The Graves of the Guilty (Hope Street Church Mysteries Book 3) (4 page)

Her friends nodded fearfully.

“Well, I’ve had another one since then. These biopsy results say that I have a mass that’s not benign.” She spat out the word as though it were an enemy. “I, Trish Tyler, have cancer. Right here.” She folded her hands across her heart and then fanned them out across her chest. “I have breast cancer. The serious kind.”

Jubilant music calling people to worship tripped down the corridors of the church wing housing the school, but none of the Sunrise Bible Study members responded to the melody. The unhindered shrieks of children racing down the hall toward their Sunday School classes, the cheerful exclamations of adults greeting one another, and the increasing volume of the drumbeat emanating from within the chapel produced a cacophony of merriment that seemed to mock the atmosphere in the biology classroom.

“I’m sorry.” Trish hid her face in her hands. “I didn’t mean to let it out this way. I’m so mixed up right now. I go from brave to being scared out of my mind, to angry, to yelling curses in the privacy of my shower, to crying so hard I have to pull the car off the road and park. Right now, I’m just really, really tired.”

Savannah eased herself from behind her desk and walked carefully over to where Trish sat. Putting both arms around her distraught friend, she whispered, “Tell us everything.”

“I’ve been diagnosed with grade-two cancer, which means that they couldn’t just cut the bad cells out and send me on my way. I had surgery right after Christmas—I didn’t want to spoil things for the girls so I insisted on waiting a few days—and they removed the masses, but it wasn’t enough. My test results show that they didn’t get everything. I still have cancer cells growing inside of me.”

Jake gave her a stern look. “You should’ve told us, you stubborn woman. Least we could’ve prayed for you while you were going through all that.”

Surprisingly, Trish smiled. “I was in serious denial three weeks ago. I figured if I didn’t tell anyone it would just go away.”

“Do you need chemo?” Quinton asked softly.

Trish picked up the loose strands of hair and began winding them around and around her index finger. “Yes. In fact, I’ve already started. I had my first dose on Thursday.”

“Oh, Trish.” Cooper’s eyes grew moist.

“I get another dose next week. Through an IV. It takes about an hour. That should finish off what’s left of my hair. And here I thought my auburn hair dye, the blow dryer, and the flat iron would be the ones to fry my gorgeous locks.” Trish offered up a crooked grin. “Guess it’s a good thing I had the photo taken for my Tyler Fine Properties billboard last summer.”

“Woman, you’re going to look smoking hot with no hair,” Jake teased. “Like that singer, Sinead somethin’ or other. Or Demi Moore when she shaved her head for that
G.I. Jane
movie.”

“I think you’d look nice in a wig, too,” Nathan added kindly. “You could channel Princess Di one day and Cleopatra the next.”

“Thanks, you two. But either way, the hair is going.” She gripped Savannah’s hand with sudden desperation. “I don’t want to do it myself, though. I know I’m going to get upset when I see the results. Would you . . . ?” She faltered.

“We’ll come over whenever you’re ready,” Savannah promised and gave Trish’s hands a compassionate squeeze. “Though you might want to pick someone other than
me
to do the shaving.” She smiled. “We’ll all be there to help you through this. Not just the losing your hair part, but every single moment of terror, anger, doubt, and grief.”

Bryant also got up and walked over to Trish. “That’s right. We’ll cook for you—well, the rest of them will cook and I’ll buy takeout—drive you places, go to the doctor’s with you, and listen to you vent.”

“Thank you.” Trish sniffed and sat in silence for a moment. “Listen, I’d rather not talk about this anymore if that’s okay. Let’s go worship now.”

“After we pray for you,” Cooper insisted and everyone immediately reached out for a friend’s hand.

Savannah closed her eyes. “I am too unsettled to come up with any words of my own, so I will rely on Scripture. Please turn to Isaiah forty-one, verse ten, and read aloud with me.” She pulled Trish’s hands toward her own and bent over them, so that her breath fell directly onto the sick woman’s skin.

So do not fear, for I am with you;

do not be dismayed, for I am your God.

I will strengthen you and help you;

I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

One by one, the members of the Sunrise Bible Study stood up and placed their hands on Trish’s body. They touched her shoulders, her back, her arms, her hands, the top of her head, and her face.

“You will not face this alone,” someone whispered. “We are with you.”

“Amen,” Trish murmured through her tears.

3

The next Monday at work, Cooper found it difficult not to think about Trish. Like most people, she was aware that a great many people were affected by some form of cancer. She’d noticed the yellow bracelets made popular by Lance Armstrong, pink ribbons pinned to shirt collars, and the amusing
Save the Ta-tas
T-shirts, but the disease had never touched her personally.

Of course she’d met cancer survivors and friends whose family members had either beaten or succumbed to the disease, but this was the first time someone she cared about was engaged in a battle for her life. In many ways, that’s how Cooper saw Trish—as a soldier—an unsuspecting, preoccupied individual drafted to wage war upon a silent and potentially lethal microscopic enemy.

Cooper had no problem imagining Trish as a warrior. She could envision her red-haired friend hunched in some muddy trench, a rifle clenched against her chest—her violet eyes blazing and unafraid. If anyone had the willpower to overcome adversity, it was Trish. Cooper tried to focus on her friend’s strength instead of the scary
what-if
questions that kept creeping into her mind.

The workday proved to be another long one and Cooper was grateful to be too busy to brood. All three of the Make It Work! repair staff—Ben, Emilio, and Cooper—spent the day completing the last of the Canon copier manufacture recalls. Just when Cooper thought she must have replaced the millionth faulty drum in Richmond, Angela rushed over to the van and slapped another work order against the glass of the driver’s window.

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” she said when Cooper opened the door to receive the paper. “I know it’s almost five, but a call came in from one of the higher-ups at the Bank of Richmond. He’s fit to be tied. Seems the man came back from vacation in
Fiji
to find his executive secretary’s copier broken.” Angela rolled her eyes. “Could you imagine what would happen if he ran across a real emergency? Anyway, I had the pleasure of speakin’ to him and he was as rude as a rush-hour driver. If the bank didn’t have such a big account with us, I’d tell him to go stuff himself like a Thanksgiving turkey, but someone has to tend to that machine.” She shook her head. “I feel for the poor woman who’s gotta deal with him day in and day out. There isn’t a salary on this earth worth that kind of misery.”

“We can’t all have bosses as great as Mr. Farmer,” Cooper said, knowing how Angela adored their employer. The two had recently begun dating and now Angela’s desk resembled the inside of a florist’s refrigerator. “I doubt Mr. Bank of Richmond presented
his
administrative assistant with a bouquet of blue hydrangeas this morning.”

Angela clasped her hands together. “Isn’t Mr. Farmer dreamy?” She fluttered her false eyelashes and sashayed out of the garage, her patent leather heels clicking happily with every step.

“Dreamy?” Cooper asked her image in the rearview mirror, but her reflection was equally nonplussed. “If you’re into middle-aged men who hole up in their offices drooling over
Popular Mechanics
and can easily double for Danny DeVito, then dreamy’s pretty accurate, I guess.”

Her amusement over the attraction between Angela and their boss didn’t last long. The executive secretary at the bank’s plush investment branch was the antithesis of Angela. A curvaceous platinum blonde favoring tight pencil skirts, snug sweaters with plunging necklines, and dangerously high heels, Angela spoke to everyone with a sincere and cheerful manner. The Bank of Richmond secretary neither smiled nor greeted Cooper, but grunted and tapped her watch the moment Cooper entered the office.

“I’m Felicia Hawkins,” the reedy, thin-lipped woman announced and eyed the name tag on Cooper’s gray uniform shirt with disdain. “Cooper? Is that a person’s name or a brand name?”

“It’s a family name,” Cooper said politely, looking around for the copier. She spied the Canon in the hallway behind Felicia and moved to step around the stern-faced secretary so she could complete her task quickly and call it a day.

“I assume you won’t be charging the bank for this service,” Felicia said when Cooper passed by. “Your faulty copiers have greatly inconvenienced Mr. Goldvolger.”

The image of Ian Fleming’s Goldfinger appeared in Cooper’s mind. She could picture his meaty, ringed hand stroking a white longhaired cat while he and his cohorts cackled in villainous mirth. Looking down at Felicia’s black, squared-toed loafers, she grinned and wondered whether a blade had been built into one of their soles.

“Did I say something amusing?” Felicia growled and Cooper shook her head, hustling over to the copier. She unpacked her tools and began to unscrew the machine’s back panel, expecting the secretary to grow disinterested and return to her desk, but the older woman leaned against the wall, crossed her arms, and watched Cooper with a strange look in her eyes.

“How did you get into this line of work?” she asked, her tone laced with disapproval. “I’ve never seen a woman service our machines before. Are you certain you’re capable of handling this repair?”

Now Cooper understood why Ben routinely handled the Bank of Richmond account. “I’m good with machines,” she replied modestly, refusing to be drawn into an argument. “Fixing them is like putting together a jigsaw puzzle. You just need to see which piece is missing or damaged or dirty.”

To Cooper’s surprise, the woman pulled a cigarette from her shirt pocket and lit it. “Well, I’m good at crosswords. Does that mean I could repair jet planes?”

Why is she baiting me?
Cooper thought and then felt inspired to say, “I bet you could, if you set your mind to it.” She sat up and placed the faulty drum on one of her blue rags. Studying the other woman’s face, she detected genuine unhappiness beneath the layer of foundation and etchings of premature wrinkles. “What would your ideal job be, Ms. Hawkins, if you could choose one?”

At first, Cooper thought the secretary wasn’t going to respond. The woman closed her eyes, puffed on her cigarette, and only opened them again in order to flick ash into the potted ficus. A cloud of nicotine-scented smoke floated Cooper’s way and she immediately felt a pull of longing. It would be so easy to simply ask the secretary for a cigarette, but she rooted around in her toolbox until she came up with a breath mint. Concentrating on the sharp peppermint flavor, Cooper picked up a pair of pliers and prepared to finish her work on the copier.

The woman across from her remained mute for several minutes.

“This certainly isn’t what I thought I’d end up doing,” Felicia finally said. “I’m almost fifty years old and I’ve wasted my life waiting on men who’ve completely taken me for granted.” She stubbed the cigarette out in the soil, twisting it back and forth as if she wished to singe the dirt. “Yet, none of them could last a day without me. I prepare all their reports, research market trends, write their speeches, buy presents for their wives, their children, and sometimes their girlfriends, and
never
receive a word of thanks.” She sighed. “Do you know what I’ve always wanted to do?”

Cooper put down her tools and gave Felicia her full attention. “No, ma’am.”

“Work at an auction house,” Felicia whispered and then made a noise that might have been a suppressed laugh or a dry cough. “I even practice helping customers during my commute to work. The people who drive by and see me blithering to myself must think I’m not far from being committed to the psych ward.”

“Sounds cool,” Cooper said. “An antique auction? That kind of thing?”

Now Felicia did laugh. “No! I want to work at an auto auction. I love cars! My father was a mechanic, so I guess it’s in my blood. He and I used to spend every weekend at an auto auction, reveling in the excitement. Have you ever seen a boy buying his first car? The look on his face—pure bliss!” Felicia’s eyes were bright and lively. “Oh, the pride of handing over a summer’s worth of paychecks or a year’s savings from having flipped burgers after school.” Her voice rose as she grew more animated. “All the men talking shop, arguing about torque and rims and horsepower . . .”

As Felicia drifted off with her visions, Cooper was struck by the loss she saw in the other woman’s face. “Listen, Ms. Hawkins, I’m all done here.” She stood up and wiped her hands on a rag. “My brother-in-law is in the car business. Maybe I could introduce you and he could give you tips on landing a job at one of those auctions.”

“Why would you do that when I’ve been so rude to you?” Felicia asked, clearly stunned.

“Because I’ve felt stuck before. Pretty close to hopeless, actually, until someone told me that I could walk through life without taking any risks or I could actually
live.”
She snapped her toolbox closed. “So what do you say? Would you like to grab a bite to eat? I’m starving and I’d love to hear more about your dream job.”

“That would be nice, thank you.” Felicia smiled. “It’s been a long time since someone asked me to dinner. And please call me Felicia. Only my jerk boss calls me Ms. Hawkins!”

• • •

Later, driving home, Cooper wondered what had compelled her to reach out to such an unpleasant individual. After all, she was a textbook introvert and preferred to work in quiet anonymity. Still, she had sensed a strong, almost urgent need in Felicia, and she couldn’t ignore the inner voice prompting her to reach out to the unhappy stranger. And though she was tired from such a long day, Cooper felt energized by the encounter with the secretary.