Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures (35 page)

I looked around. Light poked through the bedroom curtains.
“What time is it?”

“Not yet seven. Go back to sleep.” He bent over, pecked my forehead. Smelled like soap and aftershave.

“You’re leaving?”

“I have to see a patient at the clinic, and then I’ll be back. My housekeeper will be here any minute. I won’t be more than an hour. Coffee’s made, and there are pastries. Your antibiotic is on the nightstand with some juice.” He nodded to my left.

I turned my head. Saw the pill and the juice.

“Thank you.” I started to get up, but stopped halfway. I was sore all over. None of my parts wanted to move.

“How are you feeling?”

“Spectacular.” I winced as I reached for the juice.

“I expect you’ll be stiff. Your bruises and muscle strains will probably bother you more than your stitches.”

“Good to know.” I took the pill, drank the juice. Fell back against the pillow.

“Sorry to run off. But you’re safe here. Ana will take care of you until I get back. If you need anything—even your pain pills, just ask her.”

I nodded, thanked him. He put a hand on my head, smoothed my hair. Looked at me for a moment before leaving. I closed my eyes, heard his footsteps on the tiled floor and the opening and closing of the outer door.

I tried to sleep again, but the house was too silent. Nothing moved. The place felt hollow. I strained to hear birds chirping or breezes rattling foliage. But the windows were closed, shutting out small sounds. The house sat still, empty, making no noise. I lay there, listening to nothing until it became a bellow. I rolled over, grateful for the rustling of the sheets. Aware that until Ana the housekeeper arrived, I would be alone.

Alain had said there was coffee. If I got up and moved around, I’d stop fixating on silence and solitude. I debated the proposition with my body and, finally, it wasn’t relief from silence but
the promise of pastries that won. I dragged myself out of bed, hobbled to the bathroom. Brushing my teeth, I glanced at the mirror. And gasped.

When had my face been scraped off? A patch of raw puffy red crust covered part of my chin and one cheek. The cheekbone was swollen and purple. Dried blood lined my nostrils. My tan had turned a frightening shade—was it ocher? Ocher came to mind, but I wasn’t sure. This face was a horror—and forget the rat’s nest on my head. No—not even a rat would tolerate that. No wonder Alain had kept his distance, not even trying to hold me in the night. I thought again of the beauties he treated, their perfect features. My face got hot, ocher became blotched with crimson, and I grabbed a washcloth, cleaned dried blood off my nose. Dabbed the rest of my face and neck. Wished I had a hairbrush. Some mascara.

Don’t be stupid, I told myself. Who are you trying to impress? Alain? Why? You’re leaving soon. And no matter how you fix yourself up, you can’t compete with his perfect women. And he’s married. Go have coffee. Eat pastries. Relax.

Fine. I tied my hair into a makeshift knot. Wandered through Alain’s red, yellow, green, and blue house into his kitchen, poured a mug of coffee. I picked out a pastry of sweet flaky dough filled with custard. Sat and took a bite or two, a sip or two. Wondered if his wife had chosen the flower-patterned dishes. If he’d usually bought pastries for her breakfast as well.

I stopped eating. Looked around the house. The colors, fabrics. The décor. Were those her choices? I doubted it; her bedroom was all heavy brocades and darkness, in sharp contrast with the rest of the rooms. So had Alain chosen the tiles and furnishings? Had it bothered her that their house—even their dishes—reflected his taste, not hers? I wondered about her taste in clothing. Her personal style. Was she pretty? As pretty as Alain’s patients?

What did I care? I was leaving, remember? Alain and his marriage were not my problem.

I took another bite of pastry. Another sip of coffee. And realized that, whether or not she’d selected the floor tiles and dishes, Alain’s wife might have some makeup. Or at least a hairbrush. I should go look in her room.

No, wait. What was I thinking? I couldn’t use her things. How would I have felt if some woman Charlie had bedded had come into my house and helped herself to my personal—

Oh, right. Some woman had.

I saw them yet again in the shower. Felt my heart freeze as if I was finding them for the first time.

But that was the point. I had been devastated. Still was, after all this time. I couldn’t do to Alain’s wife what had been done to me.

Except that I already had. I’d slept with a married man. I had become the Other Woman, the enemy. A lowlife, amoral, man-stealing, home-breaking piece of scum.

I bit my lip where it had cracked, made it hurt. Taking a breath, I told myself that I was leaving in a day and a half. That Alain wasn’t a typical married man; he was alone because his wife was an invalid. That, even so, I wouldn’t sleep with him again. But that, even if I did, Alain’s marriage was his problem, not mine.

I felt crummy, took another bite of sweet chewy dough, washed it down with a gulp of bitter blackness.

I tried to imagine Alain’s wife. Was she naturally beautiful? Or had he done surgeries on her, improving her looks? And after the accident, had she been disfigured? Had he done procedures to restore her beauty? Why weren’t there any photographs of her? I thought about that. Maybe there were pictures in her room.

It was normal to be curious. That’s what I told myself as I hobbled across the living room to her door. It wasn’t as if I were snooping. After all, Alain had offered me her bedroom the night before. If I had slept in there, I’d have seen her things, wouldn’t I? So I wasn’t doing anything wrong by opening her door and stepping into her room, pausing to take in its dark textures.
Wasn’t hurting anyone by going into her powder room and opening her medicine cabinet, trying to translate labels on medications and cosmetics, examining the creams and lotions covering the counter. Opening drawers filled with blushes, eye shadow and liner, compacts, mascara, gloss. Dozens of colors, sizes, brands.

No, I wasn’t hurting anyone. I was only looking for a photo. Trying to learn about the woman. Jewelry covered her vanity. Earrings and bracelets, rings. Pendants. Ornate hair combs. In one drawer, I found scarves and shawls, neatly folded. In another, lingerie. Nightgowns. Bras.

Okay, enough. Now, I was crossing the line into snooping. Invading a person’s privacy. I thought of Melanie, pictured her ransacking Luis’s room. Lord, was I becoming like her? I shut the drawers, backed away. Knew I should get out of the room. Started to, but stopped at her nightstand and opened the drawer, still looking for even one photo. Surely, there had to be at least one? Inside, I found a hodgepodge: a sewing kit, more bottles of medicine and an almost empty one of tequila. Note-books with entries scribbled in Spanish. Pens. A book of word puzzles. Fashion magazines. And, deep in the bottom, finally, a photo. Well, half a photo—it had been ripped in half. Alain, grinning by the pool, was all that was left.

Oh my. Had she ripped herself out of the picture? Why would she do that? Unless it had been taken after the accident, after she’d been hurt. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to be photographed that way. I could relate, wouldn’t want my picture taken the way I looked, and her injuries must have been far worse.

But none of this was my business. I replaced everything. Looked around the room at its dark heavy furnishings, its walls heavy with somber art. My body ached, but not just from my injuries.

I started for the door. Stopped to consider using some mascara. Decided that it would be too creepy. On the way out, I
casually opened the mahogany wardrobe. It was an impressive piece. Ornately carved. Dresses and skirts hung inside; shelves held shoes and sweaters. I almost closed the wardrobe, almost didn’t notice the garment hanging on a hook inside the door.

But when I did, I stood, staring at it, unable to form a thought. Unable to move.

I felt wobbly, the kind of wobbly I’d felt on the balcony railing with Claudia. The kind of wobbly that, if I moved even a finger, I knew I’d lose my balance and drop into nothingness, falling forever.

So I didn’t move. I held still, watching the garment with disbelief. It couldn’t be there. A hotel maid’s uniform? Why would there be a hotel maid’s uniform in Alain’s wife’s wardrobe?

Images poured through my mind. A maid in the hallway, turning away, concealing her face. A maid in our room after Claudia died. A maid in Greta’s room the night she was killed. Sergeant Perez showing us pictures, suspecting that our intruder might have been a maid.

Why did Alain’s wife have a maid’s uniform? I studied the thing. It was embroidered with the hotel name, made from the hotel staff’s deep-maroon cotton.

I hugged myself, trying to think of a reasonable explanation. Maybe—no, probably, the uniform belonged to Alain’s housekeeper. Of course. That had to be it. What was her name? Ana? Ana had probably worked for the hotel and Alain had met her while treating his patients there. Had hired her to work for him and help with his wife. She’d kept her uniform. Why shouldn’t she? She’d probably change into it as soon as she arrived. I’d been frantic over nothing.

I shook my head, told myself to lighten up. I was way too on edge, still shaken by Melanie and the violence of the week. I needed to go finish my coffee and relax. Closing the wardrobe door, though, I stopped. What was that under the hem of that dress, half-hidden by the skirts? I reached out, moved the fabric aside. Uncovered a head of hair.

My hand jerked back reflexively, even as I realized it was just a wig.

The hair was chin length and black. I stared at it for a moment, then shut the wardrobe door, hurried out of the room, went back to my coffee. Sit down, I told myself. Finish your breakfast. None of what you’ve seen is your business.

I sat down, but I couldn’t stop thinking. A maid’s uniform. A wig. Lots of cosmetics and jewelry. Medicines. But, now that I thought about it, there were also lots of things that I hadn’t found in Mrs. Du Bois’s room. Like feminine supplies. No tampons or birth control. No razor or tweezers or hair curler or hair dryer. No deodorant, conditioner or shampoo.

So what? I asked myself. She probably had those things with her at the clinic.

If she really was at the clinic.

Wait. What was I thinking? That she didn’t actually exist?

That she had died in the accident?

And Alain was in severe denial?

No way. I’d gone way too far. I was making things up based on nothing. Still, I was trembling. I gulped coffee to get warm, but it had cooled, tasted like watery mud. Maybe I’d pour a fresh cup from the pot. I stared at the pot. Wondered if I was drinking from a dead woman’s mug.

Stop, I told myself. You’ve just had a series of traumas; your thinking is convoluted because of Melanie. And Greta and Claudia. And too many movies like
Psycho
. And being married to Charlie. Not everyone has dark evil secrets—certainly not Alain. Alain was a gentleman, an internationally renowned plastic surgeon. A decent guy.

But Alain was also a man who cheated on his wife. A doctor who slept with his patients. He was about my height, would probably fit into the maid’s uniform. And if he wore a wig, no one would suspect he was in disguise, especially if he lowered his head or turned the other way.

I couldn’t sit. I limped around in circles. Sat again. Held my
head, chewed a fingernail. What I was thinking was bizarre. Why would Alain dress up like a maid, sneak around a hotel and kill two of his own patients? Women he’d had affairs with.

I had no answer, except that he wouldn’t have. Absolutely not. The idea was preposterous. I dismissed it. Looked at the rest of the pastries. Thought about having another. Picked out one with nuts, but didn’t take a bite.

Because I still had a question that wouldn’t go away. If Alain hadn’t disguised himself as a maid and killed his patients, why did he have the uniform and the wig?