Plain Jane (31 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Plain Jane
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“Then it will all work out. Just be patient.”
Jane jumped up from the chair. “See! See! You're doing it, too. I don't want to be patient,” she shouted. “You men are all alike. I say love me, love my faults. Accept me as I am. Don't try to change me. Don't tell me your way is better. I cannot change the way I feel, and even if I could, I don't know that I'd want to. I want to be able to feel pain and guilt and love and anger. They're all honest emotions.” She stomped across the kitchen to look out the window. “Mike has a shutoff valve that he turns on and off. He calls it being professional. I can't do that, Fred. That's not who I am. People bleed, they cry and hurt when something doesn't work out. If what Mike and I have doesn't work out, it will be for the right reasons. Now, can I have some of those pancakes ?” She grabbed a plate and held it close to the griddle.
She regretted pouncing on him the way she had, but she was tired of people, even her beloved godfather, thinking patience was the cure for everything. “I'm sorry, Fred. I haven't been myself lately. Forgive me?”
“It's okay, Janie girl. It takes a lot more than a little temper tantrum to upset me.”
Jane sat down at the table and slathered her pancakes with butter. “How's the book coming? It must be kind of weird doing all the writing yourself after working hand in hand with Trixie all these years.”
“I'm almost afraid for Trixie to read it. She hates all contact sports and football in particular. I'm hoping she'll gloss over it and won't be too critical.”
“Fred, these pancakes are delicious.” Jane downed the four in no time and was ready for more.
Fred plopped a fresh stack onto her plate. “You better eat up, it's quarter past seven, and Trixie said she wanted to leave at eight.”
Jane wolfed down the pancakes in record time and got up. On her way out of the kitchen, she walked around behind Fred's chair and put her arms around his shoulders. “I'm sorry for the past few weeks, Fred. I needed to wallow, cry, moan, and groan. Trixie made me realize without actually saying the words, that I was copping out and doing the same thing Connie and Betty did. She was right. I'm sorry for the bad moments I gave you both.”
Fred's head bobbed up and down. “You're back on the path now. Where you go on that path is strictly up to you.”
“Fred, there's something I want to tell you, and you have to promise that you won't think I've gone off the deep end.”
“I promise,” Fred said, crossing his heart.
Jane took a deep breath. “I broke into my parents' old house and encountered what I think was my mother's ghost, upstairs in her and Daddy's bedroom. For a while, I thought it was another one of those funny dreams I've been having. But now . . . Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Ghosts are a little out of my realm, Janie.”
“At first, I tried to tell myself that I'd dozed off, but I know I didn't. I couldn't have. I mean, I was involved in a full-blown conversation with her. I said hateful, ugly things to her. Spiteful things.” She rested her chin on his shoulder. “I don't know if Trixie told you or not, but I'm seriously thinking about buying the house. Not for good reasons, though.”
“Then why?” he asked.
“To keep her there, in limbo, for eternity. It seems the only way she can get to the other side is if I release her. Me! Is that funny or what?”
Fred grabbed Jane's arm and pulled her around so he could look at her. “You have to let it go, Janie. It's in the past. You aren't that wounded little girl anymore. Let it go. When you do, the dreams will go away, you'll feel the peace you deserve. You're the only one who can do that.”
“You're saying I have to forgive my mother for hating me, for making my young life a hell on earth? You want me to forgive her for all the ugly things she said and did to me? You want me to forgive the hateful expressions I used to see on her face when she looked at me, and you want me to forgive her leaving me on the back porch in the rain? No. Not in this lifetime,” Jane said, bitterness ringing in her voice.
“You need to practice what you preach, Janie,” Fred said, getting up and carrying their dishes to the sink.
“I can't,” Jane muttered, as she made her way to the guest bedroom.
 
 
The building was old but beautiful, teeming with character. Astronomical rents and a waiting list two years into the future made it all the more desirable to ambitious professionals who knew a prestigious address was almost a guarantee to wealth and success. Jane wondered how Sharon Thomas had lucked into the building.
Trixie looked over the rim of her glasses at the imposing facade, then at Jane. “How'd she get here?”
Jane shrugged. Age and the elements had weathered the brick to a pale pink. Ivy grew up the building and curled around the diamond-shaped windowpanes. The entire front of the four-story building was covered with the ivy working its way around to the sides. Double teakwood doors varnished to a high sheen, complete with brass kickplates, greeted visitors. A brass plaque, equally shiny, stated that the building was named the Brousard. There was no number, no street address. It simply wasn't needed. Everyone for miles around knew about the Brousard on Tulip Street.
Tulip Street was a skinny little one-way street with a cobblestone sidewalk. Leafy branches on magnificent oak trees created a canopy over the quaint, narrow street like a row of golf umbrellas. At the base of each tree were clumps of winter pansies and monkey grass in colorful clay pots that matched the striped awnings on the Brousard building. It was obvious the premises were meticulously cared for. Trixie sniffed as she opened the heavy door.
“I wonder if they serve high tea or scotch on the rocks to their tenants,” Trixie whispered, as they walked inside. Beautiful old paneling, royal blue carpets and drapes, and the smell of leather greeted them. Small groupings of chairs and little tables dotted the spacious lobby. “This is a business building, but it looks like a cocktail lounge. Why do they need a lobby like this?” But it was the atrium that drew the eye, along with huge colorful wall murals of Mardi Gras on all the walls. “Look, there's no elevator. How can that be? Old is old, but no elevator! What are old people supposed to do if they can't climb the stairs?”
“I guess whoever you're coming to see would come down here to the lobby to discuss business. I agree, four flights is a lot of steps to climb. We're in luck, though. Sharon's office is on the first floor.”
“Before we go in there, it might help me to know why this woman hates your guts. Is it just because of Betty Vance, or is it something else? She must have thought highly of you to ask you to take over her patients when she was hospitalized.”
“I was probably her last choice. She was dating Tom Bradley from the station around the time I started the radio show. However, I didn't know that at the time. When Tom asked me out, I said yes. We saw her at dinner one night, and she said some unpleasant things. A lot of people heard it. Tom was embarrassed. I tried to cover for him by saying it was a business dinner, but she didn't buy it.”
“Do you have the copy of Betty's letter in your purse?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Give it to me and let me do the talking. Let's get this over with.”
Jane didn't know what she was expecting, but Sharon's office fell short of the mark. She blinked at the chrome-and-glass interior, at the impressionist paintings on the wall, and the deep pile carpeting. The skinny wooden blinds seemed out of place, as did the pink-and-purple silk plants.
Sharon's secretary, Emily Quinn, recognized Jane immediately. “Dr. Lewis, how nice to see you again. Oh dear, do you have an appointment? If you do, it isn't in the book. That's okay, Dr. Thomas is alone. Go right on in. I'm sure she won't mind. By the way, thank you for taking such wonderful notes. I didn't have one bit of trouble transcribing them.”
Jane knocked on the door at the same moment she opened it. She quickly closed it behind her so Emily wouldn't hear Sharon's outraged voice.
“Sharon, this is my godmother, Trixie McGuire. Trixie, this is Dr. Thomas.”
Trixie took charge. “Jane received the papers you had served on her. What will it take to make this all go away, Dr. Thomas?”
Sharon didn't appear to give the question even a moment's thought. “She broke my nose, for God's sake. We'll just see how many of those witnesses with their selective memory are willing to lie for her under oath.”
“Jane is not denying she slugged you. Personally, I think you had it coming. What kind of person are you that you didn't even go to Betty's funeral? You were treating her. You owed her that much. And while I'm on the subject, why in the name of all that's holy would you prescribe Thorazine for her? Spit me out a number, and let's end this right now.”
Sharon stood up behind her desk. “You made a fool out of me.” She pointed to Jane. “And besides that, you poached,” she said, raising her voice.
“I poached. As in Tom Bradley? I'm sorry, Sharon, but I had no idea you were seeing him.”
“Enough already,” Trixie warned. “This is far more important.” She waved her ace in the hole under Sharon's nose. “This is a copy—I repeat copy—of Betty Vance's letter to Jane. In it, she says she called you four times, and that you didn't return even one of those calls. She says some other pretty telling things, too.” Trixie dropped the letter in the center of Sharon's desk. “We're thinking about going public with this, to disclose what kind of psychiatrist you really are. Or is it just your clinic patients that you treat so shabbily? I'd advise you to think how this is going to look, Dr. Thomas. Are you sure you want to go down that road? Now, why not be reasonable? Call your attorney now, while we're here, and drop the suit. In return, Jane will pay for the nose job you're going to need. Just have the surgeon send her the bill. Deal?”
“You're a real bitch, Jane,” Sharon said between her teeth, “and so is that person standing next to you.” She picked up the phone and pressed the automatic dial.
“It takes one to know one,” Trixie retaliated, her voice dripping venom.
 
 
Back downstairs in the lobby, Trixie looked at Jane, her eyes sparkling. “How'd I do, Janie?”
“Great. I don't know why I even bothered to come with you.”
“You came because you got your guts back. That's a good thing. Personally, I think you got off cheap.”
“You're right.” Jane started to laugh. “Did you see her nose? I'll never forget the way my fist connected with it. I probably did her a favor. She'll be a ravishing beauty when the surgeon is done with her. Thanks for taking her on. Okay, the next stop is the police station, then the lawyer's office.”
“Why the police station?” Trixie queried.
“Betty's letter.”
“Okay. You're on a roll, Janie.”
“It feels real good. I'd go nuts if I had to work in this building.”
Trixie laughed. “It just goes to show, what you see isn't necessarily what you get, nor is it always the best.”
15
While Trixie socialized with the desk sergeant, Jane made her way to the rear of the building to talk with Detective Dave Mitchelson. She'd gone through high school with Dave and knew him well. He invited her to sit down. They made small talk about Dave's family, the weather, and Trixie's new profession before Jane got down to business.
“I should have come sooner, but Betty Vance's death hit me pretty hard. I couldn't seem to get a handle on anything for a while.” She opened her purse and pulled out the original of Betty's letter. “One of your officers gave this to me after he questioned me.” She handed him the letter and waited while he read it. As soon as he looked up, she said, “I treated her for a short time while her regular doctor was recovering from an emergency appendectomy, so I know her case history. Betty Vance was raped by
two
men. She was so ashamed she didn't report it. Afterward, she couldn't deal with what happened and went into a deep depression. A few months ago, I talked her into going to the crisis center. Her counselor's name there is Corinda. You can check all this out with her if you want.” She could see by Dave's blank look that he didn't know what she was getting at. Maybe he had just skimmed the letter, she thought, giving him the benefit of the doubt. “The point is, that letter may be the key to finding out who the two men were. Frankly, I'm surprised the officer gave it to me. I would think he would have kept it for evidence.”
“I'm sorry, Jane, I'm not following you,” Dave said.
Jane could only stare at him, remembering how back in high school Dave hadn't exactly been the sharpest point on the pencil. She stood up and walked around to the side of the desk where she leaned over and put her finger on the second sentence of the second paragraph.
“I recognized his voice as being one of them,”
Jane read. “She's referring to the rapists, Dave,” she said, determined to make him see the connection. Then she pointed to another sentence and read it.
“. . . the salesclerk called the manager, and they drove me home.
So it seems to me if you go to the drugstore and speak to the salesclerk and the manager, they could verify Betty's condition the day she took her life. Also, I think that drugstore has surveillance cameras. Maybe the two guys Betty was afraid of will show up on the film, in which case you might be able to identify them and bring them in for questioning. Betty, as I recall, had clear recollections of her rapists. Corinda has it in her file. What do you think?” She walked back to the front of the desk and sat down.
“I'll look into it, Jane, but don't get your hopes up. You're right, the drugstore does have a camera, but still, a conversation in a drugstore, even if it is on tape, doesn't prove anything. A smart lawyer would drag in your friend's mental state. You're right about something else, too, even though the case was an open-and-shut suicide, this letter should have been kept as evidence. I'm glad you brought it in.”
Jane resisted shaking her head. “Dave, I don't think you understand. Betty recognized one of the men as being her rapist. That's why she was so afraid, why she had to have someone drive her home.”
“Like I said before, I'll look into it. Thanks again for bringing the letter to my attention. Maybe something will come out of it. We'll let you know.” He stood up and started toward the door. “I heard you were giving up the radio show. Wendy loves listening to you,” Dave said, referring to his wife. “She said you're a pistol.”
“Tell her I said thanks. Tell her, too, that I'm still going to guest on it until Mike Sorenson gets the hang of it. I think it's going to work out. Say hello to Wendy for me. Let's get together one of these days.”
“Sure thing. I'll let you know how things progress.”
“I'd appreciate it, Dave.”
In the lobby, Jane waited until Trixie finished her conversation with the desk sergeant before she walked to the door.
“How'd it go?”
“Hopefully okay,” she said, trying to sound optimistic. “I gave Dave Mitchelson Betty Vance's letter and pointed out the possible clue to Betty's rapists. He didn't seem to get the connection at first, but I think he understands now. He said he'll get right on it. He may be a little dense in some areas, but he's a good cop, and I like his wife. Even if the rapists can be identified from the videotape, I don't know if there would be enough to take them to court unless they scare the hell out of them or one rolls over on the other. They cut deals all the time, but I'm not counting on anything. I did what I could.”
“If memory serves me right, Fred and I more or less played out a scenario like this in one of our earlier books. I'll look it up when I get home. A smart lawyer could probably get them off, but then again, Betty's letter is like a dying confession. A prosecutor smarter than a defense lawyer might be able to nail it down. You did what you had to do, Jane. It's in the proper hands now. That's two of your ducks down now. Lawyer's office next?”
“No. Tyson Realty. I'm going to make an offer on our old house.”
“Sweetie, have you thought this through? Fred told me the real reason you want to buy the house. I think you're making a huge mistake. You're reacting to a dream. A very realistic dream, but a dream nonetheless. Don't rush into anything is what I'm trying to say.”
Jane climbed into her new Range Rover, the ghostly vision of her mother still fresh in her mind. “Thanks for the advice, Trixie, but I'm doing it provided the price is right. Whatever I saw that night, it brought everything all back front and center. All my old hatred just bubbled up and exploded.” Jane's cell phone rang. She flipped the antenna up and said, “Hello.”
“Jane, it's Mike. Do you have a minute?”
Jane mouthed the words, it's Mike, to Trixie. “Sure, I have a lot of minutes. I'm in the truck with Trixie. Is something wrong?”
“It's my battery guy. His physician just called me because they found my card in his pocket. Seems someone broke into his house, robbed him, and beat the hell out of him. He's in Intensive Care. It happened sometime yesterday, but they just got around to calling me.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“The doctor doesn't know yet.” Mike paused as if to gather his thoughts. “You know what the thief stole, Jane? Batteries. Nothing but my guy's batteries. Every damn one of them, right down to the triple A's. Can you believe that? My theory, for whatever it's worth, is someone's been stalking him. Maybe someone thought he was onto something with all his talk about batteries and his stockpile of the damn things. He didn't try to keep it a secret. The police are involved in this. What do you think?”
“I think the thief is on a par with someone who would steal a bottle from a baby,” she said.
“No, I don't mean that. I mean about my patient.”
Jane's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I don't know what to think about your patient, Mike, since I only know what you told me. Maybe we can talk later when we meet up at the lawyer's to sign the papers.”
“You must have some thoughts about this,” he insisted. “I could use a little help here. I don't know what's going to happen when the guy wakes up and realizes all his batteries have been stolen.” His voice sounded so desperate, Jane found herself wincing.
“No, Mike, I don't have any thoughts on it. At the moment, I've got all I can do just thinking about myself, trying to get back on the path, so to speak, and get all my ducks in a nice straight row. You sound a little overwrought. Surely, you aren't getting
personally involved,
are you?”
“Stop being a smart-ass. I'm not personally involved. I'm his doctor. I'm concerned about my patient's welfare. I'm having a bad time trying to figure this one out, and I thought you might be someone to brainstorm with. Obviously, I caught you at a bad time. I'm sorry I bothered you.”
“Not a problem. Call me anytime. That's what I'm here for,” Jane snarled before she pressed the END button. She glanced sideways at Trixie. “Guess you heard, huh?”
“I guess I did. You really can be a hard-ass when you want to be. You got that from me, didn't you? It's not really a bad thing. You getting traits like that from me is what I mean. Seems to me, though, you're going from one extreme to the other.”
“Uh-huh,” Jane agreed. “I hate being dumped on. What is it with you, Trixie? First you want me out of my funk, and when I come out of it and do what you want, you tell me I'm a hard-ass.”
“All things in moderation, Janie. You must have an opinion on the battery guy. You always have opinions, and most times you can't keep them to yourself.”
Jane felt impaled by Trixie's words. “What's that supposed to mean?” she asked, pulling the truck into an extra wide space behind the Tyson Realty office.
Trixie sat up straight and gave Jane a hard look. “Don't play dumb with me. I
know
you. You're still blaming Mike for Betty. As I see it, that means you haven't got all your ducks in a row. You need to get a handle on it. If Mike needs your help, why would you turn your back on him? I thought you loved the man and wanted to spend the rest of your life with him.”
Tears filled Jane's eyes. Trixie was right as always. “I do love him,” she said, her heart heavy. “But I don't know anything about his battery guy. I haven't even read his case file, and I don't know his name.”
“But from what you've heard, you must have formed some sort of an opinion,” Trixie persisted. “Hell, I even have an opinion. I think the guy is a nut.”
Jane chuckled in spite of herself. If Trixie was anything, she was opinionated. “There are all kinds of nuts, but that kind of opinion isn't what Mike is looking for.” She sat staring out the window, wondering if she should tell Trixie about one of her other dreams. What could it hurt? “Okay, I'll tell you this. I had this dream, and the kid in my dream told me that the guy thought the batteries gave him energy.”
“Energy. No kidding. I can see that,” Trixie said. “You need to tell Mike.”
Jane shook her head. “Why would one dream make sense and another not make sense? I am, of course, referring to the dream about my mother. Do you really think Mike would appreciate my dispensing advice based on what a kid in a dream told me? Get real, Trixie.”
“You're thinking about buying a house based on a dream. Explain the logic in that,” Trixie snapped.
Unable to control herself, Jane burst into tears. “I feel like I'm in the tall grass again and I can't see through it or over it. This is a test where Mike is concerned. It's important to me to know and believe that he . . . I want him to care enough about his patient to go to the hospital. I want him to worry about him. I don't want to see him turn it off and go play tennis and not think about it again until something comes up that he has to deal with it. Mike's patient is real. Flesh and blood. Just the way Betty was. Somebody has to care enough to
want
to get personally involved. Fifty minutes one day a week doesn't cut it. At the moment, he's pissed at me. That's okay, because now he has to think. At least I think that's what he's going to do. It's all mixed up in my head, Trixie.”
Trixie's facial expression softened. “You'll figure it out, Janie. You always do. Take some time. Think things through, then make decisions. Are we going to sit here all morning or are you going to go in and make an offer on the house?”
“I'm going in. I know you don't understand, but this is something I need to do, Trixie. Not want to do,
need
to do.”
“Then do it already!”

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