Ill Will (21 page)

“What kind of stuff do you take?”

“Ah, you just want to find out my secrets, don’t you?”

“No, ma’am, not at all. This is for research purposes only.”

“How do I know you’re not part of them? Sent here to spy on me?”

When you wear a tinfoil hat, people tend not to flock around you. Perhaps that was part of Marion McConkle’s loneliness.

“No, ma’am, I’m not a spy. Just a not very well-paid mother of two. My husband ran off after Katrina and I’m trying to make ends meet.” I was being as pink as I possibly could be, hoping to fly below her paranoia. “And, ma’am, I have to admit that I have gas problems as well, so if you have any advice for me that you’re willing to share, I’d sure appreciate it.”

By the time she finished with her advice, I knew more than I wanted about Marion McConkle’s colon, up to and including when she had her last enema—“weak coffee”—last bowel movement—“every morning regular as clockwork, except when my system is upset,” and how often she had flatulence in public, especially the funerals, “they had just lifted the coffin up.”

I was no longer a spy, instead had become a co-conspirator. I wasn’t sure that was an improvement.

Then she said, “Wait, I’ve got something you should try. It’s worked great for me.”

She got up and left the room and I again peeked down the hall. She went to a different place than the kitchen, but returned much more quickly, barely giving me time to sit down again.

She handed me a bottle of Nature’s Beautiful Gift that promised to help improve digestion and regularity.

I gave it my best wonderful-gift-that-I-never-would-have-given-myself look. “So, this is what you use? And it’s really helped?”

“Oh, yes. Now I’ve always been pretty regular, but this really stepped it up. And there is still an occasional burp from the back end, if you know what I mean, but it is so much better. I’m not confined to home because I’m worried my gaseous outbreaks will embarrass me.”

“Let me write this down,” I said, peering at the label.

“Oh, you can have that. You’ve been so nice to me.”

Right, my
nice
amounted to being trapped in her lair and asking the kinds of questions that allowed her to wax lyrical about farting at funerals.

Her doorbell rang.

“Oh, my,” she said. “Time has gotten away from me. But you’re in luck. That’s Vincent. He’s the one who told me about these miracle herbal supplements. He comes by about once a week to make sure I have everything I need. You can meet him and maybe he’ll have some suggestions for you.”

Oh, goody, not only was I in pink, but I’d get to discuss my faux flatulence problem with a stranger.

Marion hurried out of the room, not wanting to leave Vincent and his magic potions waiting.

I heard his voice from the hallway. “Hi, Marion, I’ve got some great new stuff for you if you’re interested.”

Great new stuff?
These were supposedly old remedies discovered by a doctor in the 1930s. Maybe another serendipitous find in an attic? Just in time to add a new product line.

“Come into the sitting room, Vincent, dear. There is someone I’d like you to meet.”

Vincent was in his late twenties, wearing a white polo shirt with a Nature’s Beautiful Gift emblem on it. The shirt was tight, showing up his well-muscled arms. He was on the short side, although well within a normal range, probably around five-six. He looked like someone who spent a good part of his free time in a gym. His dark hair was a conservative cut and he had big, brown puppy-dog eyes. He’d do okay in a gay bar, but he wasn’t a head turner. In short, just good-looking enough that an elderly woman like Marion McConkle would be flattered at his attention instead of knowing he was too good-looking to bother with her save for the money.

“Hi, Vincent, I’m Deborah Perkins of the Research Policy Groups.” I hoped that was the right name. It wouldn’t do to look at my business card. “I’ve been doing a sample of opinions about health and well-being and Mrs.—” Almost tripped. I wasn’t supposed to know her name. She hadn’t told me and I hadn’t asked.

“Mrs. McConkle,” she supplied, “but please call me Marion.”

After what I knew about her colon, we
should
be on first name terms. “Ah, yes, Mrs., I mean, Marion, has told me how helpful your products have been.” I acted appropriately embarrassed at the bottle in my hand, the one for “regularity.”

Marion led us back to our seats—perhaps I was too close to the door and escape—before allowing Vincent to launch into his sales spiel. It was pretty much the same story I’d read on the website, but he told it in a sincere manner, making copious eye contact with his puppy-dog eyes. Even with all my years of cynicism, I began to wonder if maybe some of this stuff could help and maybe these were about bringing relief from suffering and not making money. Yeah, he was that good.

I didn’t dare look at my watch. I had to keep a look of rapt fascination on my face, but I’d bet it was a good fifteen minutes before he finally got through the “basics.”

“Wow, that all sounds so wonderful. You have a great job,” I told him with as much pink as I could put into my voice.

He had a large sample case with him and he started aligning pill bottles on the coffee table, some the new stuff for Marion and some he thought I might be interested in.

Marion said yes to whatever he suggested—so much for exhaustive research—and didn’t ask a single question. Once he had tallied up her purchases, he looked inquisitively at me.

“Thank you so much for this great information, but…uh, well, I don’t get paid until next week and, uh…things are a little tight right now,” I hemmed and hawed like someone who was embarrassed about her financial situation.

“How about some sample packs?” Vincent offered, taking several small foil packets out of his case.

“For me?” I said.

“Try ’em. We so back our product we think if you try them, you’ll see such a difference that you’d be crazy not to buy them.”

Marion enthusiastically sang his praises, well, praises for the product, but she was batting her eyelashes at Vincent the entire time.

“Thank you, that’s so kind of you,” I gushed. “Should I take them with food? Or on an empty stomach?”

“Either is okay,” Vincent said smoothly. “When you first start out, you might want to take them with some food, especially if you’re taking several at one time.”

“All I need is a sip of coffee,” Marion interjected as if taking the pills on an empty stomach was a mountain she had climbed. “Then I’m good to go for the rest of the day.”

“Now, Marion, remember what I’ve told you. These pills are a miracle, but they don’t replace nutrition taken through food. You need to promise me that you’re eating three decent meals a day.”

“Heavy on the veggies, light on the butter,” she said, clearly repeating advice he had given her.

“Exactly,” he answered. “When was the last time you had something fried?” he asked her.

She ducked her head, a move that would have been cute on a twenty-year-old. “Well, you know sometimes I don’t have much of an appetite, and the one thing that always gets me going is the fried seafood platter at Salty Sally’s.”

“How many times this week?” he asked, but his tone was friendly, not a castigation. It was more like a friend trying to help someone.

“That really rainy day and just yesterday. I got a chill and needed something warm.”

“You’re doing better,” he said cheerfully. “When we first met you were there every other day.”

“Sometimes even twice a day, once for lunch and once for supper.”

“So you are doing much better,” he cheered her on. “Do you get any veggie sides with your meals?”

“I got the fried okra yesterday.”

“Okay, well, how about get your fried seafood, but go for the steamed veggies next time?”

“You mean like the smothered green beans?”

Vincent shot me the barest look. We both clearly knew enough about Southern cooking to know that beans smothered with ham and bacon wasn’t exactly the heath food he was aiming for. But neither of us said that.

“How about something really rad—steamed broccoli with lemon juice?”

Marion made a face that gave me a clue as to how hard Vincent was working to get her down to a massive plate of fried food twice a week. “But that’s so chewy. I’ll do vegetables but not chewy ones.”

“Sweet potatoes are good,” I chimed in.

“Oh, yes,” she agreed. “With some brown sugar and melted butter. That’s a good vegetable idea.”

I didn’t chime in again. She and Vincent continued for a few minutes more. I had to admire his patience with her. She’d shoot down most of his suggestions, but he remained cheerful and positive.

When they came to a break in their conversation, I said, “Marion, thank you so much for taking the time to talk to me. I’ve enjoyed meeting you, but I still have to get a few more surveys done today, so I’d better run.” I stood up, but kept talking. “And, Vincent, I’m so glad I was here when you arrived.” I patted the sample packets. “This might just be my lucky day.”

He stood as well. “I’ve got to run along, too,” he said. “But I’ll be back next week.”

“Same time, same place,” Marion said, also clearly a long-running banter between them.

She also got up, moving slowly as if reluctant for us to leave. Of course, once we left, she’d be lonely again. Only her pill bottles as company.

Much as I wanted to get out of here, I patiently let her lead us to the door. It’s what any woman in pink would do. I gave her a polite hand shake; Vincent gave her a hug and a final wink with those puppy-dog eyes. She remained at the door waving good-bye until we were almost at the street.

“Interested in a cup of coffee?” he asked. He gave me a lopsided grin and his best puppy dog stare, one that morphed into a slow trawl down my body.

OMG, Vincent, the pill-pusher man, thought he was in cougar town.

“That’s very kind of you, but I do have to be going.”

“Some other time? Can I have one of your cards?”

Clearly Vincent was so used to getting his way with old ladies that he was sure a woman in pink would be a pushover.

“Thanks, but I’m probably old enough to be your mother.”

“Naw, I’m older than I look. Comes from good living. Plus I’m a modern guy; I don’t think age differences should just go one way.” He gave me an up-and-down look meant to be flattering.

I was supposed to be a divorced woman, out on her own in the big, bad world. Vincent obviously assumed that I had to be missing male company. Or he was missing female company and he was casting his line out at anything that swam by.

“You’re tempting,” I answered pinkly, “but I’m dating someone.”

“Someone in as good shape as me?” He flexed a bicep to let me know what I was missing.

“Closer to my age. But, yeah, in pretty good shape.” Lies work better when you stick close to what you know. “A doctor.” I left out the female part.

“You’re dating a doctor? Better hide those foil packs. I haven’t met one yet who isn’t bought into the whole for-profit medical model.”

Oops, I had gotten a little too close to what I knew. I could lie and say it wasn’t very serious, but that might give Vinnie the idea that I was available. Hell, I was already in pink; I might as well lie and lie again. “Not that kind of a doctor. A chiropractor. He’s pretty open-minded. I once dated a surgeon and that was awful. If it hadn’t been part of a peer-reviewed study, it didn’t count.”

“Yeah, I know the type. So, were you taking the samples to be polite or because you’re really interested?”

Vincent seemed to have given up on bedding me and now was checking me out. If I rejected him, there had to be something hinky about me. I didn’t want to end up in the hot pink zone—so eager that he’d think I was playing him or faking.

“I have to admit, I’m curious. But a little skeptical. I mean, Marion went through a long list of things wrong with her. Yet she’s taking just about everything you have to offer. How come it’s not doing more for her?”

“This is the first time you’ve met her, right?”

“Well, yes.”

“She was shriveled-up old lady when I met her.”

Which was how I’d describe her now. With money. “Okay…”

“Now she’s much better, getting around more. Popping some pills can only help so much. Even as good as this stuff is, it can’t totally make up for a lousy diet and no exercise. How old do you think I am?” he challenged.

“Uh,…around twenty-four.” I deliberately guessed low. I’d really put him at around twenty-eight to thirty-two.

“I’m twenty-nine years old. But no one ever thinks I’m as old as I am. Because I do it right. I eat good food and get to the gym as often as I can. When I’m Marion’s age, I’m going to look twenty years younger than I am.”

“How do you know it’s not just the healthy diet and exercise?”

“When I was younger,” he said in a tone that no one less than fifty should use—and even then sparingly, “I tried to work out, but just couldn’t get going. I ate the typical diet, hamburgers, fries at fast food joints five days a week. I was only able to really get in shape after I started on Nature’s Beautiful Gift. I quit the burgers, turned to salads. And now I look ten years younger than I am.”