Chapter Five: Asses, Alligators, The Swamp... You Know The Rest (or, Don't Look At Me In That Tone Of Voice!)
Thursday was one of those wonderful nights that happen so often with Ducky. Great dinner (god, that man can cook), all of the females in residence got giggly and squealy over my not-bad drawings of my gown (Victoria was in transports), and Evelyn had scored a handful of tickets to a movie preview. We took up most of the center row and everyone had a blast. It turned out to be a part cartoon/part live-action picture about a princess who finds herself dumped out of happily-ever-after-land and stuck in modern day New York. (There was a scene with—ugh—cockroaches cleaning the bathroom and it was almost Ducky's undoing. Apparently all of us are roach-phobic and we all tried to huddle on his lap and cover our eyes. Okay, all but Suzy. She was busy laughing at the scene and laughing even harder at the five of us using poor Ducky as a shield. Whatever—it was a funny movie.) And Ducky got me to agree to meet him at NCIS for lunch the next day, promising a delightful surprise.
/ / / / /
"Boy, it's amazing what a botched romance can do to a person's cooking!"
Ducky grinned at me from across the table. He had insisted on ordering lunch for me, a kind of 'me, Tarzan; you, Jane' misogynistic act he'd never put on before. But I was pretty sure it sprang from a desire to surprise rather than suppress, so I went along for the ride. And, boy, was I glad I did. One of the Friday specials was mushroom cheese ravioli. The pasta was as light as air, the filling delicately spiced; the sauce was a marinara with a bit of alfredo—to die for. Instead of garlic bread, the chef had cut thin rounds of French bread about the diameter of an orange juice can, drenched them in very garlicy butter and baked them until they were not quite crunchy all the way through. (Ducky and I each had a number of slices; our good-bye kiss wouldn't get ugly.) "I told you so," he said, as self-satisfied as though he had made it with his own two hands.
"How's dessert around here?" Last time I'd eaten there, it had been as bad as the entrees—which had been pretty bad.
"Avoid the pudding. It's canned. But the cakes and pies are quite good—though nothing compared to yours, my dear."
"Smooth talker." I opted for the spice cake with buttercream icing and was pleased with the result. "Is it me, or does the place seem empty today?"
"Well, we're past the lunch rush. But if you mean Gibbs and company—"
"Yeah, there was this big empty spot in the middle of the room when we went past."
"They've been out all morning."
"And you didn't need to go with them?"
"Believe it or not, there are crimes without a body, my dear."
"True."
A faint trill of Scotland, the Brave came from Ducky's lab coat pocket. "Abby," he said in surprise, looking at the screen. "Hello, Abby, what—" He broke off and I could hear hysterical babbling from his phone. "Abby—Abby—Abigail—!" He tried repeatedly to break in, to no avail. She was apparently breathing through her ears.
Finally she slowed enough that you could sort of make out some of the words. "—so much for never be unreachable, I must have left a hundred messages, it goes to voice mail, he's outside, in my lab! He's not touching anything, but he scares me, Ducky, he scares me, he's cold, like a snake, no, not like a snake, I like snakes, he says I've given money to Hamas, I'd never do that, Ducky, you know I never would, I can't go to Gitmo, it's too hot, I'm not up on my vaccines, I didn't do anything, Gibbs would make him go away, but Gibbs doesn't answer—"
"Abby, Abby—have you called the Director?"
"She isn't here! She's gone for the day, Gibbs doesn't answer, Tony doesn't answer, Timmy doesn't answer, Ziva doesn't answer, nobody is answering! I can't go to jail, Ducky, I just can't, I didn't do anything wrong—!"
"Does she have a lawyer?" I whispered.
"Abby—Abby! Do you have an attorney?"
"No!"
"Tell her not to say anything." (For Abby, this would be difficult.) "She has the right to remain silent." (Hmm. Maybe not. When I was Ray's study buddy through law school, I learned a lot about Miranda and constitutional rights (even though I forgot it all when Gibbs was interrogating me)—but if Abby is being accused of funding a terrorist organization (WTF?) does she still have those rights?) "Hey, hey—does NCIS have a legal counsel she can use?"
Ducky interrupted her most recent flood of words. "Abby, listen to me. Call Agent Lee in legal. I'm on my way, but in the meantime, call Agent Lee."
"And don't talk until then," I added again, but Ducky had already shut his phone.
"No worry on that score," he said, hastily taking out trays to the return area. "Well, nothing that could be understood, anyway."
It was a long walk from the café level of the building to the one elevator bay that services the forensic laboratory and autopsy. While we waited for the elevator I said, "Should I—" I pointed toward the parking lot.
"You don't have to leave… I'm sure this is a miscommunication of some sort, a minor matter that will be cleared up in a trice. Just a misunderstanding. And I am loath to part company yet." He gave me a sweet smile as we entered the elevator.
"Just so long as I don't get in trouble."
"You're with me. You won't get in trouble." He punched the button for the lab level. "What is the matter?" He looked at me with mild concern.
If I had been walking, I would have stopped short. As it was, my head jerked up and I gave a tiny gasp. "Nothing. I just remembered something I forgot. No biggie."
I was Ray's study buddy through school and I ended up with a heck of a lot of legal mumbo-jumbo in my head. I wouldn't be able to throw my weight around in court—but I could pull off working in a law office, filing motions, writing appeals and contracts… and I could definitely bullshit my way around people who aren't in the profession. I'll bet someone who was her sister's study buddy through nursing school could fake her way, too—especially just a companion position…
By the time we got downstairs, Abby was huddled in a corner, talking with an attractive young Asian woman—Agent Lee, I supposed. Their voices were low, but Abby still looked distraught; she was hugging her stuffed hippo, Bert, and he was farting like crazy. Leaning against one of the lab tables was a man I'd never seen before—indeterminate age (old looking 30s, young looking 50s?), balding, intense gaze; not bad looking… but kind of unnerving. He looked almost amused by the scene. When we entered the lab, he raised an eyebrow and smiled faintly. "Dr. Mallard." I was surprised; he pronounced it correctly. He gave me a cursory glance, and I resisted the urge to hide behind Ducky; this guy creeped me out.
"Mr. Kort," Ducky said politely. Politely—and that was it. And despite Mr. Kort's second glance toward me, Ducky ignored the rules of society and didn't introduce us. Frankly, I was just as happy he didn't.
"Ducky!" Abby ran over and threw her arms around him. "I'm not a terrorist sympathizer, I'm not! Tell him!"
"Everything will be fine," he said soothingly, patting her back.
Despite the stress of the moment, I smiled at that. He is going to make a fantastic daddy. I let my mind wander for a moment—then shook my head to clear the mist.
"—in Baton Rouge, I've given them money for two years now, it's for children displaced by Katrina, they do wonderful work, it's not a terrorist organization, it's run by nuns—!"
Agent Lee had quietly joined us. "Apparently, the group is laundering money for Hamas," she said in a low voice.
"No!" Abby was absolutely distraught, verging on hysterics.
"Yes," Mr. Kort said coolly. "Your name came up as a regular donor—"
Abby wheeled on him, giving Bert a big squeeze. "Of course!" He looked disgusted at the noise from the hippo; I had to turn aside to hide my giggle. This was serious—I shouldn't be laughing. "I have them bill my credit card every month!" Abby continued. "They bill my NPR and PBS on my credit card, are you investigating me for them, too? It's easier for my tax records!" Her phone rang and she snatched it from the counter. "Gibbs! Oh, Gibbs, help!"
"Abby! Abby, what's wrong!" came tinnily from the speaker. "I've got ten messages and none of them make sense!"
"Where were you?" she demanded. "You say 'never be unreachable' and then—"
"Abby, that is not important. What the hell is going on?"
She ran into her office. Even through the glass, we could hear high and low notes of distress, even though the words were indistinguishable. Eventually she stopped talking and listened. And listened. And listened. She nodded, nodded again, nodded a third time and shut her phone. Looking decidedly calmer, she strode from her office and walked over to where Mr. Kort was still lounging against one of the counters. "Gibbs says not to talk to you. At all," she said with great formality. (She didn't say "so there" but I'm sure she was thinking it.)
"Gibbs can—"
I don't know if he was going to say "say whatever he wants" or "kiss my ass." He broke off as Abby twisted her fingers on her lips and flicked the tips—locking her lips and throwing away the key. For good measure, Bert farted again. (If you're skating on thin ice, you may as well dance.) Agent Lee looked mildly horrified, but I think she was smiling, too.
"Miss Sciuto—" Mr. Kort had a darkling look that gave me pause, but Abby just turned her back on him, humming under her breath and smiling.
I leaned close to Ducky's ear. "Now what?" I murmured.
He lifted a shoulder. "We wait for Gibbs." His reply was almost as inaudible as my comment had been.
We didn't have long to wait.
It was less than ten minutes until Gibbs came storming into the lab, the rest of his team scurrying to keep up. (I'm sure they knew their presence was not needed—but, like me, they were dying to know what the hell was going on.) I've heard Gibbs drives like the proverbial bat out of hell; they could have been down the block, they could have been outside the White House.
Gibbs quickly took in Agent Lee, Mr. Kort and yours truly. "What is this, open house?" he growled. This time I did try to hide behind Ducky.
"Gibbs!"
"Miss Sciuto—"
Gibbs held up a hand. "Mr. Kort. Wait."
(One of my first impressions of Gibbs was a dog handler barking commands at me. I was grateful to see him do that to everyone else—friend, foe, colleague or combatant.)
Gibbs grabbed Abby's shoulders, anchoring her a bit. "Calmly. Concisely."
She took a deep breath. "Okay," she said very calmly. "Back. In. Two. Thousand. Five. Sister. Bernadette. Told. Me. About. Maison. Pour. Les. Enfants. For. Children. Displaced. By. Hurricane. Katrina."
I figured at this rate our kid would be entering preschool by the time she finished her tale.
Apparently Gibbs had a similar time sense because he waved his hand in a circular 'speed it up' motion.
"—foster care was overburdened and even with charities helping out with clothes and stuff—"
Another hand circle. Foolish man.
"—already felt like outsiders, it's hard when kids are 'different' I don't care about Dolly Parton's 'coat of many colors' that's crap when you have no home, no toys, no clothes, nothing, so it was little things like Elmo for little kids, video games for the older kids, makeup kits for the teenage girls, makeup is very important—"
"Concisely, Abs," he quietly reminded her.
"—I'm not a terrorist, Gibbs, I'm not!"
Gibbs turned on Mr. Kort and cocked his head; well?
"Apparently the group is helping out the little rugrats," he said, his voice sounding almost bored. "But almost three-fourths of the money eventually ends up in the Gaza strip."
"No!" Abby protested.
"Yes," he countered.
"Aah, come on, Kort… You know how easy the scammers have it. How many fake charities set up after 9-11?"
"Anyone making large or regular contributions is suspect—"
"You're going to arrest Sister Bernadette too?" Abby's yell ended in a wail.
"Come on, Trent, does Abby look like a terrorist?" DiNozzo joshed.
"Oh, DiNozzo… all of you look like potential terrorists to me," Kort shot back with a twisted smile. He turned back on Abby. "So. Where do I find this… Sister Bernadette?"
"You're going to arrest a nun?" She grabbed Gibbs' arm. "He can't arrest a nun!"
"We just want to talk to her, find out where she found out about this group. Trace it back to the source."
"Like playing telephone as a kid—only in reverse." McGee immediately looked like he regretted saying anything.
Gibbs was concentrating on Abby. "Give him the number, Abs."
"But—"
"Give him the number." He leaned closer. "What I remember from the nuns I've known, Kort will come out worse than Sister Bernie," he said softly.
Abby gave him a ghost of a smile. She clicked through her phone and handed it to Gibbs. Gibbs in turn showed Kort the screen. Kort entered the number on his own phone. "Thank you," he said with extreme civility.
"You know she's not a terrorist."
Kort just smiled faintly and flicked an eyebrow.
"This could have been accomplished with a phone call."
"Ah, Gibbs…" He shut his phone and shoved it in his pocket. "Then I wouldn't have had the chance to see all of your smiling faces." With a bemused look to all of us, he strolled casually from the lab.
"You might want to fumigate," DiNozzo suggested.
"Gibbs—it was a lie? It was all a lie?" Abby's voice broke on the last word.
"Kort said they were helping the kids—just not as much as you'd think."
"She sent me letters. And drawings." Gibbs' arm around her shoulders, Abby let him guide her to her lab chair. "She even made me this dream catcher." She reached out and tapped the lacy circle pinned next to the portrait of her with bat wings and fangs. "Or did she buy it at Wal-mart?"
"It's probably real," he said soothingly.
"I just feel so… used," she said. Her shoulders slumped dejectedly.
"And when you donate, you get on every hit list out there," DiNozzo observed. "That's why I keep my money." Ziva gave him a sharp elbow in the ribs and he winced.
"It's as bad as ordering from a catalogue," Agent Lee said. The group glanced at her. She suddenly looked uncomfortable. "I… need to get back…" She gestured vaguely and slipped out the door.
"You gonna be okay, Abs?" Gibbs asked quietly. (From here on out, if I ever think unkindly on Gibbs, I'm going to remember how he treats Abby—like the daughter he never had. He has his good points.) Abby nodded slightly.
"There's a new guy in MTAC. I heard he's a warlock or a white witch or something like that. Maybe he can turn Kort into a frog?" DiNozzo suggested. "Um—not a frog," he quickly corrected. "A rock. As in 'dumb as a.' Um—skip it. Never mind." He flashed a too-bright smile. He nervously jerked his thumb toward the elevator and all but fell over himself getting out of the lab.
McGee and Ziva stared after him, looked at each other, then looked at Gibbs. "Maybe he needs to switch to decaf," Gibbs muttered. "Okay. Emergency over. Back to work."
"Thanks, Gibbs," Abby said, still low. "I guess I shouldn't call Sister? That would be, what, hindering a federal investigation or something?"
Gibbs patted her shoulder. "I'm sure Sister Bernadette can handle the situation." As he passed by Ducky, he caught his eye and jerked his head almost infinitesimally toward Abby; Ducky nodded. "Okay, children, recess is over, there are reports to write," he said, striding out.
Ziva and McGee both paused long enough to give Abby brief hugs of encouragement, then hurried after Gibbs.
Abby sat with her elbows on the table, chin propped in her cupped hands. "I feel so stupid," she mumbled.
"Oh, Abby… you are not stupid," Ducky said gently, patting her back. "It sounds like someone took a legitimate cause and diverted it."
I moved to her other side. "And maybe the justice department can, I dunno—get the money back and get it into the kids' hands?"
"Maybe." She sighed. "Would somebody please change the subject? This is all too depressing."
I racked my brain. "Hey. I have a wedding dress started."
She looked at me in surprise. "You're making your own wedding dress?"
"No, no, I found this nice shop over by the Gaslight—"
Her eyes lit up "Oh! How did that go?"
"Well, she started out with what she called a "shell"—just a basic dress in this really soft watered silk—"
"No, no—I mean—" She gave me a dramatic look. "The Murders of the Rue Morgue at the Old Folks' Home."
I froze. Oh, crap.
"Misty told me all about it last night, we went out to the movies, she showed me the pictures—you make a really nice old lady, you should do theatre—"
"Abby—"
"I'm sorry, Abigail—'a really nice old lady?'" Ducky asked, his voice deceptively calm.
The shit is about to hit the fan.
"Oh, yeah! Misty did a great job on Fran—how is she, anyway?—but Fran was almost a caricature, Sandy looked perfect, just the standard-bearer for a nice lady in her 80s—"
"It was just a little—um—visit—" (Yeah, 'visit' sounds much better than 'reconnaissance.') "—to There's No Place Like Home. The whole why did Neoma stop asking Mother to move there once she found that you control the bank account—it—uh—it sounded hinky—?" It had never occurred to me to tell Misty to keep this under her hat.
"Hinky?" Abby laughed. "Misty said that you said that Evelyn said that Charlie told her that she thinks people are being bumped off for their money out there. Greed, one of the oldest motives around…"
"They aren't!" I quickly said. Didn't help.
"Well, you come down to see me, my dear," Ducky said, giving her a kiss on the temple. "Tea will make things look better, I'm sure. I'll have it ready at the top of the hour." Thirty-five minutes away. Groan. "I haven't had a chance to hear all the details of Sandy's visit." (Yeah, and Sandy was counting on you not hearing all the details of her visit. Or any of them.)
Still smiling, he ushered me from the lab (the grip on my elbow was pretty firm) and into the elevator. Halfway to the main level he smacked the power switch and stopped the elevator between floors and turned toward me. I had a vague déjà vu feeling, channeling Star Trek II—only he wasn't Kirk, I wasn't Saavik and I was pretty sure our conversation wouldn't be so congenial.
Even in the half-light, I could tell he was furious. "So. You took a little jaunt into the city yesterday, eh?"
I blushed. "Um—"
"Are you out of your mind?" he roared. "You think something criminal is going on and you walk right into the lion's den? You risked your life, the life of our child—for what? Do you read any of those mysteries you sell?"
("Do any of you watch the show?" Apparently we were doing Galaxyquest, not Star Trek II.) "Trust me. They weren't going to shoot me over crab salad."
"Oh. Did they promise they'd be on their best behavior?" he asked in a mocking tone.
I bristled a little. "Sarcasm ill becomes you."
"I would say that stupidity ill becomes you, but you flaunt it so that I can't!" he snapped.
My mouth fell open in shock. "Donald Mallard!" I all but screeched. I was starting to breathe hard and was this close to saying something I knew I'd regret. Instead, I reached past him and slammed the power switch back on.
Ducky immediately switched it back off. "If you have suspicions, go to the police, call Gibbs, call the National Guard for the love of heaven but don't be so stupid as to—"
There's that word again. Glowering, I flicked the power back on again. "I am not stupid." (Switch it back off again, I'm gonna pull the emergency bell.)
The elevator arrived at the main lobby level. Just as the doors started to open, he said, "We will continue this discussion tonight," in a very hard voice.
Goody. I can't wait.
/ / /
It's really hard to have a fight when you have almost half a dozen people nearby and you're trying to keep your argument off their radar. But, by god, we were doing it.
"Why in the name of all that is holy would you go there in the first place?" Ducky's voice was so low it was verging on telepathy—about 15db, in my opinion, barely louder than the hum of a light bulb—said in passing as he headed for the kitchen.
"Because Neoma Keithley turned out to be a fake." Sweet tone of voice, close to the same volume, said as I loaded the dishwasher with the teacup and saucer Mother had left at her bedside. I refrained from slamming the door.
"And it didn't occur to you that to protect that masquerade she might have harmed you? Killed you?" He was so pissed, his eyes were such a dark blue they were verging on purple.
I put my hands on my hips. "When we went to the home, we didn't know that." Amazing how sharp you can make your voice while remaining barely audible.
"What the bloody—"
The kitchen door opened. Ducky broke off and I dropped my hands to my sides. "Hey, Imp. What's up?"
Charlie looked at us in turn. "Grandma is just wondering what you plan for dinner," she said, exceedingly polite.
Cooked goose? I thought.
"Chicken parmigiana, salad, baked squash," Ducky rattled off.
"Thank you," she said with a slight inclination of her head. She waited for a moment, looking like she was mulling something over—then walked over, gave Ducky a hug, walked over to me, gave me a hug, and left the kitchen—silent all the while.
"Subtle," I muttered.
"Well, if she knew what you did, even Charlotte could see the foolishness."
"Thereby telling me that a nine year old is smarter than I am! Thanks!" I didn't bother to keep my voice down. I threw my dishtowel on the counter and stalked out of the kitchen—the back door I did slam.
Dinner took forever.
Ducky and I managed not-too-stilted comments; the majority of the conversation was carried by Ev and Lily, with Suzy, Charlie and Mother chiming in every so often. I was pretty sure Mother hadn't picked up on the simmering storm—and I was equally sure the other four had.
Most of the conversation centered around Charlie's going away party the next day; I kept a steno pad next to my plate, jotting down reminders as I thought of them or as someone tossed out a thought. It made it easy to let my mind wander a bit and start seeing things from Ducky's point of view. Mellowing a bit, I'd glance his way—and the set of his jaw would just get me pissed off all over again.
He does have a point.
(Oh, please. I was in no danger.)
Come on, they're targeting people who can afford that place twice over. There's big money riding on this.
(And I have no idea what 'this' is.)
And they have no idea you don't. Wouldn't you be a little paranoid if you were running a criminal operation?
Man. It's gonna suck for either of us to apologize…
After dinner, I kept out of sight. First I headed to the garage, planning on cleaning like crazy—only to find someone had beaten me to it. Probably Ducky; both of us clean when we're pissed off. The backyard was spotless; tables and chairs were ready to be set out in the morning—in addition to the odd spectrum of adults, Charlie had a slew of friends coming ("Just as odd as I am," she happily informed us). Good; the larger the crowd, the easier it would be for Ducky to be one place and me in another—in case we were still at odds with each other.
As I walked back past the house, I could see him in the kitchen, frowning as he rinsed dishes. Great; I can't even go clean up after dinner. I slipped in the front door and went upstairs.
We had told everyone the dress code was casual, happy, party clothes—I couldn't wait to see what Abby would wear. (Or Gibbs, for that matter.) I poked around in "my" closet (I was slowly but surely taking over the closet in the guest room) and dithered like I've never dithered before. Not shorts. Nothing white. (Gibbs had immediately volunteered to run the grill; Ducky jumped on it, swearing nobody could grill like Leroy Jethro Gibbs—and I had visions of gloppy, sloppy burgers ruining my pristine white jeans.) No skirts—it was a humid weekend coming up. What I really wanted was something festive and tasteful—but with the potential to make Mrs. Kemmelbacher choke on her potato salad. Sadly, nothing fit all three requirements—and out of respect for everyone else, I wouldn't wear any of the t-shirts with slogans that were a hard slam against religion that would definitely kill her off. Jeans and… not a t-shirt, I wear those all the time. Ah—perfect. The every-color-of-the-rainbow gauze top I'd picked up on our pre-Book Expo jaunt to Canada. I glanced down at my still-flat (relatively speaking) stomach and couldn't help but smile; I had come home with more than the usual couple-dozen boxes of books this time, that was for sure. I sighed; guess I'll bite the bullet and—
"Mother!" I gasped. I dropped the clothes and leaped for the door. "What are you doing upstairs! You came up on your own? Oh—!"
She pooh-poohed me. Literally. "Oh, pooh. I'm perfectly able to come upstairs when I want to."
"You could have just sent Charlotte up," I fussed.
She cocked an eyebrow. "Little pitchers have big ears," she said with a dark look. "There's no reason Charlotte needs to be exposed to adult squabbles and dirty laundry."
Ouch. I winced.
She sat on the spare bed and patted the comforter. Obediently, if reluctantly, I sat. "What has he done?" she sighed.
Groan.
She looked absolutely distraught. "Oh, Cassandra. You—you aren't going to cry off, are you?" I looked at her blankly. "Cancel the wedding?" she whispered, after a glance toward the door.
"Oh—oh, no, no, nothing like that, everything is good." ("In our family, we don't divorce our men—we bury 'em!" Ruth Gordon's line from Lord Love a Duck popped into my mind and I stifled a giggle. Good grief; I'm turning into Tony DiNozzo's twin.) "You remember—I drew a picture of my gown?"
She smiled in delight. "And it shall be lovely, Cassandra! You'll make a beautiful bride."
"And we'll get an equally pretty mother-of-the-groom dress for you," I promised.
"No one will outshine the bride," she said, kissing my cheek.
"Thank you, Mother." I actually blushed.
"I was so worried…" she sighed.
Oh, dear. Better start working on that apology.
"I was afraid Donald's brother might have caught your fancy."
"No, no—" I stopped short. "Hunh?" I shook my head. "Sorry—I mean—brother? Donald has a brother?" (Since when?)
"Oh, yes. He works for the government, too. I don't see him often, perhaps once every few years or so…"
"I—ah—oh. Okay. Well, um—what's his name?"
She frowned. "My gracious. For the life of me, I can't remember," she said, clearly astonished. (Hey, my mother used to confuse me with my cousin Trixie. In her defense, we did look a lot alike.) "How surprising. But—it's not important, dear. So long as you're still smitten with Donald."
I managed to not laugh. "Yes. I am." Smitten with, pissed off at, you name it.
"Good." She leaned close. "Don't go to bed angry," she whispered. She straightened up. "Charlotte is going to read The Grand Sophy to me. Would you care to join us?"
"Maybe?" I managed. I was still trying to catch up on our conversation. She smiled happily, gave me another buss on the cheek for good measure and toddled from the room. I sat for several minutes; when Allen Funt didn't pop out of the closet, I scooped my clothes up from the floor, left them on the bed and wandered from the room, literally colliding with Ducky in the hall.
He still looked pissed—but his expression changed to mild concern as he looked at me. "What's wrong?"
"I'm—not sure—" I said slowly.
He quickly pulled me into our bedroom and shut the door. "Are you ill? Are you in pain?"
"No, no—I'm fine—I just had a… strange… conversation with Mother."
"And this differs from the rest of your conversations with her how?"
"Well—this is the first time she's mentioned your brother," I said with a questioning look.
I was half-expecting, 'Argh! She spilled the family secret before our nuptials! My evil twin, Skippy, has ruined my life again!' either in melodrama or a more truthful variant. But all I got was a baffled, "Brother? I haven't any brother. I'm an only child."
"Well, Mother thinks you have a brother," I said with a small laugh. "He works for the government, 'too.'" I made quote marks in the air.
Light dawned. "Oh, good heavens. They were all watching the Sleuth channel when I arrived home. The Man From U.N.C.L.E.," he filled in.
Ah. Yeah—from his pictures in the photo album, back in the 60s and 70s—yeah, there was a definite resemblance. I shook my head in amusement.
"Oh, Mother…"
"And—she said not to go to bed angry," I said hesitantly.
He sighed and I could see the still simmering anger fade. "Oh… Cassandra," he said in almost the same tone.
I all but fell into his arms and our apologies tangled in the air. Tears on both sides, salty kisses seasoning the mix and can't-let-go hugs bracketing the whole.
"I could barely concentrate all day, I kept envisioning worse and worse scenarios—"
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—it's just bugging me—Neoma was trying so hard—" I gasped. "I told you her name's not Neoma—"
"Yes—" He frowned and walked us over to sit on the foot of the bed. "Tell me everything that happened." I hesitated. "I promise—no more yelling." He brought my hands up and kissed them.
I started with my phone call to John Mulder a few weeks ago, covered his trip the other day, the photographs I'd looked at, and finished with our trips to the facility and the real Neoma Keithley. And I swore that from here on out, I'd keep him in the loop no matter how trivial it was.
"Thank god she didn't do any real nursing care—"
"Amen to that."
"But why would she do this in the first place?"
I shrugged, resisting the temptation to say 'I told you so.' Now he was as curious as I was. "I wonder if Suzy ever ran into Shelly?"
"Or, given their ages—if Suzy ever crossed paths with the real Neoma Keithley," Ducky suggested.
"Hmm…"
/ / /
We stopped by the kitchen on the way to the living room. There had been plenty of dessert left over—key lime chiffon pie (courtesy Lily) (she was teaching Mother and Charlie how to make it and there were three for heaven's sake)—and Ducky and I both wanted seconds before joining whatever game was in progress.
My hand slipped while slicing and I ended up with a piece of pie twice what I had planned. "Dang it." I moved the slice aside and made to cut in half.
Ducky grinned. "We could share…"
So some fifteen minutes later when Charlie stumbled in for seconds of her own (and a slice for her grandma), she discovered us feeding the last bites of pie to each other and being silly as all get-out. "Oh!" she said with a delighted smile and started to back out of the kitchen.
"No need to flee," Ducky laughed. "Were you here on a particular errand?"
"Pie?" she asked meekly. "Two slices?"
"How large?"
"Grandma would like 'a sliver,'" she said. She accepted the first plate with a slice about an inch wide. "That would be fine," she said when he stopped the knife at the midpoint of the size we'd ended up with. "Thank you!" She took the second plate and flew out of the kitchen.
"Our squabble was the six o'clock news—this should be an emergency bulletin break-in," Ducky predicted.
Close. When we joined the others in the living room, everyone was smiling like they were in a political ad flogging how wonnnnnnnderful candidate X is. Charlie was snuggled in a corner of the sofa, reading to an enraptured Victoria and Suzy, Ev and Lily were in the middle of a game of Clue.
Make that the end of a game of Clue. "Mrs. White, conservatory, wrench," Suzy rattled off.
Lily opened the envelope and sighed. "I don't want to play with you, you always win."
"Mommy—be a gracious loser," came floating from a corner of the sofa and then Charlie was back reading Mother's be-all-end-all favorite Regency romance.
Charlie's tone had been as teasing as Lily's had been. "It's just a variant on logic puzzles," Suzy said, unruffled. She glanced up. "Joining us?"
"Sure." I plopped on the floor and Ducky sat on the couch, right angle to me. "Hey, Suzy," I said casually. "You know the nurse who was here before you?"
She frowned as she shuffled the cards. "I'm sure they mentioned her name, but it escapes me right now."
"Neoma Keithley?" I suggested. Evelyn rolled her eyes.
Suzy thought for a moment. "Thirty, thirty-five, dark hair? Quiet? Kind of—" She searched for the right word. "Quirky?"
"That's the one."
"Met her a couple of times at the agency. I was expecting someone else—I worked with a Neoma at Walter Reed, gosh, thirty years ago? We used to trade recipes, that was why I remembered her. She—the younger one—said that was her grandmother. Not very chatty—junior, that is."
Now I was doubly glad not to have asked Suzy to be our spy. "Runs in the family." I shivered. Neoma/Shelly had said something similar.
"No argument from me. My mother was a nurse, two of my three aunts were nurses, the third taught nursing at GW, my uncle was a nurse and my grandmother was a doctor."
"Your grandmother?" I repeated.
"Yep. Women in med school were not common back then. One of her professors actually said to her face, 'You're just here to land a husband. Why don't you drop out and let a gentleman more deserving of the spot step in?'" She quickly dealt out the cards. "She graduated third in her class," she added with a smug look.
"So there," I said and Suzy laughed. For the next minute or two we made little x's in little boxes on our play sheets. "So. You ever hear of a place called There's No Place Like Home?" I rolled a 5 and handed the die to Ducky.
"Retirement community, minor nursing home, exemplary Alzheimer's care," she said promptly. "High marks across the board." Her brow creased and she glanced at Victoria and back to us. "You're not—"she said softly.
"Oh, no, no—" Both Ducky and I hurried to assure/reassure her. Ducky rolled a 6.
"I was just curious because—Neoma—" I stumbled over the name. "—was trying very hard to get Victoria to move into there." She gave me a 'go on, go on' look. "She stopped pushing when she discovered all the money is in Ducky's name." I nodded my head in his direction. Suzy frowned more. "Did you ever hear anything about her and No Place at the agency?"
"No—but they'd like to know she's poaching in their waters, I'm sure." Lily had rolled a 1 and started her play. Suzy waited for Ev to play and to move her own marker as well before continuing. "I did find it a little puzzling," she said, handing me the dice.
"What was that?" I moved three squares (big whup) and passed the dice to Ducky.
"The coordinator at CompanionAbles tried to get Neoma to sign up for cases with more medical need but she refused. She said she only wanted companion posts, that she needed some "de-stressing" time. I'm here because they're understaffed and don't have a CNA to send out—but she was flat-out asking for only CNA positions."
Ducky and I exchanged a glance, one that wasn't missed by Suzy Sharp Eyes.
She cast her eyes toward the corner where Victoria was a rapt audience for Charlie doing all the voices in her favorite book. "Care to explain that?"
I looked at Ducky and he sighed. "I want you to ignore your instinctive response," he said, voice low. Suzy nodded slowly, eyes wary. "Cassandra has discovered that Neoma—the Neoma who worked here, the granddaughter of the Neoma you knew—is not the real Neoma."
Suzy paled. "She's—an imposter?" She managed to keep her voice as low as Ducky's.
"Her sister," I supplied. "Shelly. Her sister, Amanda Neoma, is the nurse. Shelly studied with her sister in college, so she knows the lingo, knows the procedures. She's smart enough to pass and smart enough to not take a posting beyond her abilities."
Suzy was furious and working to keep her voice down. "But it could end up beyond her abilities!" Her voice was low—and hard. "What would have happened if Victoria had taken a fall—or—or a heart attack—"
"I have someone at The Post who is working on this—a friend of Lily's. There's something sneaky going on and I want to find out what it is."
"Dr. Mallard, I cannot allow her to put patients at risk!"
Ducky sighed. "I understand your feelings. I've been trying to find out a way of alerting CompanionAbles, of alerting the authorities, without spooking Shelly. Patients at the home could be at risk if we do. We daren't chance a—a Jonestown ending if they feel their exploits have been compromised."
"But to have her out there—"
We were all ignoring the game. "Hey, this is a long shot." Lily leaned forward. "I could call in, say I remembered her from being here and I could use a companion around the house while I'm recovering."
Ev looked skeptical. "You? Need help? Nobody would ever buy it."
"Nobody who knows me well, maybe. She doesn't. And when I get up in the morning and don't put on my face, you know I look like death warmed over in a cold oven. I can 'play sick,'" Lily said with a shade of defensiveness in her voice.
"You could make it convincing," Ducky said with a small nod to Evelyn.
"I?" she said doubtfully. "How?"
"You could call in instead of Lily. Say that you're concerned she's trying to do too much… I could call Dr. Sheldon and put a bug in his ear."
"Hopefully she's not on another case," Suzy fretted.
"Well, she wasn't on assignment yesterday. She was at the home—and not in uniform."
"You went there?" Lily gasped. She and Ev turned and looked at each other then back at me. The subtitle was plainly, 'No wonder Ducky was pissed at her.' For the second time in an hour, I gave a blow-by-blow description of the past few days (minus the pregnancy tests, of course). Suzy looked slightly mollified—though I'm sure it re-stressed Ducky, knowing Shelly and I had passed within inches of each other.
"What do you think is going on?" Shelly asked.
I spread my hands and shrugged. "No clue. It doesn't sound deadly—Mulder checked, they don't have a high number of deaths, and none seem suspicious. I'm thinking financial—they ask for everything but your blood type and DNA on their paperwork—but nobody we talked to is being double billed or anything like that. Maybe identity theft? Open up cards in the patients' names? They're allowed to get mail there, it would be easy to divert statements—"
"That's actually a good idea," Evelyn said.
"'Actually?'" I bristled.
"No insult meant—jeez, you're touchy lately," Ev said, giving me a speculative look.
"I rather raked her over the coals today," Ducky said quickly. "Quite ungentlemanly and unkind. And uncalled-for."
Way to go, Ducky. Neatly diverting her suspicions over my emotional state and taking the blame at the same time.
Ev lifted an eyebrow. "We, uh, figured that out."
"All's forgiven," I said, giving him a peck on the cheek.
"So." Ev pointed to Ducky. "You call Dr. Sheldon." She pointed to herself. "I'll call Dr. Sheldon. I'll call CompanionAbles."
"Question." Suzy held up her hand. "If Shelly is using CompanionAbles to troll for wealthy clientele for the home—won't she turn down the assignment?"
"Maybe," I admitted. "But look at it from management's view—customer calls in with a lightweight assignment, specifically asks for one employee—and that employee says no? Unless the employee has one hell of a good reason for refusing, my radar would go nuts. And that's exactly what Shelly wants to avoid."
"Good point," Suzy acknowledged. "Hold that thought." She pulled out her cell phone and put in a speed dial code. "Hey, Phoebs, it's Suzy Bailey." She listened a minute, then laughed. "No, I love it! Dr. Mallard is a doll, I adore Victoria—everyone here is wonderful." The 'doll' ducked his head and blushed. "I have a question. Someone who met my predecessor is in need of a nurse-companion for a bit. Nothing medical, really—just recovery from surgery and she's trying to do too much too soon. Her family wants to bring someone in, they're going to get an official order from her physician—but she was very taken with Neoma—why?" She looked panicked for a moment.
"Quite. Unruffled. Calm. Competent." Ducky rattled off adjectives.
"She was very calm, very quiet, that's what this patient needs. Not happy-go-lucky like I am." She frowned. "Methodical?" All of us nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, that was a big plus." She cocked her head. "Oh. Oh, okay, I'll let her know. Right. Thanks, Phoebe." She shut the phone. "There's No Place Like Home put in a request for 'Neoma' a couple of weeks ago. She'll be there until the end of summer."
"She's not masquerading as Neoma—Romero introduced her as his wife, and a number of the residents know her as Shelly. No uniform, no badge. So she's out of the loop for the duration."
"Unless she's working through a second agency," Suzy frowned. "I'm signed up with five."
Ev smiled brightly. "I'll just call the home for info on Monday. If they say she's working there through the summer, I shall be appropriately sad," she said with a heavy sigh and drooped shoulders.
Suzy snorted. "Yeah. Right." She looked around the board. "Whose turn is it?"
It took us a moment or two to backtrack and figure out it was—oops, me. I rolled, plucked a clue card and eliminated the candlestick as the weapon. Ten minutes later we had a winner.
Suzy.
Again.
/ / /
Even though 'the other family members' would be in evidence Saturday afternoon—all afternoon—everyone was pretty chipper as we tumbled off to bed.
"I'm surprised Ev and Lily didn't lock us in the closet," I said as Ducky and I hit the upstairs landing. I ducked into the spare room and snagged my clothes from the bed so whoever ended up sleeping up there wouldn't have to play chambermaid. (The argument was still going on. Suzy felt Lily and Ev should have the bed, since Lily was still recuperating. They felt that as the elder of the three of them, she should have the spare room, and were trying to say it in such a way that it wasn't an insult. They'd been at it for five minutes already.)
When I came back out, Ducky was standing there with a curious look. "Why?"
"To get us to make up."
"Ah." He slipped an arm about my waist, tucking his hand in my back pocket. "Could be fun. You want to fight again?"
"No," I said firmly. "Fighting is no fun."
"But making up is," he teased. "We could—hullo, what have we here?"
A CD sat smack in the middle of our bed, framed by two roses I recognized from the back yard. The CD was labeled "play me."
"How very Alice In Wonderland-ish."
"That's Evelyn's handwriting," I said. "Approach with caution."
Holding it out like it was a petri dish full of plague virus, he walked over to the dresser and popped it into the music station that had mysteriously appeared about a month after we started spending the night together on a regular basis. (I like to have music around me. Ducky had no objections.)
Strains of "I Can't Help Falling in Love With You" drifted from the speakers. I laughed and Ducky shook his head. "Gotta be Charlie. She's the big Elvis fan in their house."
Ducky held out a hand. "May I have this dance?"
I placed my hand in his and let him draw me closer. "I'd love to."
We swayed around the room from one song to the next, song after song, dance after dance, eventually ending with a repeat of Elvis. Yeah—Charlie was the mixmaster. We set the CD to play again when we finally tumbled into bed; with "Everything I Do" playing quietly in the background we made love slowly and gently, falling asleep in each others' arms as the songs faded away and the calendar turned the page to Saturday.
5