air cast. There wasn’t a lot I could do in my condition, but I could at least wash my body.

I stood for a long time under the hot shower, letting its soothing fingers take away the strain from my knotted muscles. Afterward, I took my time toweling off; stiff and sore as I was, every action took twice as long as it should have. After performing minimal morning ablutions—the brushing of hair and teeth—I found the loosest clothing I owned and slowly, painfully, dressed myself.

I was cautious on the stairs, moving in slow motion as my condition, and my air cast, dictated. It took a while, but I managed to get downstairs without killing myself. “Score one for me,” I muttered.

Now that I was down here, my hubby expected me to stay put. I found the phone book and looked up Claudia’s number. “It’s Julie,” I said when she answered. “I just wanted you to know that I don’t need to be watched over like a two-year-old. I appreciate the offer, but it really isn’t necessary.”

“Honey,” she said, “I almost died when I saw you last night. Mike Tyson would’ve been horrified. You looked like you’d been caught in a cement mixer.

How are you feeling this morning?”

“Like I got caught in a cement mixer. I just want to be left alone to die. You know the drill: lie on the couch, watch
The Price is Right,
snooze.”

“At least let me bring you breakfast.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. I just picked up the most incredible fresh-baked croissants at the bakery. They’re still hot.

We’ll eat them with my homemade boysenberry jam.” I groaned. It sounded almost as good as sex.

Almost. “You,” I said, “are going to be the death of me. Don’t tell me you made the jam yourself.”

“Made it and grew the berries. I know it’s hard to believe, but back when I was married to what’s-his-name, I was a domestic goddess, until I figured out that it was just one more example of white slavery.

So I’m fully capable of cooking a gourmet meal, should I so choose. Just don’t tell anyone my secret.

If you do, I’ll have to kill you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. My cooking skills are adequate, but nothing to write home about. You, therefore, are my hero.”

“Sweet words to my ears. Hang in there. I’ll be right over.”

We sat at the kitchen table in the morning sun, eating sinfully delicious croissants with jam and drinking some kind of special dark roast coffee that Claudia was trying out. “This is decadent,” I said, reaching for my third croissant. “Are you sure it’s not illegal?”

“I hope you don’t think that would stop me if it was.” Over the rim of her coffee cup, she eyed me.

“So what happened yesterday? How’d you manage to fall down those stairs?”

“Why does everybody ask me how I ‘managed’

to fall?” I demanded. “As though it were something exceedingly difficult to do that required a great deal of effort on my part?”

“Hey, I’m not casting stones.” Claudia pointed an index finger at her own chest. “I’ve fallen up the stairs too many times to fault you for falling down them. I think it’s just the horror of seeing how bad you were hurt that incites people to ask such a stupid question.”

Slightly mollified, I said, “It wasn’t my fault at all. Somebody left a couple of batteries on the stairs.

Round ones. I stepped on them and my foot just rolled right out from under me.”

Claudia tore off a piece of croissant. “Well, it’s a miracle you weren’t killed.”

“I have a hard head and a soft ass. Although today, both of them are feeling the pain.” She leaned her chin on her hand. “Did they say how long you’d be wearing the air cast?”

“They didn’t tell me much of anything.” I rolled my eyes. “Mostly, they talked to Tom. Outside the cubicle, if you can imagine that. I felt like an after-thought.”

“That’s not right. You should have demanded that they tell you everything.”

“If I’d been in my right mind at the time, I would have. But my brain was too fuzzy from the concussion, and on top of that, I was on Demerol.”

“Ah. Happy juice.”

“Exactly. So I guess they figured I needed Tom to act as a translator.”

“You have to admit, it’s convenient that you’re married to a doctor.”

Thinking of this morning, and how cleverly he’d worked his way around all my infirmities, I had to agree. It was a definite plus, being married to a man who was so familiar with the female anatomy.

Warming to the topic, I said, “Can I tell you a secret?”

She leaned forward eagerly. “I love secrets. I’m all ears.”

“Tom and I are trying to get pregnant.” Claudia’s elegant eyebrows went sky-high. “So soon?”

“That’s what I said, but he convinced me. Promise you won’t tell anyone.”

“I promise. Well. Congratulations. If it’s what you really want.”

“It is,” I said. “But it’s a little early for congratulations. The rabbit hasn’t died yet.” The pills had made me sleepy. I’d finished my breakfast, and all I wanted now was for her to go away. I yawned, covering my mouth discreetly, hoping she’d take the hint.

She did. “Looks like it’s time for your nap,” she said.

“I’m sorry. The pain pills make me groggy.” It was the truth. Just not all of it.

“Of course they do.” Claudia stood and began clearing the table. “You should sleep. It’ll help make for a quicker recovery.” She put the dishes in the sink, found a dishcloth and wiped down the table.

“There,” she said, gathering up her jam and her coffee. “I’ve done my domestic duty for now. You need to park yourself on the couch and take a little snooze. I’ll be back at lunchtime. Homemade turkey noodle soup with barley and egg noodles and a few other secret ingredients that nobody knows.” I wanted to protest that she was doing too much, but being spoiled was addictive. A girl could really get used to it. Besides, her turkey noodle soup sounded amazing. “Thanks,” I said, genuinely grati-fied. “I’ll see you then.”

As soon as she was gone, I locked the door and hobbled from the kitchen, my ankle screaming in protest. In the front hall, I locked that door as well, and slipped quietly into the small room Tom used as a study. Yes, I was tired and groggy. Maybe even a bit loopy. But I wasn’t ready to sleep. Not just yet.

They say that curiosity killed the cat. In my case, the cliché is probably true. I’ve never been one to do what’s best for me. Not when there was something more interesting to do, a mystery to solve. In the words of Jon Bon Jovi, I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

In keeping with the obsessive/compulsive aspects of my husband’s personality, the desktop was empty of everything except the computer and a shiny black cup that held a couple of pens. No bills, no books, not so much as a stray paper clip dared mar the perfection of its gleaming surface. I found it a little creepy, how fastidious my husband was. But that was just Tom.

I pulled out the desk chair, sat down, and fired up the computer. I was ticked off that I’d lost Beth’s note, the only real evidence I had that anything in her supposedly perfect life had gone amiss. I couldn’t very well go to the police with vague suspicions. But there were things I could do. In my dream last night, Roger had told me I should talk to Mel. It was good advice, and I fully intended to talk to her once I was sprung from my prison. In the meantime, there was plenty of online snooping to be done. Somewhere in the archives of the local newspaper, there had to be at least an article or two about Beth’s death. The wife of a prominent doctor jumping to her death from a bridge railing would have made quite a stir in a town as small as this one. If the stories were archived, it was pretty much guaranteed that they’d still be available online.

Life before the Internet. How did people survive?

I pulled up Google and typed ELIZABETH

LARKIN into the search box. It immediately pulled up 1,110,000 hits. As a research instrument, the Internet had its drawbacks, and this was one of them.

I went back to the Google search page, retyped her name and added NEWMARKET MAINE to the search criteria. This cut out about 1,109,000 entries.

It still left me about a thousand hits to wade through, but a thousand was better than 1.1 million. I already knew that most of them would be totally unrelated to my search, random items that had been selected by some peculiar and inexplicable formula known only to Google.