Rest in Pieces (5 page)

“Of course.” Because everyone’s butler was a gunsmith. Of all the crazy–extravagant things I’d seen in Lakeside, this didn’t even rate in the top one hundred. Now, the full–on castle complete with moat turned lazy river at the corner of Lakeside and Rough Hollow, that made the top one hundred. I’ve discovered that one man’s moat was another man’s lazy river. “Who’s D.?”

“Daman Rodriguez.” Haley was so casual.

“Why does that name sound familiar?” I knew that name from somewhere. Maybe David had mentioned him.

“So you hang out with gangbangers now?” Monica was dead serious.

“What?” Gangbangers? The closest Lakeside had to gangbangers was the neighborhood watch—true they wore matching red windbreakers, but that hardly qualified as gang colors.

“Just because he has tattoos, doesn’t mean he’s in a gang.” Haley’s voice turned dreamy. “He’s really pretty to look at.”

“Damn, I didn’t know you had a bad boy fetish?” I heard the smile in Monica’s voice. “Guns and bad boys—Hal, you are a complex woman.”

Lakeside had a bad boy? Evidently I ran in the wrong circles.

I slid my electronic security badge through the scanner at the employee entrance. “Sorry ladies, I’ve got work to do.”

“Tomorrow at ten. We expect details.” Monica made some kissing noises.

“Bye.” I hung up.

A bodiless head, a carb–less date and now I find Haley is into bad boys. The Enquirer was right; the world really was going to end on Christmas.

Five minutes later I was seated at my desk and logging into our medical software program. I got up, closed the door to my office, and sat back down. I typed “Molly Miars” into the patient search window.

Fifteen records with different dates of service popped up. The first one was seventeen years ago when Molly was ten and broke her arm. It seemed unlikely that she’d starting using heroin at the age of ten so I scrolled down to more recent records.

Last year, she’d come into the emergency room for vomiting and diarrhea. A copy of her blood work had been sent to Dr. Lucy Enos, who was an OB–GYN. Why send the blood work to her OB–GYN? Lab results usually went to the primary care doctor. In the state of Texas, an OB–GYN could be a primary care doctor, but most women had a general practitioner as their primary because an OB–GYN didn’t usually have time to treat the common cold. I glanced at the doctor’s info again. Dr. Enos was in Austin. Why would Molly have driven all the way into Austin, when we had an OB–GYN in Lakeside?

I moved to the next record. A couple of months ago, she’d been in for an ankle x–ray. A copy of the x–ray report had been sent to Austin City Orthopedics. Also curious, because Lakeside had an orthopedic doctor on staff at the hospital.

So Molly liked seeing doctors outside of her gossipy hometown. I nodded to myself. It wasn’t a bad idea. I wish I’d thought of it.

I pulled up the x–ray report. The cause of injury at the top of the report stated that this was a gardening accident. That seemed odd—first that she would tell the emergency room that she’d had something as stupid as a gardening accident and second, that she’d make it up. Molly didn’t garden. Many a time, she’d proudly proclaimed her inability to grow anything. She’d called herself a “black–thumb–smith.”

I clicked print, and while all of her recent medical records spilled into the tray, I pulled up my web browser and searched for Dr. Enos’s practice phone number. I needed to see all of Molly’s medical records.

I found the number and picked up the phone. If there was anything I could count on, it was that most medical office employees were underpaid and overworked. I checked my watch. One forty–five.

I dialed.

“Enos Women’s Health, can you hold please?” Perfect timing. Just back from lunch and in a hurry to answer the phones and check in tons of patients.

“Absolutely.” As my mother always says, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. It worked well with harassed front desk people.

After five minutes, she was back. “Thanks for holding, how may I help you?”

I pinched my nose together and said in my best nasally, haute voice. “This is Salina Atan at Lakeside Regional and I need Molly Miar’s file. Can you send it over ASAP?”

I always used my most–hated coworker’s name when ordering medical records that I really didn’t need. Her email address is [email protected]. Satan was the perfect name for her. She’d had an affair with my husband. Along with Giles Martin, the High School Principal, and Stumpy Gregg, the WWII veteran who ran Bingo night at The Knights of Columbus and God only knows who else? Apparently, her tastes were eclectic.

“Sure. Why?” Clearly this receptionist wasn’t as harassed as I’d hoped.

I pulled up Molly’s medical record again and checked out the insurance information we had on file.

“United Healthcare is auditing us and her file is on the list.” See what I did there? Listen, the only reason bullshit isn’t my middle name was because I don’t have a middle name.

“But she’s dead.” She may not be as busy as I’d like, but she wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box.

“She has outstanding claims. They don’t go away just because she’s dead.” I was so sweet and helpful that I almost strained something.

“Sure. What dates do you need? I have to enter a date range in the system or send the whole file.” I could hear the phone ringing in the background.

“I can tell that you’re busy, so just send the whole file and I’ll take what I need.” Ever the helpful one.

“Yeah, okay. I can fax directly from the program. What’s your fax number?”

It’s a little known fact that most medical offices still use fax machines as the primary form of information transfer. Don’t know why.

“Thanks.” I gave her my office fax number and hung up.

I called Austin City Orthopedics and did the same thing. I’m good.

Did Molly have a GP? I hadn’t seen one in her file and considering that she liked to find her medical professionals outside of Lakeside, there was no way to tell. Maybe one of the records I’d just requested would have more information.

I filled up the fax machine with paper and waited. It took all of five minutes before the records started spitting out.

Fifteen minutes later, I was the proud possessor of Molly Miar’s medical files. I thumbed through them, found referrals for other physicians and called their offices for her medical records. Close to a ream of paper later, I had everything medically known about Molly Miars.

Two and a half hours later, it felt like the world really was going to end. On the way home from work, I’d picked up Max and was now standing in front of my closet trying to decide if I should change into date clothes or jeans.

“Mom, whatcha doing?” Max plopped down on my bed.

“Having a personal crisis.” Should I go boob shirt or just a regular shirt? How much of a date was this? Like fifty percent date and fifty percent Ben just wanted to see Max or was it ninety percent date and ten percent wanted to see Max? The level of date should dictate the level of boob shirt, but I didn’t have a fifty percent boob shirt. For that matter, I didn’t have a ninety percent boob shirt either.

“Does personal crisis hurt?” He finger combed his unruly golden hair—a gift from his dad.

“You better believe it, buddy.” I pulled out a black v–necked shirt and a loose v–necked green sweater. Both showed some cleavage, but not a lot. I held them up for Max. “Which one?”

“Which one what?” His blue eyes zeroed in on my face. “Why aren’t you changing into sweat pants like usual?”

“Because Ben Jamison is coming over.” And I don’t always wear sweat pants around the house. Sometimes I wear yoga pants.

“Oh yeah.” He shrugged. “Why is he coming over?”

It wasn’t suspicion so much as boredom in his voice.

“He’s bringing dinner.” The black shirt and jeans seemed like a safe bet. Some cleavage, but not full–on boob shirt. “He’s one of your dad’s friends. He asked about you when I saw him today.”

“You saw him today?” Now that was a full out accusation. “Are you dating him, too?”

Max hadn’t liked Chad, the last guy who’d taken me out. Luckily, I hadn’t really liked Chad all that much either. He’d been a reporter who tried to romance the story of my ex–husband out of me. I was all for the free meal, but it turns out that free food wasn’t worth the three hours I spent with Chad, even with the two baskets of dinner rolls I’d eaten by the time my steak arrived.

“He’s just a friend of your dad’s. Mainly he wants to see you. Don’t you remember him? He’s the guy who always played soccer with you when the guys came over.” Max had always liked Ben.

He did that one eyebrow up thing, something I’d never been able to master. “Yeah, I remember him. You’re not going to have sex with him, are you?”

Some might think it was too early, but Max and I started having the sex talk a couple of years ago when he’d asked where babies had come from. I’d gotten way more in depth than necessary, and now I realized that he was listening and apparently understanding a lot more closely than I’d thought.

What should I say to him? I never lied to Max.

“Not tonight. We’re only having dinner.” That was truthful.

His eyes narrowed. “Your hair is different. It’s bigger or something.”

“Thanks for noticing.” I shook my head like a model in a shampoo commercial. “I got extensions. Do you like them?”

Max shrugged. “It’s okay, I guess. Whatever. I hope this guy brings pizza.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Ben would probably bring a side of beef and a pound of bacon. That was okay because I had a couple of frozen pizzas we could eat after he left. “How’s the homework situation?”

“Finished in extended care. Except we have to do this stupid genealogy project. It’s due in two weeks. I’m supposed to ask you and dad all these questions.” He tried to sound like he didn’t care, but I caught the sadness in his voice. “Have you heard from him?”

Max no longer cried for his father. It was a terrible thing to watch grief turn into resignation. I never bad–mouthed David in front of Max, but it took lots of restraint.

“Nope, sorry buddy.” I sat beside him. “Let me see those questions. We can always call grandma and see if she knows the answers to them.”

David’s mom thought the sun rose and set in David’s eyes, which of course meant she absolutely hated me. That was fine because the feeling was mutual. If I didn’t love Max with every fiber of my being, I wouldn’t have volunteered to call the old dragon.

“We’ll figure this out together.” I ruffled his hair. “So let’s get serious now. What have you built on Minecraft today?”

“A new house with an underground bunker. Wanna see?” His eyes lit up. If my son was any indication, Minecraft brought more happiness to elementary school households than Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy combined.

“Absolutely. Let me just change and I’ll be right out.” I smoothed his hair down where I’d ruffled it.

“Wear the jeans and the red shirt. Emma’s dad said you look hot in that shirt.” He edged off the bed, walked out the door, and closed it behind him.

So kids these days discussed the hotness of their parents? Wow, things really had changed.

He was growing up way too fast. I shrugged out of my work clothes, slipped on the jeans and the red shirt Max had pointed to, and pulled on some fluffy socks. At least the socks were part of my normal after work wardrobe.

“Okay, Maximus Cuticus, I can’t wait to see my new Minecraft house.” I padded down the hall and headed toward my small living room. Astrid’s guesthouse has two tiny bedrooms, a small living room, and a surprisingly huge kitchen with what are probably state of the art appliances, but they’re completely lost on me. The year–around heated pool, sauna, tennis court and workout room were burdens I forced myself to live with every single day. We all have our crosses to bear.

My socks barely made any sound on the chocolate travertine floors.

As I walked into the living room, I pulled my now–thick hair up into a ponytail and secured it with an elastic band, then came up short. Ben and Max were head–to–head in front of our home laptop. One blonde head melted into the other.

I shook my head. “Show me whatcha got.”

“Hey.” Ben turned around and smiled, his gaze starting at my head and slowly moving down. The look should have been lascivious, but was just plain sexy. Smolder alert. My lady parts yawned awake, stood at attention, and said, “yes please.” Guess Max was right about the red shirt.

“Your hair is different. I meant to tell you earlier that it looks good…fuller or fluffier or something.” He’d changed out of his uniform and into pressed khakis and a blue–green button down that matched his eyes. And he’d noticed my hair. David wouldn’t have noticed my hair if I’d colored it purple and set it on fire.

“Thanks.” I slid my hands into my back pockets and spied the enormous paper sack from It’s All Good Barbecue sitting on the kitchen island. Probably I should offer to make a salad to go with dinner, but anyone who knows me knows that I hate salad and rarely have anything green—well, unless it’s turned green—in my fridge.

“Max, please set the table.” I glanced at Ben. “Wanna beer?”