A Steal of a Deal (24 page)
I roll over on my left side, which takes some doing, since that’s where they have me leashed to the IV pole but also where I’m less scraped, close my eyes, and pray for rest. “Goodbye, gang. Don’t come back for a couple of hours. I love you all, but right now, I love sleep more.”
The only thing I hear is the
click-click
of high heels against the hard hospital floor, followed by the soft slap of the closing door.
Peace. At last.
I’m the victim of a conspiracy.
Fine. You can tell me I’ve lost my mind. Conspiracies are the stuff of lunatics. Or so they say. But I know better.
Don’t laugh. It’s true. The forces of torture have come together to keep me from getting any decent sleep. Someone, and never the same someone, wakes me up every time I try.
See? Conspiracy.
How are they conspiring, you ask? Let me tell ya. About forty minutes after I kick out the Terrible Trio, a torture specialist disguised as a nurse wakes me up to take my vitals. Then, when she decides she’s done poking and prodding, she offers me—get this—a sleeping pill.
“Is there any chance,” I ask, “that you could let me sleep when I’m sleeping? I mean, that’s not when I need a sleeping pill.”
“Yu do vat I say, and I do my yob,” she shoots back.
“Oh-kay. How soon can I get out of here?”
“Ask dock-torr.”
My first instinct—and they’re not nearly as rotten as Max says—is to pick up the phone, call this prison’s business office, and threaten to cancel my health insurance company’s payments if they don’t spring me
now
.
But then, with my luck, they’d stick me with the minor fortune this little spree through the health care system is sure to cost. Goodness knows I can’t pay it on my own. Especially not now that I have to replace my brand-new car.
I’m going to have to scrabble down deep to find any patience to exercise. The “dock-torrrrrrrrr” will do rounds at least once tomorrow. That’s when I’ll make my move. A move out of here, of course.
I have a creep, if not more than one, to track down.
The fire and the break-ins—plural, since I know my backpack, like the Kashmir footage, was stolen—could have been carried out by more than one perp.
Who they might be, I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.
Then I sleep again, only to wake up to the “dock-torrrr” and Nurse Evil-Eye discussing my case. “Hey! I’m here. Please wake me up the next time you stop by to talk about me.”
Nurse Evil-Eye gives me a know-it-all glare. “Yu said to leaf you sleep next time.”
I blush. “Well, yes. I did. But you knew I wanted to speak with the dock—” I stop, catch myself before she can accuse me of making fun of her, which I really don’t want to do, no matter how smart-mouthed I tend to be.
“Dr. . . .” I read his name tag. “Dr. Billings, aside from my ruined hair and a couple of burns and scrapes, I’m really okay. I’d like to sign myself out.”
We waste the next nine or so minutes arguing, during which he flashes the equivalent of a laser beam into my poor eyes, but in the end I remind both medical professionals that the law allows me to accept responsibility for my health.
The doctor sighs. “Very well, Miss Adams. I’ll have the paperwork prepared. But from what I hear, you no longer have a car, and you’re in no condition to drive even if you did, so you will need to call for transportation.”
“Thank you. I’ll call my aunt.”
Aunt Weeby, of course, is aghast. She tries to talk me out of my “lunacy,” but I’m determined. There’s not much I can do in the hospital but steam and stew. That won’t get me anywhere but into a permanent state of migraine. Dr. Billings does give me a prescription for horse-pill-sized painkillers. I’m grateful and I let him know.
In the end, it’s Davina who comes to pick me up, chauffeurs me to Miss Mona’s mini-mansion, and helps haul me to bed.
But before I crawl under the fluffy duvet and lay my head on the cloudlike pillows, I kneel on the superplush carpet to hook into my Andie-to-God line. I thank him for my life, for the home Miss Mona’s happy to share, for the blessings I still have.
I also ask for his help in deciphering this sapphire mess. With every instinct screaming against it, but with every scratch, bruise, and burn begging for it, I pop one of the pain pills, and in a blink or so, I zonk out.
By the time I wake up with a clear head, since I’ve finally rested, I know what I have to do. I grab the bedside phone and call the salon for an appointment. Clumpy, Bozo the Clown hair went out of style a long time ago.
And I need a measure of normalcy to carry on.
Think about it. We go on a missions’ trip. But somewhere along the way, Miss Mona changes it to a business trip, one where we plan to film legendary mines. Who shows up?
Yep. Max does.
Two Kashmiri smugglers get snuffed out. Why?
Because there are Kashmir sapphires involved.
Who leaves the scene of the crime, so to speak, the minute he can flee the scrutiny and the heat?
You got it: Max.
Who’s lurking in the fire’s background? Max.
Who’s on-site for the burglaries? Max.
All right. You have a point. I don’t know that I believe he bashed his own head. But let’s not get hung up on that detail, since there’s also the bombed car. And who was on-site for that too? Max again.
You do see the light at the end of my California gem-dunce surfer boy nightmare tunnel, don’t you? I’ll finally get to ditch the gemologically uninformed cohost. Yeah, the one cozying up to Glory at late-night dinners.
Once he’s gone, the pain pills better work on heartache.
Garbed in another of Miss Mona’s warm-up suits, this one lilac with fuchsia racing stripes down the sides of the legs—
shudder
—I hit the salon and leave the rest of my home-fried frizz on the cutting floor. To my surprise, the short-short cut looks over-the-top chic.
My next stop is Macy’s—a girl needs something to wear other than a senior citizen’s workout wear. Forty-five minutes later, in a pair of tailored, soft-gray linen slacks and a pale gold silk top, I begin to feel more like myself. I’m happy to recognize—again—how much confidence nice clothes can give you.
Then I head to Miss Mona’s to use the phone—my cell’s with whomever pinched my backpack. No one should be at the Latimer home right now, so I won’t have to worry about sneaky eavesdroppers. The Daunting Duo decided at breakfast that, in order to feel themselves again, they have to—
have
to—hit the flea-market circuit for the day. How junking can possibly help, I’ll never know. But, since it works well into my plans, I can’t complain.
You see, I’m about to dance the fine line between creative evasion and perjury. Why, you ask? To investigate Max’s past once and for all.
Armed with the gem-dunce’s bio and a brand-new yellow legal pad, I call the police department in Podunk-in-the-middle-of-nowhere, Missouri, where Max used to read the weather for the local TV station.
I launch my spiel. “Hi. This is Autumn Adams with the S.T.U.D. Network. Because of a number of unfortunate events, we’re investigating the backgrounds of all our current and former employees. I need a copy of Mr. Maxwell Matthews’ criminal record—arrests of any sort, complaints filed. You know the drill.”
The silence on the other end makes me wonder what kind of blunder I’ve made. “I’m new at this,” I add. “So if I need to fax something to you, please let me know.”
“We don’t normally do things this way, but since I remember Mr. Matthews from when he reported our weather here, and I know he has no record, I don’t have a problem telling you that over the phone.”
“Oh.” I can’t stop the disappointment from leaking into my voice. “I see. No record? No speeding tickets? No parking violations? No murder convictions?”
The answer is a very final click.
After four more tries with the same results, I come to a reluctant realization. Unless our Max has assumed the identity of the über-law-abiding and ultra-booooooring real Max Matthews, the guy’s clean as the proverbial whistle. Four police departments; no issues.
I get nothing on him. Zero. Zip. Zilch.
If past performance predicts future action, then Max isn’t our perp.
The half of me that feels a heart tug every time I see him rejoices. The half of me that’s desperate to find the creep who’s terrorizing us groans. I have to dig deeper, cast a wider net to come up with other potential smugglers-cum-arsonists-cum-vandals-cum-killers and bombers as well.
I’m starting to believe I’m not going to find them within the S.T.U.D. family. So who, if not one of ours? The Rus-sells? If I remember correctly, they’re from somewhere out west. I can’t see one of them zipping cross-country to wreak havoc in our lives . . .
Now that I have to consider that, I’m not thrilled to note it’s time for me to head in to the studio. I have to get together with—who else?—Max so we can plan our first post-Kashmir show.
First, though, I’ll have to call for a rental car. I do need wheels, even to hit the car dealerships as soon as my insurance claim is approved. Isn’t it awesome when car-rental companies pick you up wherever you’re stuck?
After I drop off my rescuer back at his office and while there, sign the million papers for the rental contract, I head to the S.T.U.D., where my new hair creates a sensation.
Allison’s eyes go huge. “Oooh, Andie! I love it. Of course, we’re going to have to play around with your makeup to make the most of your cheekbones. You’re going to look faboo!” “The camera’s going to love you.” Hannah, my usual camerawoman, narrows her eyes and tilts her head to get a better look. “Oh, yes. This is nice. You should have cut it sooner.” “Sure thing, Hannah.” I wink. “Next time you think I need a makeover I’ll call the local arsonist and have him do his thing. Just for you.”
Hannah laughs. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it, you brat.”
“Okay. I’m a brat. But I’m a live brat.” Memories of the fire and the bombed car will take time to fade. “One that thanks the Lord for his mercies, but also one that has to get to work. Anybody know where I might find Max?”
“I saw him wandering the halls earlier,” Marcie, our kitchen specialty host, says. “But that was hours ago. You’ll have to look for him. I think his SUV’s still in the lot.”
Figures I’d have to hunt him down. “See ya!”
I run into my dressing room, turn a blind eye to the mess still strewn where the vandal threw it, drop my purse—a beautiful new, plain-leather non-Coach one—on my desk, and walk back out. As I head down the hall, I hear a too-familiar
craack
coming from the direction of Mr. Magnificent’s dressing room.
The door’s not fully closed. I go in. “Hey! We’re supposed to plan a show, not whack golf balls. Miss Mona’s gonna just love it if you blast out one of your fancy-schmancy soundproof windows.”
His eyes bug out. “Andie? Is that really you?”
I roll my eyes. “Who else would I be? Do I look like an alien life force who dropped down onto your poor banged-up head?”
He touches his bandage. “That pain might not be so bad. I’m sure the alien wouldn’t have such a smart mouth.”
“I’m not going there.”
But neither is he going to work. Instead of joining me so we can check inventory, he drops another golf ball on his Astroturf putting thingamajig, fixated on his game.
He does his foot-to-foot-to-foot pre-swing wiggle, taking his time to aim.
“Didn’t you hear me?” I ask. “We have a show to plan. Not Tiger Woods to beat.”
“You don’t know when to stop, do you?” he says, his words crisp and short, his tone controlled. “Give me a minute. I only have another two balls, and then I’ll go with you to the vault.”
“Don’t you think that after all that’s happened, we might have a bunch of other things to do after we plan the show? You know—things to do, places to go, problems to solve? You lost your wallet too, so we both have to take care of that. Maybe we can hit the license bureau together—”
WHAMMO!
He lets loose with more oomph than he should have. The ball misses the contraption rigged up to simulate the hole in the green, but hits his desk with a sickening
thud
, leaves a dent in the wood, and then bounces back to roll to a stop at my feet.
“Good work,” I murmur.
“I’d like to see you do better, especially with a pest buzzing at your ears.”
“I don’t have time for games.”
He crosses his arms and gives me a head-to-toe stare. “I bet you can’t hit the ball if you try.”
I slam my fists on my hips. “Is that a dare, Matthews?”
“Take it any way you like, Andi-ana Jones.”
Something tells me I’m asking for trouble, but I’ve yet to make myself let a dare go unchallenged. “Give me the stupid club. How hard can it be to hit a dumb ball with a steel stick so it plunks into a hole in the ground? Little kids play golf all the time. I’ve seen them when I drive by the course.”
“Go for it. After all, it’s only child’s play.” He laughs. “But if you can’t hit the cup, then you owe me.”
Whoa!
That didn’t figure into my calculations. “What exactly do I owe you?”
“A snipe-free work environment would suit me just fine.” I suck in a toe-deep hard breath. It’s not that I don’t want to pay up should I lose; it’s more a matter of whether I
can
control my tongue should he win.
God? Are you behind Max’s dare? I never thought you’d
use a dare to get a point across . . . and we both know I have
major issues with my outta-control mouth
.
I’ve known God to use the oddest means to get my attention in the past.
Gulp.
That’s when Max seals my fate. He sticks his hands in his armpits, flaps his elbows, does a bent-knee waddle, and clucks. “Not up to the challenge, I see.”
His superior tone and the outrageous chicken taunt are more than I can take. “Give me that club.”
“Gladly.”
Club in hand—it weighs a whole lot more than I expect it to—dread swirls into my gut. It’s not the swinging part or the hitting part that scares me. It’s the getting-the-ball-inthe-hole part that inspires sudden respect.
But it’s too late to back off. “Here goes,” I say in my chirpiest, perkiest voice.