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Authors: Joan Hess

BOOK: A Diet to Die For
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“What are you doing here?” she asked in an unfriendly voice.
I was too numbed from the meeting to concoct a clever lie, so I told her I’d come to the group to ask Candice about the fainting spell.
“Was Gerald there?”
When I mutely shook my head, she clasped the bag to her chest as if she could find warmth from it. Her face was white, as were her lips. The only hint of color came from the angry patches of acne on her chin and around her mouth. “No big deal,” she mumbled, staring at the sidewalk. Her fingers tightened around the bag. When she lifted her head, there was a heretofore unseen expression on her face. It made me think of a defenseless animal treed by a pack of baying hounds.
“Maribeth,” I began cautiously, “are you—”
“Your friend who was in the bookstore this afternoon’s a detective, isn’t he?”
“Peter? Yes, he’s with the local CID. Why don’t you let me give you a ride home? You can come back for the car later.”
“Why was he following me? Doesn’t he know what’s going on?”
“He wasn’t following you. We’ve been seeing each other for quite a long while, and he came by to say
hello after a trip out of town. Why would he follow you?”
“I don’t know. You’re right—there’s no reason for him to follow me. It’s too confusing, or maybe I’m just too dumb to understand. He keeps telling me to trust him, you know.”
“Gerald’s still insisting you consider a week or two of rest to … ah, relax and feel more in control of yourself?” It wasn’t especially tactful, but it was the best I could do. “Would that be so bad?”
“I thought you of all people would be the one who understood, Claire. We’re in the same boat, aren’t we?”
“Which boat is that, Maribeth?” I asked in the same cautious voice, intently aware of how very near the edge she was.
“Don’t you know? Aren’t you worried?”
She certainly had part of it right. I took a breath, wishing I’d paid more attention in psychology classes two decades ago, and said, “All I know is that I’m very worried about you. Why don’t we get in my car and discuss this further?”
She stared wildly at me, then swung around and climbed into her car. The engine roared and she screeched into reverse, ground the gears, and raced out of the parking lot as rapidly as the red sports car had done an hour earlier. I stood where I was, thoroughly stunned, trying to think how best to stop her before she crashed into a truck or wrapped the car around a utility pole.
I let out my breath as her car braked at the stoplight. When the light turned green, however, the car remained in the same spot, the brake lights shining like red, demonic eyes. A car behind Maribeth honked,
but was finally forced to pull around her, as were the next two in line. I was about to run to the corner when the brake lights went off and the car began to back up in a series of angular swerves and squeals until it reached the edge of the parking lot. It manuevered around until it was aimed in my direction; headlights blinded me as it began to lurch forward.
Straight at me.
“What’s going on?” Candice called from the doorway behind me.
“I—don’t—know,” I croaked. I moved across the sidewalk to the Ultima door. “It’s Maribeth. I don’t know what she’s doing, but I don’t care for it.”
“Is she all right?”
“How the hell should I know? I think we might step inside, though.” I shoved Candice backward and followed her, all the while watching Maribeth’s car as it lurched toward us, the sound of the engine erupting like a warped record.
“Is she upset?”
“To put it mildly. Maybe you’d better call someone.”
“Who?”
I spun around and gave her an exasperated look. “I don’t know—you’re the owner of this place, the registered nurse, the professional who said Maribeth was having a tiny problem with denial. I suspect she’s in the midst of flipping out, but I’m only a civilian.” I was about to continue when there was a deafening crash behind me. Shards of glass went flying past me on all sides, and something stung me in the back. It felt, I told myself with a hazy smile as my knees folded, like a giant bumblebee.
It was my last thought for the moment.
“
S
hhh,” someone whispered, not too far from my ear.
I dearly hoped that the shush would have some effect on the ear in question, which was ringing like a fire alarm. Odd, I mused, that no one was urging me to exit the building in an orderly fashion and line up at the end of the playground so that roll call could be taken. Perhaps I was a monitor …
I opened one eye to see if Miss Wornewood, my sixth-grade teacher, was hovering nearby with her black attendance book and her typically harried expression.
Joanie Powell looked more harried than Miss Wornewood ever had, including the month some of the boys had dedicated themselves to filling her (Miss Wornewood’s, not Joanie’s) desk with various reptiles and amphibians. “You’re awake,” she said (Joanie, not Miss W.). “How do you feel?”
I closed my eye to consider the question. After a moment, I determined that I felt as if I’d been run down by a motorcycle gang. “Lovely,” I muttered. “Where am I and where’s Miss Wornewood?”
“The doctor said she might be groggy from the pain medication,” Joanie explained in a satisfied voice.
By this time I’d figured out that I was lying in a bed, that my back was most likely a canvas of tread marks, that my buttocks had been used for a dartboard, and that the fire alarm was not going to cease its deafening din, no matter whether I exited the building or checked the girls’ bathrooms for loiterers. A hand brushed my cheek, and I opted to try the other eye.
Peter looked pretty damn harried, too. “Claire? Do you understand where you are?”
“Shall I find the doctor?” Joanie said.
“Everybody calm down,” I said. “I feel absolutely terrible, and my head may explode any second now, but the last thing I need is a doctor.” I got both eyes open. The walls confining me were a revolting shade of green, the bed had rails, and stuck in my arm was a needle connected to a tube that ran up to a glass bottle on a stand. I clearly had had need of a doctor in the recent past. “If someone would be so kind as to explain …”
Peter bent over to kiss my forehead. “You were at the Ultima Center, remember?” he said. “For reasons we don’t yet understand, Maribeth Galleston drove her car into the front of the building. A brick bounced off your lovely cranium, and a good-sized piece of glass went into your back, although it missed everything of significance. A lot of smaller ones caught you below the waist. The glass has been removed, and a great deal of pain medication is now dripping into your veins.”
“Do you have any idea why Maribeth did what she did?” Joanie asked.
When I turned my head to look at her, a lightning bolt leapt between my temples. “Why don’t the two of you pick one side of the bed?” I groped around in my remaining gray matter. “No, I don’t know why Maribeth did it. I went to the family support group, survived forty-five minutes of platitudinous enthusiasm, talked to Candice, and then met Maribeth coming out of the fitness center.”
“And?” Peter said encouragingly.
“And I suppose we must have talked, although the details are foggy. Or was it Bobby Spandex? Lord, I don’t know. Could someone please ask Miss Wornewood to turn off that damn bell?”
“She’s delirious,” Joanie announced.
“I am not delirious, nor am I deaf—although it’s a matter of time,” I said, grimacing. “If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll try to—what about Maribeth? Is she all right? And Candice? She was facing the door when everything came at us. Is she … all right, too?”
“Maribeth’s in intensive care,” Peter said gently. “I’m afraid Candice took a lot of glass in her chest area. Both lungs were punctured, as was her carotid artery, and she was pronounced dead at the scene.”
“How bad is Maribeth?” I whispered.
Joanie patted my hand. “She’s critical. She took a hard knock on the head when she slammed against the steering wheel. They did some tests and discovered she’d had a heart attack, either just before the accident, or as a result of the impact. She’s in a coma. They’re doing some kind of scan now to determine if there’s irreversible brain damage. I feel like all this is my fault. I feel … dreadful.” She moved away from the bed and sank down in a chair, clearly struggling to maintain her composure.
“I’ll let you know about Maribeth’s condition as soon as I hear from the doctor,” Peter said. “Please try to remember what happened, Claire. We have no idea whether we’re looking at an accident induced by a heart attack or some crazy attempted homicide.”
“How long was I unconscious? And what about Caron? Did someone let her know what happened?”
“I called her as soon as I heard what had happened and let her know you were going to be okay. She can stay at Inez’s house for a day or two while you’re here at the hospital. You were out for almost twelve hours; it’s not quite daybreak yet I know you feel bad, but please try to remember.”
“A day or two at the hospital? I don’t like hospitals, Peter. They wake you up to give you sleeping pills, then wake you up again to see if the pills are working. They make you eat gruel and drink funny-colored things. I want my own bed.” I could hear myself whining, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. To add to my embarrassment, a tear rolled slowly down my cheek, leaving a crooked wet path that felt as though a garden snail had crawled down my face.
Joanie stopped sniffling and dried her cheeks with a tissue. “Don’t be ridiculous, Claire. You’ve suffered a blow to the head, and it’s imperative that you remain under constant medical supervision for forty-eight hours. The doctor said it was more than probable that you have a concussion, although it’s impossible to determine how serious it may be. You are not leaving this room.”
I tried to sit up, but my arms weren’t cooperative and my back was downright rebellious. “Promise me no gruel,” I said, trying to sound flippant, when I was more tempted to burst into a torrent of tears. “It’s
beginning to come back to me … I attended the group meeting and talked to Candice, then went out to the sidewalk at about six o’clock. Maribeth came out of the fitness center and demanded to know what I’d been doing in the Ultima Center. I resorted to the truth, and she asked me if Gerald had been there. I admitted he hadn’t been, which seemed to upset her. She drove away, stopped at the traffic light by the highway, and sat through a green light before turning around and coming back. Her driving was erratic enough to worry me—particularly when she seemed to be
aiming
for me. Candice came to the door of the Ultima Center and asked what was wrong. We went inside and were discussing what to do when … it became moot.”
“Could you see Maribeth’s face?” Peter asked. “Did she look normal?”
“I saw two headlights coming at me like something from a Stephen King novel,” I replied acerbically. “I didn’t trot around and tap on the car window.”
Joanie sadly shook her head. “I think it’s obvious that when Maribeth had driven the short distance, she realized she was having some sort of attack and headed back for assistance. By the time she reached the parking lot, she’d lost all control and was helpless to avoid crashing into the front of the Ultima Center. The whole thing is a tragic accident.”
“Possibly,” Peter murmured as he took out a small notebook and a pen. He frowned at me. “You said she was upset because her husband was not at this meeting. Why would his absence upset her?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Joanie added, “in that Maribeth said he was attending several meetings every week. Missing one seems minor. Then again,
she’s been rather unpredictable this last week or so.”
I wanted to pull the sheet over my face and make them both disappear. Instead, I said, “There is only one officially scheduled family support group each week, and it’s the one I sat through. Gerald may have told Maribeth he was going to night sessions, but I think Maribeth had begun to realize the truth. It was as obvious as the needle in my arm—and as painful.”
“As in private sessions with Candice?” Peter said, scribbling in his notebook. “At the diet place, or at other, more secluded places?”
“I don’t know. Ask him.”
Joanie put her hands on her hips and glowered down at me. “You’re not implying Maribeth went into a murderous rage and drove into the Ultima Center with the express purpose of getting even with Candice, are you? You know her better than that, Claire!”
I took a breath deep enough to make my back sting and said, “No, I can’t believe Maribeth did this on purpose, although she’s been noticeably weird lately. Both Candice and Dr. Winder gave me some nonsense to explain away the mood swings, but they have an interest in the Ultima program and the public perception of it as medically safe. You, Peter, and I saw Maribeth lose her temper over insignificant remarks. She also seemed spaced out on more than one occasion. Candice told me Gerald had been concerned to the point that she recommended additional potassium caplets. Furthermore, if Maribeth was experiencing a deficiency, she might have made it worse with all the exercise.”
Peter closed the notebook. “I’ll have the hospital lab run a blood test to check on it. You try to get some rest, Claire; you’re still in shock, whether you
admit it or not.” He gave me an avuncular kiss on the cheek and left the room.
Twisting her hands, Joanie paced around the room until she noticed my sagging eyelids, promised to visit later in the day, and tiptoed out the door. I drifted away to the relative tranquillity of Miss Wornewood’s geography lesson.
After two days of tedium, I was allowed to exchange the pea-green environment for the decor of my own choosing (a dusty rose selected by a previous tenant). A sallow-faced volunteer rolled me in a wheelchair to a side door to make my escape. Peter was waiting by his car, and he’d brought several cushions and a blanket to protect my back, etc. The pain was enough to occupy me all the torturous miles to the apartment, up the hundreds of stairs, across the limitless prairie of the living room, and on to my bed.
Once I was settled, the pillow pleasingly plumped, the teacup conveniently placed, the blankets aesthetically aligned, I asked Peter if he’d confronted Gerald Galleston about his alleged affair with Candice Winder.
I was rewarded with an exasperated look. “Just this once,” he said, turning on the long-suffering, what-have-I-done-to-deserve-this scowl, “I wish you’d stay out of this. I realize you know all the parties, but you had a severe blow to the head and only by a few inches missed having a piece of glass embedded in your heart. You need to turn off the curiosity and take it easy. No questions, no spate of deductive prowess, no anything. I’ll go down to the bookstore and fetch you an armload of mystery novels. You can literally swim in the bed of intrigue.”
“While you wait for Maribeth to wake up so that you can book her for homicide?”
“We’re not booking anyone until we get some answers.”
“Maybe you can rouse her with a cattle prod,” I continued mercilessly. Hospital food can do that to you, especially that yellowish, lumpy stuff that congeals before you’ve finished toying with the canned peas.
“I’ll suggest it to the attending physician. I need to go now, but I’ll be by this evening with all the mysteries I can find in that musty place you so adore. Is there anything you need before I leave?”
“Would you plug Caron’s telephone in here? No, don’t leap to any unfounded conclusions; I simply don’t feel up to getting out of bed for every siding salesman who’s worried about my exterior peeling.” I sank back and let out a brave little sigh. “My back feels as though someone has been playing tic-tac-toe on it with a branding iron, but if you’re going to get upset, I’ll manage somehow to climb out of bed every time the telephone rings.”
He regarded me for a minute, unconvinced but also unsure, then went into Caron’s room and returned with her telephone. He plugged it in, told me to call him at the station if I needed anything, spent another moment telling me how he’d have felt if the glass had entered my back a few inches higher, and let himself out the front door.
As soon as I heard the downstairs door close, I dialed the college switchboard and asked for Gerald’s office number. I then dialed that number while gingerly wiggling around to find a position that didn’t feel quite so much like lying on a bed of coals.
“Galleston here,” he answered.
“This is Claire Malloy, Gerald. I hope I’m not disturbing you just before a class, but I wanted to convey my concern about Maribeth’s condition.”
“Ah, thank you, Claire.”
“And poor Candice Winder,” I added in the same melancholic tone. “Her husband must be devastated by her death.” I listened to Gerald’s unsteady breath for a minute, then took an unsteady one of my own and said, “Have you had the opportunity to speak to him about the … incident?”
“There have been a few conversations. Unpleasant ones, I’m afraid. He’s very disturbed and has been making some wild accusations that have no basis in fact and come perilously close to slander. I’m most distressed. After all, my wife’s in a coma and my car’s in the shop, so I find myself reduced to hitchhiking rides with colleagues and coming home to an empty house. Maribeth is my primary concern, naturally, but the whole situation is intolerable. I haven’t worked on my manuscript since the accident. Not one word.” He paused for a moment, then cleared his throat. “You haven’t been talking to Winder by any chance, have you?”

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