CHAPTER TEN
Other
Ducky was very quiet all the way to the parking lot. I didn't see the Morgan anywhere, but he had noticed where the van was parked (it's kind of hard to miss) and steered us that way. "Will you be coming home? To Reston, that is?"
"Yes." After a day like we'd had, I wanted to sleep in the same bed as my teddy bear—the one who hugged back. "But I want to swing by my place, first. I'm sure Foot is ready to call Child Protective Services on me."
"Don't you mean the Humane Society?" he smiled. Small—but it was a smile.
"Nobody told him he's a cat."
Ducky looked thoughtful. "Well… why don't you bring him with you?"
I stared at him. "Bring Underfoot. With me."
"Yes."
"To Reston."
"Yes."
"To Reston… where there are four dogs waiting."
He shrugged slightly. "The children have to meet some time."
Good point. "We haven't decided where to live."
"Well… until then, it would be easier to move Underfoot to Reston than bring the dogs on weekend visits with me." Another good point. "And Mother would want to go with them."
Oh, yeah, that would go over well. "Well," I echoed. "Let's give it a shot."
This could get interesting.
Define interesting.
Oh, God, oh, God, we're all going to die?
With one of the best bits of movie dialogue ringing in my mind, I pulled out of the parking lot.
/ / /
It was only 7:30 when I got back to Reston. It felt so much later; wonder why? Hah.
"What a day," I sighed, lurching through the kitchen door with Foot's carrier banging against my hip.
"I heard." Even rock steady Suzy looked rattled. "How is—" she hesitated.
"Fran," I supplied. "Pretty good, considering. We hope to spring her tomorrow. Be right back."
When I staggered back in with the litter, food, bowls and emergency litter box, Suzy had already released Foot from prison and was cuddling him and listening to his tale of woe. "Oh, I know," she crooned while he bitched about the trip. "Poor baaaybeeee…" Foot was eating it up with a spoon. "I do like the dogs," she whispered. "But I'm more of a cat person."
"He can tell." Foot had his front paws draped over her shoulders and was nuzzling her neck.
"Fickle," Ducky taunted, bringing in his mug for a refill of tea. "Hello, dearest." I got a quick kiss in passing. "If you have room from our late lunch, Suzy made a lovely casserole—broccoli, cheese, ham, pasta and a few other items."
"Sounds good—in a couple of hours."
"It will keep," Suzy said.
"There may not be any left," Ducky countered.
"What? No sharing? This marriage is doomed before it gets started."
"If you ask nicely," he said, coming up behind me. "Here. Allow me." He took the heavier items from my hands. "Where to?"
"Basement." I led the parade down the hall, opened the door and flipped the switch. "Watch your step…" I picked my way down the rickety-looking-but-sturdy-as-hell wooden stairs. "Now, I don't want the litter box on the floor—in case the washer floods…"
"Don't say that in its' hearing. That is an old washer."
"Vintage, honey. Vintage." I looked around. "Hmm…" About 3 feet up from the floor there was an odd ledge on the wall that would have been a nice window garden in the morning sun—if there were any windows down there. It was the shape of a window, 4x4 and a foot and a half deep—but where there would have been glass, there was sheetrock. Just the size for Foot's temporary service area—if he approved. (God only knows what the architect intended it to be.)
Aluminum roasting pan filled with litter, bowl of water, bowl of chow, bowl of—
"The good stuff," Ducky said sonorously. Chicken of the Sea.
"Yep. Bribery is a good thing." I set the bowl next to the kibble. "Watch your ears." I stood at the bottom of the stairs. "Fo-o-o-o-t! Here, kitty! Kittykittykittykittykittykitty!"
"Annnnd the hog calling contest in Reston is officially open…"
"Oh, hush." I waited a minute and tried again. "Fo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-t! Here, baby! Dinner, dinner, dinner!"
At that, I got a response. All four Corgis quickly bounded down the stairs, no mean feat when you're as low-slung as they are.
Ducky roared with laughter. "Wrong church!"
"Me and my big mouth, I said the 'd' word."
Foot sauntered up to the doorway and sat on his haunches, staring at us. Well? You bellowed?
"Hey, baby kitty," I cooed, ignoring Ducky's, "oh, ick," in the background. "Come on down, baby, I've got t-u-u-u-na," I singsonged.
He looked at the dogs. Hmm. Is it worth it?
"Fancy Feast chow," I wheedled.
"Boy, you are playing," Ducky laughed.
"Too much like a weekend parent?"
"Just a bit. I'm waiting for the offer of a new I-pod and a trip to Disneyworld."
"Oh, hush."
Foot sauntered down the stairs as only a creature once worshipped as a god can manage. He sniffed the food and pawed at the litter, then looked from me to Ducky. This will do—for now—but surely you don't expect me to sleep down here, do you?
"Come on, old man. I'll show you around the place." Ducky made a clicking noise with his tongue and headed upstairs. Foot hopped down and trotted after him. Yeah, he loves Daddy best.
The dogs looked at me, stricken. Even Tyson looked unsettled. "Sorry, kids. That's life in the big city. Stepfamilies are the rule of the day. Deal with it."
/ / /
After throwing a load of laundry in the washer (may as well accomplish something down there), I trooped back upstairs. Suzy was in the living room, playing gin rummy with Victoria (and getting royally whupped). The dogs were sitting near the couch, fretting, almost whimpering, dying to tell Mommy all about the mean monster that had invaded their home. I really did feel sorry for them. Here they were, mighty Welsh Corgis, protectors of hearth and home, and this… feline… marched in and took over.
Boy, did he.
I could hear Ducky walking around upstairs (I'm one of those people who likes to hear footsteps overhead—comes from growing up in a 2-story house, I guess) when the tenor of the room suddenly changed.
"Oh! What a handsome pussycat!"
Victoria dropped her cards on the table and fumbled to her feet. I tend to be partial to my own cats (what parent doesn't think his or her child the most gifted, most attractive, smartest and best behaved on the planet?), but I have to admit, Underfoot—with his Maine Coon heritage showing in his large frame and long, glossy, mostly tuxedo coat—is a gorgeous fellow. And he knows it.
He stood in the wide doorway to the foyer, looking absolutely regal. Yes, my adoring public. You may approach.
"Wherever did you come from?" Victoria made her unsteady way across the floor.
"That's Underfoot, Mother," I said. "He's my kitty. Donald and I figured that since we're going to be married, and we'll be in the same house, we'd better get our pets acquainted early on."
She had made her way over to the doorway before I could join her and was saying all sorts of lovey-dovey things to Foot. Isabeau jumped up on the couch and looked pleadingly at Suzy: make it go away!
Foot stared up at Victoria, one member of royalty acknowledging the other. Deciding she was on a slightly higher peg than he, he gave a soft 'miau' and leisurely closed the distance between them and began rubbing her ankles, twining in figure eights.
Pets often earn their names. I know one cat named Ninja—so named because you don't know she's there until your ankles are slashed and bleeding. (I wear boots to Dee's house.) Another is named Cop Car—there are bets as to whether it's because he's a black and white cat… or because his siren never shuts off. God, that cat yowls. And talks. (You can tell someone in the family tree was a Siamese. You get pierced ears—the hard way.) Edward E. Puss—Ed E. Puss, say it out loud, you'll get it—is a mama's boy. Clark was short for Clark Kent; he used to launch himself off the roof at birds and you swore you could see a red cape fluttering behind him.
Underfoot? He lives down to his name.
I could see the disaster as it started to unfold, but I was moving in slow motion. Foot rubbed against Victoria's ankles and stood on his hind legs so she could scratch his head. (Maine Coons are big. And long. She didn't have to bend over at all, once he reached up to meet her.) He sat back down, magnificent, fluffy tail spread out for all to admire…
…right in the path of Victoria's cane.
I was almost there. Almost. Foot decided he would investigate the rest of the house and rose to his feet. His eyes widened as he realized his tail wasn't coming with him. WTF…? He gave a yowl of dismay.
"Oh! Poor kitty, what is the matter?"
Your #+&!~% cane, lady, that's what the matter is! No subtitles needed.
But there's something in animals—most animals—that alerts them to the presence of a weaker animal. In the wild, that means survival of the fittest and lunch is served. With domesticated animals, it's either lunch is served… or the protection gene kicks in. The Corgis were Victoria's private police force—protect and serve. Foot must have picked up on her frailty, because he froze in place, only the Mommmmm! look a clue to his inner distress. (Either he clued in or figured she was the Alpha in the pack and if he hurt her in any way, he'd be looking in the want ads for a new place to live.)
Just as I got next to her, Victoria moved her cane about six inches away (accidentally whacking Foot on the head as she did). Foot streaked out of the foyer and up the stairs, hitting about Mach 3. "Oh, poor dear, did I frighten him?"
"He's shy," I lied.
There was a faint snort from the couch. "Shy? Try survival mode," Suzy said, sotto voce.
"Yeah, well…" I said in a similar tone.
I swear I saw Contessa and Izzy giving each other high fives. All four of the dogs fairly danced out to the kitchen, probably singing a variant of Ding-Dong, the Witch is Dead.
But it didn't last long. Within minutes, Foot was back, stalking through the house like a panther on the scent. My place, now. You stupid mutts better get the message. He hopped up on the chair, gave a dirty look to the cane, and curled up on Victoria's lap with what can only be described as a triumphant air. (I'm sure the cane struck a memory. He tripped me about four years ago; I broke my ankle, ended up on crutches, and he quickly learned to give them a wide berth.) Victoria is small; Foot… isn't. He kind of overwhelmed her and the chair. She didn't mind. She went back to her gin rummy, saying all sorts of adoring things to the new kid in the house.
Cooper came trotting back into the room… and stopped dead. Oh, crap. It's back… and it's on Mom's lap. He stared at the interloper for a full minute; Foot ignored him. Cooper turned on his heel (or canine equivalent) and left the room. Moments later, he returned, the others behind him. (Don't tell me animals can't communicate.) They lined up at the edge of the carpet, staring in horror.
"Oh, look! My darlings have come to meet their new housemate!"
Suzy and I exchange a look; meet. Yeah, right.
Foot gave them a scornful look and began washing his right front paw, claws extended. Big kitty. Big paws. Big claws. The dogs gave each other wary looks; apparently they had run into a cat or two in the past and knew that claws = the one in charge. The real test would come late in the night, when one of the dogs abandoned Victoria's bed to come upstairs and join us. Finding the bed already occupied by the feline member of the family would be a real shocker. (Maybe I would sleep in the spare room…)
"Gin!" Suzy all but bounced up and down on her seat on the couch. "Five hands… to your twenty-eight. You're ahead with seven-ninety-two to…" She did some fast math. "One-oh-three." She gave me a bemused look. "I find it less humiliating to do a daily tally."
"I hear ya."
"Well, I'm simply terrified you're going to quit," Ducky said, coming into the room.
Her eyes widened. "Heavens! Why?"
"You end up cooking dinner half the time, you've had to spend the night, what, three times already? You're constantly asked to stay late at the last moment, you're even coming in tomorrow on your day off—" It was Gibbs' team's turn to take weekend rotation, and Ducky wanted to get caught up on a bunch of paperwork.
She waved him off. "None of that is a hardship, believe me. I would have told you if it were. This is my favorite posting in a long time." She glanced at Victoria, who was ignoring us; she was trying to get a conversation going between Contessa, who had crept up beside her chair, and Foot, who looked down with a yeah, whaddya want? expression. "I adore your mother—and you two are pretty tolerable," she said with a wink toward me.
"Ouch!" I protested. But I was teasing as much as she was.
"I just hope you have the same opinion when Mother has a bad day." Ducky was still worried.
"Huh," she said cheerily. "Next time we'll have tea and I'll tell you some storrrries… carefully edited to retain confidentiality, of course."
"Of course." I was still grinning when she left. "Mother, do you want me to help you get ready for bed?"
She frowned. "Have I talked to Charlotte, yet?"
I glanced at the clock: 8:20. "Probably not."
She looked almost scandalized. "Then I certainly shouldn't be about in my dressing gown." She ran a hand down Foot's back; he reciprocated by rubbing his head on her leg. "Shall Max sleep with me tonight?"
I wasn't going to touch that with a ten-foot pole. Fortunately, Ducky did. "Mother," he said patiently, "this is Foot. It's short for Underfoot. This isn't Max."
"No?" She looked at Foot, confused. "He looks just like Max."
"There are similarities, I ad—" He shook his head. "No, Max or Foot or whatever you want to call him—he will be sleeping upstairs with us." He looked at her sternly, ignoring her pleading eyes. "You know the dogs will insist on sleeping with you. If Foot sleeps on your bed and the dogs jump up, it would not be pleasant."
She nodded reluctantly. "Grandfather used to wake my father by throwing the cat on his bed."
For a second I thought, well, that doesn't make much of a wakeup, then remembered the rest of the conversation. "Let me guess. He slept with the dog?"
She beamed at me. "How did you know?"
"Just a feeling."
She started to stir from her chair. Foot, realizing the cane would not be far behind, delicately jumped to the ground (he's very light-footed, despite his size) and slowly strolled from the room, making sure to slap his tail in the face of any dog within reach.
Ducky looked over at me while he turned on the computer. "Perhaps we should rent some armor plating to wear to bed tonight?"
I caught the narrowed eyes of Tyson as he watched the gatecrasher swish his way out of the room. "Not a bad idea…"
/ / /
The ticka-ticka-ticka from the keyboard in the other room was actually kind of soothing. "I never would have thought Mother would take so to using the computer."
I shrugged. "Incentive. She would do anything to keep in touch with Charlie. She'd rather Charlie move in here—but that's not going to happen."
Ducky settled into the corner of the couch and tossed the remote onto the table. "Let's not," he said firmly.
"No argument here." I didn't want to hear word one about Alyce or Cameron Carson. If we turned on the boob tube, you know darn well that would be on every channel. I curled up on the couch next to him; at the tug of his hand, I cuddled closer, half on his lap.
"Shelter from the storm," he sighed, arms wrapped around me and snuggling my head to his shoulder.
"Mmmh," I agreed. I closed my eyes and sighed, enjoying the feel of him stroking my hair, the scent and aura that are uniquely Ducky. I'd be happy to sit there forever.
"Here, now…" he said softly. "What's wrong…?"
It wasn't until he reached up and gently thumbed my cheek that I realized there were tears falling from my eyes. "Relief, I guess." I sniffled and swiped the handkerchief from his breast pocket.
"It's been a bit overwhelming, I agree." He sighed and held me tighter. "Hopefully this is the end of the tsuris."
"The what?"
"Tsuris. Troubles. It's a Yiddish word. Ziva used it the other day and it just has more oomph than troubles." He said the last word as flatly as was possible.
"Like chutzpah. It says so much more than 'guts' or 'gall.'"
"Cajones," Ducky offered.
"Balls," I shot back.
"Football? Baseball? Golf ball?"
I began to laugh. "It does not pay to be hip!"
"Pardon?"
"Old song. This guy is trying to be sooo cool. He's hip, the rest of the world is skuh-ware. He needs some money, goes to ask his buddy for 'some bread'—and his buddy says, 'sure—you want white bread, whole wheat, pumpernickel—?' And the hipster is saying, 'no, never mind—later' and the friend says, 'four o'clock, five o'clock?' 'No, later.' 'Thursday? Friday?' 'Forget it.' He goes to another friend, asks if he can spare some pot—'Sure,' the guy says, 'you want aluminum, cast iron, stainless steel—?' 'Cool it.' 'Put it in the refrigerator?' 'Cool it.' 'Turn on the air conditioner?' 'Forget it.'"
Ducky watched me, a bemused smile on his face. "What happened next?"
"Oh, my… he met up with this young chick and asked her… if she wanted to ball."
Ducky snorted. "How charming. I'm sure she said yes."
"Actually, she said, 'Football, baseball, volleyball—'" Ducky laughed. "And our hipster says, 'You're putting me on.' 'On the train, on a plane—' 'No, I wanna make it!' 'Make what?' 'A scene!' 'Shakespeare, Clifford Odetts, Arthur Miller—' 'Forget it.' And then she said…" I looked at him meaningfully. "'You know what I'd like to do? I'd like to make love with you.' And the hipster leans back and says, 'Go, baby, go!'"
I paused dramatically until Ducky finally broke down and said, "And…?" in the voice of one waiting for the other shoe to fall.
"And she went," I finished sadly.
"That is dreadful."
"Made'ja laugh," I pointed out. "Yell at Shel Silverstein, he wrote it. And be nice, or I'll sing "Barry's Boys" during the next election."
"I consider myself duly warned." My cell phone, buried deep in my pocket, vibrated and Ducky grinned. "That's rather enjoyable."
"I'll let Motorola know their cell phones can double as sex toys." I wriggled around and finally dug out the thrumming phone. It was a number I didn't recognize, a 310 area code. "Hello?" I asked hesitantly.
"Miss Talmadge?" The voice was deep and vaguely familiar.
"Yes…?"
"Alan Peterson."
"Oh, hi! You sound so different off the speaker phone." Delayed reaction; I could feel the blood drain from my face. "Fran—she's okay, she's not—"
Ducky stiffened and looked at me.
"No, no, Fran is fine. I just talked to her."
"Oh, good." Literally dizzy with relief, I sighed and leaned against Ducky. He settled back against the couch.
"No, I just—I wanted to thank you both, everything you've done for Fran… your number was on the caller ID on my phone, I hope I'm not interrupting—"
"No, no, not at all." (A couple of hours later, it might be a different matter—I hoped.)
"Mary is still asleep. It's the most restful I've seen her—well, since I've known her, really. Definitely since she's come here. I know it's a lot to hope…" He trailed off.
"Nothing is too much to hope." I tried not to sound too saccharine.
Ducky held out a hand and whispered, "May I?" I handed the phone over. "Mr. Peterson?" Pause. "Alan, yes. It's Ducky. I just wanted—well, if it's not too inconvenient… could you call or drop me a line, let me know how Mary—" He smiled. "Yes, thank you." He carefully dictated his myriad numbers and email addresses. "I would appreciate that. Thank you. I'll give Cassandra back her telephone."
"Thank you," Alan said as soon as I had the phone back. "I was going to ask for Dr. Mallard's numbers."
"He's a mind reader in his spare time."
"Handy. Like I said… I just want to say thank you for taking care of Fran. I didn't know she had gone back in search of—her father," he stumbled. "I thought it was just for work. And part of it ended well. Dr. Mal— Ducky. And you. But if I could get my hands…" He drew in a shaky breath.
"Yeah," I agreed grimly. "Join the club."
"It sounds like when Pix hit her head, Alyce thought she'd killed her. I should be grateful she didn't shoot her again to make sure."
I shuddered and Ducky gathered me closer. "I have to ask. What does 'Pix' mean?" I did want to know—but more than anything else, I wanted to change the topic.
Alan laughed roundly. "I called her Pixilated when she was little. Pixilated—weird, quirky, odd, but in a good way. It fit. And pixilated was just a fun word. Mary said it was Pixelated—p-i-x-e-l-a-t-e-d, like pixels on a computer. She said it was because Fran was the lone spot of color in a black and white world."
I smiled. "That's sweet."
"And she loves pixies. So… Pix she be," he said.
"Well, we'll make sure she gets to the train—or sleeps here if she can't get out of town that fast."
He sighed, a happier noise this time. "I owe you."
"She's part of our extended family. You get to come along for the ride."
"Gladly." His voice lowered. "Mary always had nice things to say about your Ducky." I smiled at 'your Ducky.' "I just knew he wouldn't be cheesed at her. For the birth certificate, I mean."
"Yeah." I twisted so I could tweak Ducky's chin between my thumb and forefinger. "He's a cool guy, my Ducky is."
Ducky's pleased smile was still in place as Alan Peterson and I made our farewells. "'Cool guy?'"
I gave him a long kiss promising delightful things to come. "Way cool."
/ / /
"So. Where do we put my books?"
Ducky looked at me quizzically. "Pardon?"
"Sounds like you've come around to my way of thinking. Where do we put all of my crap?"
Ducky slipped into bed, sitting up against his reading pillow. "Well… there is quite a bit of sense in what you said."
"Shoulda brought a tape recorder up."
He gave me a rakish look. "That could be interesting."
"Come on, come on. You said I was right about something. Spill it."
"Mother has lived in this house for a quarter of her life. There will come a point in time when she is… gone…" he euphemized. "But even if she's just in a facility, I want her to know the house is here. Even if she can't come home, if she has it in her mind, somewhere, that she could…"
"I understand…" I don't know which makes me sadder—the idea of her going into a home is as depressing as her dying. I won't want to lose her, period. But I don't get to make that choice. I can only wish for her a gentle passing, in her sleep, surrounded by her beloved dogs. It won't be easy for us—no matter what—but the easier it is for her, well, that's the important part. "I want her here as long as she can be."
"She will be," he reassured me. "Frankly, with you and the girls in the family, she'll be going strong for twenty years."
"Outlive us all."
"Or die in the attempt." He winced. "That didn't come out quite right."
"I got the gist, " I said, chuckling. I hugged him. "I love you. So much."
The kiss he gave me assured me that he feels the same way. "So." He rubbed his cheek against my hair. "When shall we marry?"
"Tomorrow?" I suggested flippantly. "I believe in being spontaneous."
"The state, alas, does not. License, probably blood tests—not to mention the practical parts: where shall we be married? By whom? What sort of ceremony? Flowers? Your wedding gown? I consider myself extremely fortunate that you liked my selection of an engagement ring."
"It's beautiful," I blurted. I was fighting a rising panic. Gown. Flowers. Groomsmen. Bridesmaids. Church? No church? Friends. Relatives. Forgetting someone from the list. Cake. Reception. Visions of My Big Fat Greek Wedding flashed before me. "Can—can we just run away? Elope?" My voice sounded tinny, a zillion miles away.
"Take a deep breath." Ducky's voice, while calming, sounded as far away as mine had. "Let it out… slowly…" I was barely aware of being laid down and pillows being shoved under my feet. "Again. Breathe in…"
The room was sparkling. "Whaaa…?"
"You were seconds away from fainting in my arms, dear." His voice was stronger, clearer—but subdued. "If you ask me for a definition, I'd call that rapid onset panic attack. No, stay back down," he ordered as I tried to sit up. "I'd like to see a color in your face other than off-white."
It sounded like a pretty good idea. "I'm so embarrassed."
"No need to be." He was actually taking my pulse. Not be embarrassed? Please. "Cassandra…?" He set my hand back down, but kept his placed on top of mine. "If you… want things to be, well—as they were… I'd understand."
I looked at him blankly. "What do you mean?"
"That is—well—if you're having second thoughts…"
I'm slow. But eventually I do catch on. "No," I said firmly. "I am not having second thoughts. Not about marrying you, anyway. Would I have driven all the way from Silver Spring with a screaming cat if I were having second thoughts?" I sat up; this time he didn't stop me.
"I thought, perhaps, that the enormity had hit you…"
"It did. But it didn't change my mind. It just… hit me. All the planning, the preparation… Come on. Most of the time when I throw a party, it's an hour shopping at Costco, people show up starting at five on a Saturday night and I kick everyone out by eleven." Ducky laughed. "Am I wrong?" I challenged.
"Well—you've never kicked me out…"
"You're the exception. No, my dearest—beloved—adorable—Ducky—" I spaced my words out with kisses. "I'm just wishing I could snap my fingers or blink my eyes and wake up married."
"I'll see what we can do," he promised.
"I'll hold you to it," I vowed. I kissed him again, much more firmly. I had plans other than sitting up and reading.
"Mmmh," Ducky purred in encouragement. He's not averse to last minute changes. "Anything else you plan to hold?" he teased.
I gave him a practical application of what else I planned to hold. "Does that meet with your approval?"
"Very much so," he said with a grin.
He had a list of things to hold, too. And touch. And kiss. (So did I.) Good lists. Good night.
/ / /
"Wow. Oh… wow…"
Ducky smiled; I could feel the pull of his muscles against my skin, even if I couldn't see his face. "Thank you," he said with a teasing formality.
"No—thank you," I shot back. "I'm all sparkly and tingly. Again." (And again.)
"Endorphins."
"That's it. Turn the magic into medical," I grumbled. I toyed with his hair, so soft against my breast.
"Magic, eh?" He twisted around and I sucked in a breath as he kissed his way up, capturing a nipple and suckling gently.
"Magic," I breathed.
/ / / / /
The phone rang at an obscenely early hour. I wanted to smack it into oblivion, but rational thinking (AKA, Ducky) stopped me. "Mallard residence." He sounded far more pleasant than I would have. "Jethro, what—" He broke off and listened. He sat up slowly, bedclothes puddling in his lap. "Yes." Pause. "Yes." He sounded deadly serious. I was deathly scared. More listening. "Thank you, Jethro. I appreciate that." Grim smile. "Good-bye." As he hung up, he said, "It's not as bad as you think."
"Good. I'll cancel that heart attack I just ordered. What—"
He took my fluttering hand and held it in both of his. "Jethro was in early."
5:33 a.m. Does the man frigging live at the Navy Yard?
"ZNN was on the plasma screen. They were showing a repeat of last night's entertainment segment."
My heart sank. "Oh, no."
"Oh, yes. They didn't mention Francesca by name—but they mentioned Alyce. And Cameron—who is flying out as we speak—"
"I'm going to be sick."
"I know, it's—"
"No, I'm really—" I pulled away from him and dashed for the bathroom.
I don't 'do' stress very well. And we've had a shitload the past few weeks. Nausea, chills, headache, insomnia, nightmares, ground teeth and clenched jaw—I had every stress symptom under the sun, and my own fun physical problems on top of it. But as crappy as I felt, I felt worse for Fran. Poor Pix…
Ducky didn't hesitate. He sat next to me on the floor, one hand stroking my back, the other wonderfully cool and holding my forehead. I love that he doesn't get rattled by anything medical (not all doctors are calm and collected in a crisis). Gives great massages that he could charge a fortune for… before we ever slept together, asked me about birth control in the most conversational of tones… takes care of me when I'm sick… I like to think I'd be as supportive of him heaving up his socks on a regular basis. (I'll work on it.)
"Poor Ducky." I gratefully took the glass of water he held out and managed a smile. "First time we met I was worshipping the porcelain god." Well—the day after, anyway.
"No… the first time we met… you were standing in the bay window, painting an announcement for a Valentine's Day party. In reverse, no less."
I stared at him, confused. "Hunh?"
"It was—hmm. 1985, I believe." He tipped my chin up and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. "You were wearing an exotic outfit—Middle Eastern in flavor—caftan, I think, quite filmy, chiffon or something like that. Chocolate brown, very deep v-neck—" He quirked an eyebrow. "That part, I am sure of. Embroidery and spangles all over. Very feminine, very flattering, very… sexy." He tucked loose hair behind my other ear. "I think that's when I first fell in love with you."
I didn't know if it was truth, half-truth or prime grade bullshit meant to make me feel better. (I vaguely remembered the outfit in question, so it wasn't total bullshit.) "And you waited until I was bombed out of my mind at The Dog to make your move—twenty-two years later—why?"
He ducked his head and batted his eyes. "I was shy."
Truth, half-truth or bullshit? I didn't know. I didn't care. He made me feel better, which was probably his goal. "Glad you finally spoke up."
"Better?" he asked gently.
I rubbed my forehead tiredly. "Yeah, I think so. It was just—Fran, Cameron, Alyce, ZNN," I finished in disgust. "I was picturing crowds of those idiots with cameras flooding the hospital, dodging Fran's every step—"
"You're not far off. There was a reporter in front of the hospital last night bemoaning the fact that they couldn't get in or get any information."
"Good," I said sharply, even as my stomach threatened to give us a repeat performance. "Dr. Webber said Fran will be released today, but I can't see them letting her go any earlier than afternoon, he said twenty-four hours, by then they'll know her name and she'll never get out without being mobbed—!"
Ducky gave me a small, sly smile. "Let me work on that."
/ / /
After such and early wakeup and ugly aftermath, we made a sensible choice: we grabbed a quick breakfast and headed out to work. Victoria was sound asleep; Suzy would be there fairly soon (she was quite the early bird), so we left secure in the knowledge that things would run smoothly behind us.
I got to the store hours early. It was nice—a chance to do eyeball inventory, seeing what books had been taken in for trade and shelved without my noticing. (How can you tell what's been added in a store this big? You just do. I handle most of the trade credit, so I handle most of the books—literally. But I was sure there had been plenty of incoming books in my numerous absences over the past months, especially from just before Book Expo until now.) (A lot had happened in seven weeks!)
Lots of goodies on all the genre shelves; nothing worth putting online (meaning, nothing with a high value), but plenty of solid stuff worth reading. Big chunk of gardening books; Victoria needed to make a visit. And a mechanic had apparently retired or cleaned house—the shelves in AUTO REPAIR were double stacked on every shelf and we had Chilton's manuals for just about every car manufactured from around 1950 forward. Cha-ching!
Someone had also cleared out a lot of kids' books. Everything from picture books to Nancy Drews to some of the YA trash that's come out the past few years. (Yeah, yeah, I know the mantra of the librarians: get them hooked on reading, first; taste can come later. Twilight comes to mind. (I'm sorry—sparkling vampires? That sound was Bram Stoker whirling in his grave.)) A whole bunch of old stuff in there; I grabbed a couple of file boxes and culled out about a hundred books for price research.
As I dumped the treasure trove from the kids' section onto the sort table in Valerie's office the boxes reminded me: today was story day. I've said to all and sundry that I don't really care for kids, and I don't—but I love readers of any age. A reader is a reader is a reader, to misquote Shakespeare. 10:30 would come and we'd get a room full of kids of all ages (and parents who would whip through the aisles, shopping unencumbered as their sprogs listened to the story (interrupting with sometimes bright (sometimes baffling) questions and spilling juice and grinding cookies into our carpet)). I actually liked story time. Even though it was my turn to read, I still liked story time. (I particularly like it when Ducky is in the store and takes a turn with a chapter or two. I would sit and listen to him recite the yellow pages, for Pete's sake.)
By the time I threw open the doors at 9:00, I was happy as a lark. Heaven help the world, I was even singing. (I can carry a tune better than Evelyn; beyond that—well, Julie Andrews, I'm not.) Valerie cruised in only five minutes late; as she bore a box of doughnuts from The Cop Shop, I was willing to forgive her. (Besides—when she officially became my assistant manager, she went salary; it's not like she'd get docked for the five minutes.)
"Oh, yeah," I sighed, sinking my teeth into a Seven-Up (glazed twist with lemon filling on one end and lime on the other). "This is so worth the calories."
"How. Is. Fran?" Valerie enunciated carefully around her chocolate cream filled Zeppelin. (She had freaked out over the break-in; the shooting yesterday had left her in stunned silence.)
"Pretty good, all things considered." I gave her a quick rundown: clean shot, through and through, easy surgery. (Bright smile.) Fran stuck in the hospital for at least a day, no plane, gotta take the train home. (Smile faltered a bit.) Fran's 'real' father flying into town and Fran's sort-of stepmother, the shooter. (Smile gone, furrowed brow, tears in her eyes.) ZNN (and half a dozen other stations by now) gearing up to mow her down. ("Like hell they will!" she vowed.)
She wasn't the only person with that thought. Ducky called an hour later. "I just spoke with Ricky Webber."
"Fran!" I gasped.
"She's fine," he quickly assured me. "Abigail's friend, Misty, is visiting Francesca as we speak; Dr. Webber is willing to release her early, if she's released to my care. She'll be ready to leave the hospital about noon."
"I'll pick her up," I immediately offered. "I have her stuff in the van—"
"Oh, you won't need a change of clothing," Ducky said. I could hear a grin in his voice.
"No?"
"And if you cannot find Dr. Webber, let them know you are there to pick up Betty Jo Wainright."
I shook my head. "Come again?"
"Betty Jo Wainright. I… I think I'll let you discover it all on your own." You could almost see the smirk in his voice and I knew his eyes were twinkling.
"Ducky—"
"Bring her straightaway to NCIS. I'll meet you at the guard shack."
"Ducky!" At the guard shack? Usually he just called down a drive-on pass for me.
"You'll understand when you get to the hospital."
"Donald Mallard!" I ignored Val's 'uh-oh' from the stacks. "Tell me what the hell—"
Now he was laughing. "No. I don't know the half of it. Let's just let the play unfold, shall we? I'll see you soon, dearest," he said over my spluttered protests and hung up.
Valerie looked cautiously around the corner of the ANIMALS (PETS AND DOMESTIC) shelf. "Wedding off?" she asked with a pained look.
"Hunh? Why would you think that?"
"The way you yelled, 'Donald Mallard!' I figured either the engagement was off or you were gonna marry him just for the pleasure of divorcing him."
"I did not yell!" I protested.
"Yeah. You yelled," Geoff confirmed, swinging by the desk and snagging a Choco-orange Doozie as he passed.
"It was justified," I said. I was tempted to drive over now—but Ducky said noon. If she wasn't going to be ready, my lurking about might catch a reporter's eye. And that was the last thing on my list. Or at least next to last.
I stashed the doughnuts in the break room and literally rolled out the carpet for our already arriving guests. (I found it at a yard sale about a month after I opened the store. Someone had taken a ten-by-ten chunk of carpet and hand-dyed the map from The Phantom Tollbooth onto it. Not hand-painted; hand-dyed. The coloring went down to the base of the carpet; you could walk on it for years and not lose the pattern. Every year we hold a Phantom marathon, reading the book cover-to-cover, nonstop, over a four-day weekend of our choosing. Ducky asked that it be around his birthday, and that could be my gift to him; his September 19 birthday is smack in the middle of the week, so, oh, gosh, I'll have to think of something else to give him. (I have ideas. Lots of ideas.) We'll read the book the weekend before his birthday, though, as an extra goodie.) A lot of the parents like to come early and help set up; since many of them have been employees over the years, it becomes old home week very quickly.
"Hey, Story Lady!"
I knew that voice anywhere. "Story Time," I corrected primly. "Mustn't be sexist." I was enveloped in a bear hug from one of my earliest part-timers; Tim Walinski is at least a foot taller than I, and broad enough to cover the back four of the Patriots. He was also one of my first employees, a part-time clerk who worked around his college schedule for four years. He was far more suited to be a teacher than I and has spent the past twenty-five years as a grade-school teacher. Even now, when teachers deserved hazardous duty pay, he had no plans to retire. He had been one of our first story participants, which is when Story Lady became Story Time. "How goes the battle?"
He shrugged. "Same ol' thing." Tim teaches at Milton Dooley, in one of the most poorly funded districts. He brings in boxes and boxes of books every month and I give him higher credit than most people get and take stuff I'd otherwise turn away—because all of his credit is given to him in one-dollar-increment slips. He calls them "scholar dollars" and hands them out as rewards for everything from cleaning erasers to making a 5% improvement from one test to the next. (Yes, erasers. Between budget cuts and vandalism, his room still has chalkboards.) Sometimes Tim even drives a group of the kids to the store to turn in their credit slips because they don't have money for the Metro. He gets kids to read for fun, no mean feat when half of the parents can't read and the other half don't. He glanced at the book peeping out of my apron pocket. "So. Charlotte's Web?"
"Yep. My turn to read. Are you trading today?"
"Yep," he teased. "Got the van loaded. Didn't know I was going to be running into Story Time, though," he winced. Story Time bounces around the calendar. It used to depend on the school calendar; then some of the districts in the Tri-State area went to year-round. So now it flits from one day to another and different times. Most of the customers don't care; they check the window, the sign by the register, the website or even the after-hours phone message and find out the day and time. The few people who do grumble—well, they're the ones who will complain about anything and are never happy unless they are complaining, so to heck with them.
"And I have to leave at lunchtime. But Valerie can handle things, she knows where your slips are."
"Need any help?"
"I never say no." He set out folding chairs around the perimeter of the rug for the parents while I set up the easels with blow-ups of illustrations from the chapters we were reading and Cherie and Marcy got out the juice and cookies. Most of the kids were old-timers; they grabbed a bottle or box (or two; we always set out enough for three times our usual audience) and bag of cookies or trail mix (whatever their parents okayed—again, we put out plenty of extras) and started marking their turf on the floor. The grownups knew to get coffee or tea from the permanent setup near the front counter, and any newbies quickly figured it out. Randy, Alan and Geoff would sort out who ran the register and who kept the rest of the jobs running (none of them liked doing checkout; tough noogies, it's part of the job) and we'd go with the flow.
I sat on the lone rocking chair in the Sea of Knowledge. "Let's see…" I made a show of thumbing through the book. "Where were we…"
"Wilbur! Wilbur tried to run away!"
"Fern gotted the pig because he was a runt!"
"That was way at the start, Miss Sandy wantsta know what we stopped, you reee-tard."
I stopped what I was doing and looked over the top of my prop glasses as I'd seen Ducky do many a time. I raised an eyebrow and gave the young offender a stern look. My shop, my rules. No name-calling.
Drake hunched his shoulders. He knows the rules. "Sorry, Miss Sandy." I looked from him to his younger sister. I know it killed him to do it, but he said what was required: "Sorry, Danielle."
She didn't even notice. This was her brother; she was used to talk like that. It was more a lesson for Drake and the other kids than it was to make her feel better. I gave Drake a smile to let him know we were still friends and turned back to the book. "So. We are on chapter four, titled 'Loneliness.'"
We made it through three chapters with minimal distraction. ("What's sulfur?" "It's a mineral, found in the earth. They use it in insecticides, bleaching paper, all sorts of things." "Euu! Why would they make Wilbur take that?" "It's also used in medicines. We can look it up after we finish reading.") ("Charlotte—Charlotte eats bugs?" "Yes, she does." "That is so gross." "But bugs wouldn't take over like she says. Right?" "Well, they could. So it's a good thing that Charlotte and the other spiders eat them." "My dad—my dad—he got a pider bite when he cleaned our bament and he almost losted his foot!" (Now I wanted to say "euu.")) We ended on a cheery note, Mr. Zuckerman discovering the goslings. (Since the next chapter is where Wilbur discovers he's being fattened up to be dinner at a later time, I sure wasn't going to stop there.) I always cry when Charlotte finally kicks the bucket; with any luck, strong and silent Alan would be the reader that week.
While Marcy and Cherie cleaned up the kids' area, I scurried to the front of the store. Valerie was still going through Tim's trade credit; his minivan was packed full. Randy had drawn the short straw and was running the register; Story Time pulls in a large crowd, and having them check out all around the same time is a little nerve wracking. I tallied up the totals, checked the credit slips, adjusted as needed and passed the customer down the counter. Most of the customers were parents and kids from the group, but there were a few college students and random shoppers in the group as well.
Mom and two young boys. Stack of Paddington Bear books, stack of assorted dinosaur-themed books and a big stack of supernatural romances. Next was a college student (maybe high school)—Balzac, Disraeli, Goethe, Dickens, Poe, Melville, Hawthorne and a ton of Cliff's Notes to go with them. 19th Century English Lit was my guess. A mixed bag of easy readers, Nancy Drews, The Red Fairy Tale Book, The Blue Fairy Tale Book, The Pink—the whole rainbow was there. One of the new (to us) Chilton's manuals, this one for a 1968 Econoline Van. ("I love you," the young man said earnestly as I gave him his slip.) A dozen books from the Babysitters series. A stack of Anne of Green Gables. Goosebumps. Aliens and monsters and such. And the list went on.
I checked the clock: 11:28. Last customer from the rush crowd. I gave Randy the nod to leave the counter; Valerie would be up any moment so I could dash to the hospital. "Let's see…" I started sorting out the books. A book on victory gardens. One on building your own backyard fountains. Reader's Digest books on home repair and do-it-yourself. (I was beginning to sense a theme.) Boxed set of the first five Foxfire books. Boxed set of the remaining six Foxfire books. A book on making your own loom and a companion book on weaving by the same author. A stack of Craig Rice mysteries, another of James Anderson's, a boxed set of the Narnia books, the old Tell Me Why books, half a dozen Eyewitness books (those are cool books; I find myself reading as I shelve them), several Redwall books, Eragon and Eldest, my favorite E. L. Koningsburg and Zilpha Keatley Snyder titles—oh, to be a kid again and discover these books for the first time…!
"We missed last week. The girls want to get caught up," the woman said as I added Charlotte's Web to the stack. "Honey, we need to pay for your books."
I blinked in surprise. She was speaking to the younger of the two girls, the toddler in the stroller. No tantrums, no screech of, "MINE!" The young lady used both hands to hold up each of what turned out to be eight books, everything from Dr. Seuss' Oh, the Places You'll Go! and Yertle the Turtle to oldies nobody has read for fifty years like The Gingerbread House. "Mom likes to read to you, hunh?" I said conversationally.
"Well, yes," 'Mom' admitted with a laugh. "But those are the books she wants to read to herself."
I stopped tapping the calculator keys. "How old… is she?"
"Leigh Anne is two and a half. Ellie is almost exactly three years older. Three years, four days, to be exact." I must have looked startled (stunned, even) because she handed the top book back to the little girl who was impatiently swinging her feet. "Would you like to read this to us, Lee-Lee?"
"Okay." Her voice was soft, but very clear. She turned the first pages very carefully. (I was doubly impressed. Most little kids treat book pages like they're made of cast iron.) "Con-gra-tu-la-tions. Today is your day. You're off to great places. You're off and away."
"No, she hasn't memorized it." (Mom's a mind reader. And she had a sly smile, like someone hiding a great secret.)
"Did you use that teach a baby to read program?" I'd thought it was a bunch of malarkey, but…
"No," she said. "But my husband and I are both avid readers. We were reading to the girls from the moment they were born. Now that we've moved back and I know you're still here, I think bookstore credit will be coin of the realm for biddable chores."
"Biddable chores?" I meant to ask about 'moved back/still in business' but got distracted.
"You're the one who gave me Cheaper By the Dozen to read, Sandy!" she laughed.
Now I was in a pickle. I'd recommended that book to probably two hundred people over the years. Fortunately she was kind enough to spare me the humiliation of asking.
"Chanda! Chanda Davis, now, but when I worked here—"
"Chanda Lear!" I squealed. (I always thought she should sue her parents. She figured she did better than some of the kids at school—such as the twins in her senior class, Patty and Angel Cake. Or a fellow junior, Holliday Cruze. She showed me her yearbook for proof. Frankly, some parents should have their kids named by committee.) Well, that explained her secretive smile. "Back to Washington. Where did you go?" The credit card reader spit out her receipt and I handed it to her.
"New Mexico. Jerry was teaching there, but he wasn't really happy. A lot of politics at the community college level. My grandmother died this spring—"
"Oh, I'm so very sorry."
"I came back to help mom clear out the house, god, she was a packrat… Mom doesn't want to let the house go out of the family, so Jerry and I discussed it and decided to move back."
"I'm so glad," I said in all sincerity. I took the signed receipt and shoved it through the register slot.
"I'm really glad, too. I'm sorry about grandmother—but with her health, it was a kindness. And I understand Mom's feelings—I love that house, I grew up half there and half at home. We're still clearing stuff out! And I'm so glad the girls will get to grow up with Papyrus as a memory, not just a story I've told them." She rolled her head around. "A lot bigger than I remember."
"No place to go but up. Or start another store." I caught sight of the clock and winced. "Chanda, I hate to break this up, but I have to go. I'm picking up a friend—"
"Not a problem. Gotta go do the marketing. Believe me—we'll be back." She tucked books in every open spot on the stroller and carefully stacked the remainder on the top—Lee-Lee was still reading Dr. Seuss to anyone who would listen, while her sister had snagged a book from the stack and was lost in Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth, William McKinley and Me, Elizabeth—and maneuvered everyone out the door. I watched Ellie dodge the swinging door and make a perfect 90-degree right hand turn and then walk around the big stone trash barrel, all without hesitation and never looking up from her book. I shook my head—based on her sonar navigation, she had chosen the perfect book to read. I grinned. She and Charlie had to meet.
"Leaving!" I yelled to Valerie as I dashed for the back door.
"Gotcha!" she called back. I could hear her pelting for the front counter.
Praying for clear traffic, I hit the road hard. I didn't do too badly; I pulled into the Howard U parking lot at 12:07. I politely ignored the news crews (now plural, dammit) in the front circle and ambled over to the front desk. "I'm here to pick up a patient."
The desk clerk didn't even glance up from her computer. "Patient Discharge, room 210." She pointed down the hall.
I trudged down the hall to an office where one woman was processing discharges—and six people were patiently waiting. My heart sank. By the time I got through, the whole story would be on the news and Fran would never have a moment's peace—or even get out of the hospital without harassment.
The phone on the desk rang. "Patient Discharge, Carol speaking," she said with a tired sigh. She covered the mouthpiece. "We take Visa, MasterCard, Amex and Discover," she recited to the woman standing in front of her. The woman flinched at the total on the sheet and gave an irritated look at the teenage boy perched on crutches next to her. Mindful of the HIPAA laws I headed toward the other side of the room where the other five waited politely. "Yes?" Carol said into the phone. "One moment." She covered the receiver again. "Is there a Cassandra Talmadge here?"
I stopped and turned around. "I am she," I said, trying not to leap forward.
She stared at me blankly. "Ah. Right. She's here." She listened a moment longer, her face going professional and blank. "Understood," she said almost formally. "Yes. I will." She hung up and gave me a smile that was just a hair too bright. "Dr. Webber is waiting upstairs with your aunt." (My what?) "He's already seen to her discharge. The hotel is taking care of everything."
'Why?' I wanted to ask. Instead I settled for a noncommittal, "That's nice."
"Well, the poor dear, slipping on the wet stairs and dislocating her shoulder like that? It's the least they could do."
Okay. Hospital staff members don't discuss patient particulars. Hand out the bagels and cream cheese—red herring is being served on a platter.
"I agree," I said quickly. "Where's Dr. Webber now? And—" I drew a blank. "Aunt Betty Jo?" I finally pulled from the depths.
"Up in her room. Tell her I hope the rest of her tour of D.C. goes better than it has."
"I will. Thank you!" I called with a cheery wave as I headed out the door.
With more than a little unease growing around me, I made my way upstairs. "Betty Jo Wainright?" I asked the duty nurse. I wasn't chancing an unannounced entry.
"Oh! You must be her niece! Dr. Webber told us to expect you." She pointed down the hall. "1104A."
Of course. Fran was in 1104B. "Thanks." I took a deep breath before entering the room—
—and clapped both hands over my mouth to keep from bursting into whoops of laughter. "Oh, my god," I croaked out, as the door shut behind me.
"I'm pleased to say your aunt is doing very well, Miss Talmadge," Dr. Webber said gravely.
"I'm—so glad," I gasped.
Fran was already sitting in the obligatory wheelchair. It had to be Fran—I'd know those eyes anywhere. But that was all I recognized.
Her face and hands were wrinkled like crepe paper and her makeup was the overdone eye shadow and rouge you often see on elderly women. She was dressed in a chartreuse tracksuit; BINGO ISN'T A MATTER OF LIFE OR DEATH—IT'S MORE IMPORTANT THAN THAT! was in glittering script on the hot pink shirt under the jacket. Her gorgeous hair was covered by a wig of stone gray sausage curls and a pair of glasses with lenses about ½" thick hung on a chain around her neck. "Words… fail me."
"Abby swore me to secrecy." I recognized the young woman curled in the chair I had used the night before—Misty, the leggy blonde from Abby's theatre group, the gal who had make me look so good the prior Halloween.
"This… is… great," I gushed.
"We're going to give a statement this afternoon that the still-unnamed shooting victim will be released in a day or two," Dr. Webber said. He was serious now, not playacting. "Ducky knows what to look for, what care she'll need. I have no problem releasing her, knowing she'll be under his eye."
"Not to mention, locked inside the Navy Yard for the day," Misty added.
"Anything I need to know about my… aunt?"
"No flying," he said.
"And no trains," she grumbled.
"So, what—you have to hitchhike home?"
She shook her head. "No tickets available until tomorrow night. Ducky told me I'm taking the spare bedroom—or else."
I grinned. "And he means it."
"Let's get this show on the road. The vultures are getting pushy," Dr. Webber said. He leaned over and grabbed the phone and punched a number. "Orderly to 1104A. Discharge. Dr. Richard Webber, ID 41305. Five minutes? Good." He hung up. "They do know I'm the physician of record for the shooting victim. I don't want them paying any attention to us, so I'll leave you at the elevator."
Fran perched the glasses on her nose. The circles were easily 3 inches across and covered from above her eyebrows to the crest of her cheekbones. Plastic rims of purple, lavender and silver swirls and dotted with multi-colored rhinestones; I immediately thought of Elton John in his Captain Fantastic stage. They went perfectly with her outfit… if you were colorblind.
"Oh, my god." Fran's left hand clutched the armrest. "This is like being on a roller coaster… inside the funhouse."
"Those are my neighbor's backup glasses in case she breaks her current prescription," Misty said. "She's really farsighted."
"I can guess," I said. The lenses distorted Fran's eyes, making her look like a frightened mongoose.
There was a tap the door. The orderly, a young woman whose polite, "Mrs. Wainright?" sounded closer to Chennai than Chicago, entered the room. She smiled respectfully at Fran.
"Yes, oh, yes, my heavens." Fran didn't go for creaky—which can sound so fake when not done well—but went with fluttery. "Oh, look! Those are such pretty earrings! Doesn't she have the prettiest earrings, Cassie, dear?"
"Beautiful," I agreed.
"And—oh, my, such a lovely smile! You must have boyfriends a-plenty," 'Aunt Betty Jo' said with a playful wag of her finger.
The young woman—whose nametag said AMI MALIK—shook her head. "I am a happily married woman," she said, showing off her left hand. "But thank you for your kind words."
"Such a lucky boy!" Fran kept up a line of inane chatter the whole way, Misty and I playing along. DNA was showing true; as good an actor as Cameron is, Fran was even better. I don't think he could have pulled off an improvisation like this.
To my grateful surprise, Dr. Webber was right. Despite—or perhaps because of—Fran's day-glow wardrobe, we were ignored by the paparazzi. They barely looked at us when we rolled Fran to the sidewalk cutout marked PATIENT PICK UP/DROP OFF ONLY! I made a land speed record getting back to my van; Misty held the chair as Ami helped Fran into the van and handed her her plastic bag of personal items, then they both waved as we drove away.
"Oh, god, now I know why actors bitch about latex," she groaned. "This itches like crazy!"
"I think Ducky wants you to keep it on." Now it made sense—Fran wouldn't look at all like the picture on her driver's license. No way would the guard let her pass.
"Can I at least take off the glasses?"
"I guess it's safe." I couldn't blame her. I looked through Gamma's glasses—once. It was like a bad acid trip without the drugs. I tapped the cell phone in its' dock. "Call Autopsy," I ordered.
"Call Autopsy?"
"Yes."
The phone rang twice. "Autopsy, Dr. Mallard."
"Auntie and I are on our way," I grinned.
"Wonderful. And how is the old dear?"
"Just fabulous. She can't wait to meet my fiancé."
Ducky laughed. "See you soon."
I tapped the screen. "You get such a nice smile when he's around. Even if it's just on the phone," Fran said.
"Probably the same look you get when you're talking about Cal," I said with a snicker.
"I think you'll like him," she said simply.
I nodded. "I probably will."
/ / /
Ducky wasn't waiting for us.
Gibbs was.
"Who's that?" Fran whispered as we pulled up.
"Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs," I whispered back. Not like he could hear us—you just tend to want to whisper when he's in the vicinity. "He's the leader of his pack."
She looked appropriately impressed. "Oh."
I was familiar with the drill. I handed over my ID and the key to the back door. One guard made note of my driver's license number while the other went back to see if we were sneaking anyone in or slipping in some contraband. As the first guard looked over at Fran, Gibbs put a hand on the clipboard.
"Jane Doe."
"Agent Gibbs? Sir?"
"No ID. Witness in a case. Write her as Jane Doe under MCRT. I'll sign off."
Don't argue with someone who's higher on the food chain. The guard filled out the paper, Gibbs signed it and jerked his head to the left. I pulled into a visitor slot and we met up with him at the front entrance.
"Ducky sure can come up with some interesting ideas, hunh?"
I matched his rueful smile with one of my own. "Yep."
He escorted us through security and directly to Autopsy. "All in one piece, Duck."
"Thank you, Jethro." Phew; no bodies.
"Glad to see you looking so well, ma'am." Gibbs always makes me think of a cowboy when he says 'ma'am.'
"Thank you." Fran was still a little shy around him.
He gave her a wink. "Like the t-shirt."
That made her giggle. After Gibbs left, she gave Ducky a pathetic look. "How long—"
"I think it's safe. I was just concerned with you getting out of the hospital unmolested."
For some reason that struck her as funny. She giggled, then winced. "Ow." She reached up to her face, then slowly brought her hand back down.
"Abigail's friend will be here shortly; we'll let her supervise the removal of your—" He waved his hand toward her.
"I do this for a living. I've seen too many people injure themselves from this side of the makeup chair. However…" She carefully peeled off her wig.
"Want me to get something more—ah—hip from your suitcase?"
"Please, yes. Jeans, t-shirt, whatever."
Ducky snorted faintly. "More sedate would be a better choice."
"What? You don't like electric chartreuse and pink?" He shuddered. "Ah, nuts. And I was going to get that for Mother this Christmas."
"She would, too, just to be ornery," he said as I left the room.
I passed Abby and Misty coming through main security. "Fran is—literally—itching for you to arrive."
"Can't blame her," Misty called over her shoulder. "I hate wearing that stuff."
Well, I hate pawing through someone else's belongings. Never mind that I helped Fran sift through her stuff after Alyce went flinging things hither and yon. That was under her supervision; this wasn't.
It took me twice as long as it normally would have. I made sure to pack everything back nicely and neatly (I'd never make it as a baggage screener), finally settling with jeans, a Happy Bunny t-shirt ("Just tell me I am awesome and move along.") and sandals. I was pretty sure she wouldn't have set foot out of the hospital sans underwear and a bra and was equally sure the orthopedic shoes she was sporting weren't hers. (On the chance she wasn't as willing to wear a smartass t-shirt around Gibbs as I was, I grabbed a second t-shirt covered in cutesy-poo kittens and rainbows and butterflies.)
As I went to latch the suitcase again, I noticed the shirt had tiny lettering woven in and among the artwork. I had to squinch my eyes a bit but finally made out Minimize your therbligs until it becomes automatic; this doubles your effective lifetime—and thereby gives time to enjoy butterflies and kittens and rainbows. I laughed out loud, making a passing guard glance my way. The quote was from Robert A. Heinlein… and a therblig was something created by Frank Gilbreth, whose children wrote—ta-da—Cheaper By the Dozen, the book Chanda had mentioned a couple of hours ago. "Circle of life," I muttered and locked the van door.
By the time I returned to Autopsy, Fran was looking far more like her normal self. Face red from scrubbing, hair damp and clinging to her cheeks, but decidedly more like Fran. I showed her the options I'd pulled. Good thing I chose a backup; she looked embarrassed at the Happy Bunny and chose the butterflies t-shirt. She followed Ducky's indication to the change room. "Let me know if you need any help," I called. I turned to Ducky. "Okay, she's out of the hospital, she's away from the media, she's safe. And she'll be just as safe with me, at the bookstore, as she would be here."
Abby snickered. "Don't tell Gibbs that."
I sighed. "Okay, if she needed armed protection—then, yes, she'd be safer here." I kept my voice low. "Alyce is in jail—even if she weren't, she got what she was so desperate to avoid: bad publicity. So she's no threat. I love you guys like crazy—"
"Some of us more than others," Abby quickly interjected.
Ducky looked embarrassed. And a teensy bit smug. "I understand your wanting to keep Fran close by. You were talking to her when she was hurt—it's an offshoot of 'if you save someone's life, you're responsible for them.'" I sighed; sometimes I wish he'd choke on that psych degree. "But there is no doctor at the store," he continued. "Dr. Webber agreed to Francesca leaving only because she would be here, under my care." He patted my hand. "You can take her to play at the store tomorrow," he teased. "Her train doesn't leave until well after dinnertime."
Thirty-plus hours to keep her in hiding—and healthy. I sighed again.
"Maybe Mother could come in with you."
Ducky views that as a threat. I don't. "Good. Geoff was asking about her this morning."
"And we could all go to the Gypsy for dinner."
That's called stacking the deck. But… Fran would like that. Frankly, I wouldn't feel settled until she was calling from L.A. to say she'd gotten there safely. ZNN isn't called Zealot News Network for nothing. "What time will you guys be home?"
"Seven-ish, I'd guess. We'll catch lunch here at the cafeteria in a bit." I tried not to look appalled, and Ducky laughed. "It has improved since you last ate here, my dear. Apparently the cook was going through a bad romance and it affected her culinary output."
"Never piss off the cook."
"Was that the problem?" Abby said in disgust. "I figured some enemy force had put her on their payroll and she was picking us off with her mystery casserole instead of a more direct method." She hopped down from her perch on Ducky's desk.
"Thank you again for your brilliant idea, Abigail." Ducky patted Abby's hand and she flung her arms around him in a hug. "It worked beautifully."
I gave him my own farewell hug. "See you tonight." I tackled Abby in a hug before she could get me first. "You haven't been in for ages! The boys are starting to pout."
"I'm working on a gnarly project—but I promise. Next week. For sure."
I looked at the limp wig. (Vickie Lawrence would have made a great partner for this.) "Your idea? I should have guessed."
She sighed. "If I'd known in advance, I could have brought in my bowling outfit."
I've seen her bowling outfit. "Abby… only you can pull off that outfit. You're… made for each other."
/ / /
"She just walked in." Valerie held the phone out. "Evelyn."
"Whazzup?"
"Turn on the TV." Her voice was flat and hard.
My heart plummeted. I put the call on hold and hurried to the office. I reactivated the call on my desk phone and turned the TV on at the same moment. "What am I looking for?"
"You still get E! channel?"
It was right next to Bravo. An overly made up (in my opinion) young woman was giving us the daily dirt. "—night, but several sharp-eyed viewers have called and tweeted and emailed and posted on our Facebook page, identifying her as Francesca Peterson of Los Angeles—"
"Shit!" And the dim bulb didn't even pronounce 'Francesca' decently.
Jaw clenched, I watched the segment. They were right about some things (identifying Fran, Alyce and Cameron and the fact that Alyce shot Fran), wrong about others (Fran was supposedly still in the hospital and near death; please, don't let Mary hear this!) and smart enough not to speculate on the rest (they hadn't twigged to the relationship between the three—so far). The screen changed to a shot of Alyce and Cameron at her arraignment that morning. Orange is not her color. No makeup, hair pulled back in a clumsy ponytail—she looked like crap. Good. Cameron looked like someone had clipped him on the temple with a two-by-four. He'd shaved and he was combed and put together pretty well, but he still looked like crap. Not as bad as Alyce, though. I was starting to feel sorry for him.
Alyce pled not guilty. No shocker, there. Amazingly enough, there was no speculation as to why Alyce shot Fran. She even made a point of saying, "We can't even begin to speculate" (mispronounced as 'speck-a-lit').
"Shit!" I yelped again. Lily's picture was on the screen.
Over Evelyn's gasp, I heard the woman say, "The second charge of attempted murder is of Lillian McAllister of Washington, D.C. McAllister is a genealogist in D.C. and was shot while visiting her father in upscale Reston, Virginia." I groaned aloud; father? "She was shot July 11 in what appeared to be a drive-by shooting, but sources in the Washington police department have positively linked the two cases." Fran's picture joined Lily's on the screen; at least they both took decent DMV shots. "There's no apparent link between Lillian McAllister and Francesca Peterson, and no link on the surface to Alyce and Cameron Carson." She didn't comment on how much alike the girls looked. The pictures disappeared, and the semi-literate host reappeared. She leaned in toward the camera. "Rumor has it—and this is just a rumor—" Which means it would be accepted as fact tomorrow. "—CC was about to hit Alyce with divorce papers." She gave the viewers a naughty look. "Makes you really wonder about those two young women, hunh? Stay tuned—"
"Ohhh, shiiiiiit," I drew out. (I lost track at seven.)
"Great news, eh?" Evelyn said grimly.
"Well…" I hunted for a bright spot. "At least Charlie's grandmother can't use this against Lily." As bright spots go, that was about a ten-watt bulb in a brownout.
Evelyn snorted. "Wanna bet?"
No thanks; I'm broke as it is. "I'd better let Ducky know. Fran is at NCIS, under his wing—so to speak."
"Hey!" Ev brightened. "Let's sic Gibbs on E!"
"Don't tempt me. Or him. If we had let Gibbs and Ducky 'deal with' Alyce, there wouldn't have been an arraignment." There wouldn't have been a body.
"Well, give him my love and a big ol' hug. Ducky. Not Gibbs. Of course, if Gibbs takes care of Alyce…" she mused. "And Charlie does like him…"
"He gave Mrs. K a nice smack down," I offered.
"Yeah, he sure did, didn't he?" she said cheerfully. "Yeah, give Gibbs a hug, too." (That far, I won't go.)
"How is Lily faring?"
"If I didn't love her, I'd hate her."
"Wolverine, hunh?"
"It fits. Tell Grandma that to make up for us only coming over tomorrow, Lily is making something extra special for dessert."
"Yeah? What?"
Ev laughed. "I don't know. She won't tell me!" I laughed with her, feeling a tiny bit better. "Call me later."
"Will do." I clicked the phone off and then back on and dialed.
"Autopsy, Dr. Mallard."
I pasted a perky smile on my puss. "Hiiiiii, honeeeeeey. How are things going?"
He laughed. "You've only been gone twenty minutes!"
"Well…" I said in a teasing voice. "You and Fran playing gin rummy? She's almost as good as Mother."
"No." Another laugh. "She and Misty are being escorted to the cafeteria by Abby. They should be back any moment with our lunch."
I dropped my smile. "I'll talk fast, then."
I gave him a quick rundown of what I had just seen. For each 'shit' he substituted 'oh, damn.' But we reached the same conclusion: Fran would be kept in the dark as much as possible, as long as possible.
And the TV was staying off.
-10-