Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures (33 page)

Susan, Jen, and Becky were sitting around my bed. They didn’t notice that I was awake; they were too busy talking. The room
wasn’t familiar. The walls were green. Sunlight poured in through the window. I closed my eyes again, dozed, having a sense of déjà vu, lulled by their voices.

Until a man came into the room, greeting them. Even without opening my eyes, I recognized Sergeant Perez. “How is your friend doing?”

They all answered at once. Susan, of course, won out, insisting that I was sleeping and shouldn’t be disturbed. That the police in Puerto Vallarta had interviewed me for most of the night. That I was the victim, that the woman’s death was both accidental and in self-defense. She would have gone on, but Sergeant Perez interrupted.

“
Señora, por favor
. I asked only how your friend is doing. ‘Fine’ or ‘not so well’ would have been sufficient answers.”

Susan didn’t back down. “Her leg needed to be stitched again. Wounds on her collarbone and cheek needed to be closed as well. She has bruised ribs, abrasions all over her arms and legs and face. Her ankle is discolored and swollen. Is that a good enough answer?”

“You left out that she was filthy,” Jen added. “Effing mud wrestlers are cleaner.”

“Stop it, Jen.” Becky bristled. “That’s so not important. They bathed her. She’s clean.”

“Bullshit—of course it’s important. Do you have any goddamned idea how many bacteria were on her? Crawling into her frickin’ wounds? Contaminating her open wounds? She could have hundreds of horrible infections—”

“She’s on antibiotics. She’ll be fine.”

“How do you know? Are you a damned microbiologist? Some bacteria are resistant to drugs. And, trust me, her leg? Even with these ace plastic surgeons, it’s going to have a hell of a frickin’ ugly nasty scar.”

Really? It would?

“My friend Nan—” she went on. “You met her, Susan. She
had two C-sections and they used the same incision site for both, so they stitched up the same place twice. She showed me the scar.”

“A C-section’s different—”

“No, it’s not. A scar is a scar. Now, it’s three years later and she showed me the scar. It’s disgusting. Thick and red. Ugly. And her skin buckles around it and she has these damned internal adhesions—”

“Señoras, if you don’t mind.” Thank God, Perez interrupted. “I came by with some news.”

“News?” Susan’s voice.

“The dead woman. We checked her room in the hotel. All over the walls, she had pinned up photos of this man.”

What man?

I cracked open an eyelid. Perez took out a photo, held it up.

Becky gasped. “It’s Luis.”

“You know him?” Perez asked.

“Of course I know him. Everybody knows him. He works for the hotel, he’s one of the activity directors—”

“Yes,” Perez confirmed. “Do you know if this Luis had a relationship with the woman your friend killed?”

Killed? I winced, wanted to correct him. Make sure he knew it had been an accident. Did he think I’d killed her?

“How would we know about her relationships? We didn’t know her.” Susan again.

But I did. I knew. I could tell them about Melanie and Luis. Their relationship.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Becky suggested.

“What a good idea, señora.” Perez sniped. “If only we’d been clever enough to think of it.”

“Okay, so if you’ve already talked to him, and he’s told you, why are you asking us?” Jen sounded belligerent, was standing up for Becky, in a way.

“He wants to corroborate Luis’s statement,” Susan said.
“So? What did he say?”

“He denied having a relationship with her. He said he’d seen her only at the pool.”

But made no mention of her breaking into his room or vandalizing it.

“You said she had pictures of him on her walls?” Susan asked.

“Many. Dozens. Candid ones, mostly of poor quality. Probably she took them with her phone camera and printed them in the computer room. But she had other things, as well. Official hotel shirts with his name embroidered on them. Other items of clothing and toiletries that he’s identified. Also charge slips he’s signed. Notes she’d written to him but apparently never sent. Some were quite—explicit.”

Perez went on. I lay still, eyes closed again, replaying Melanie’s visit to Luis’s room. Seeing her climb in through his window. Waiting while she left her message to make him leave her alone. But now I understood: What she’d told me had been backward. Luis hadn’t been stalking Melanie; Melanie had been stalking Luis. Had gone to his room to invade his space, pilfer his possessions. She’d been obsessed with him, had seen me talking to him. Had watched his sarcastic kiss good-bye and assumed we were having a relationship.

“You’re trying to steal him from me,” she’d hissed.

Melanie had tried to kill me to keep Luis for herself.

And if she’d tried to kill me just because she
suspected
that I was seeing Luis, what would she have done to women who’d been openly and unapologetically enjoying his company?

“What about Greta?” I sat up. “Melanie was jealous of anyone Luis paid attention to, and she used a knife to attack me, and Greta’s face was cut—” I stopped, aware of four faces gawking at me.

For a few beats, there was silence. And then everybody spoke at once.
Perez had already thought of the connection. But in the flurry and consternation that followed my comment, it took a while before he could say so.

“You’re awake?” Becky asked.

“Obviously, she’s awake,” Jen took my hand. She looked battered; her eyes were still black, her nose bruised and swollen and taped. “Becky and I tried to bring you get well balloons—”

“Or a stuffed animal.”

“But the stores weren’t open yet.”

“It was the middle of the night.”

“How do you feel, Elle?”

I raised an arm, saw an IV tube attached to it. “Fine.” My voice didn’t work. I had to repeat myself.

“How long have you been awake?” Susan eyed me. “How much did you hear?”

I shook my head, didn’t actually answer. Focused on Sergeant Perez, who, when he had a chance to speak, admitted that Melanie was indeed being considered a suspect in Greta’s murder. In fact, now that the police were aware of Melanie’s fixation on Luis, they wondered if she’d been involved somehow in Claudia’s death as well.

“It seems that Luis also had romantic ties with Claudia Madison. In fact, he admits that he visited her on the very evening of her death.”

“I told you,” Becky said. “Chichi said that Luis gets around.”

“Wait a frickin’ minute,” Jen put her hands up. “Was Melanie the maniac who got into our room? I bet she was. I bet she was looking for Elle that night. But instead of killing you, the bitch pulled off my effing bandages.”

“That makes no sense, Jen,” Becky folded her arms. “Why would she attack you if she was after Elle?”

“Why wouldn’t she? She was a fucking lunatic.”

“Señoras, we don’t know everything that this woman did.”
Perez put his hand up for quiet. “But we suspect that she made an attempt on your life at least once before, Señora Harrison.” He looked at me.

“You mean in the water?” Susan looked from him to me.

I felt Melanie’s weight pressing on my chest, heard her complain that I hadn’t stayed dead.

Perez explained that Melanie’s rescue had been a cover. He believed that she’d been the one who’d stabbed me, that she’d tried to drown me, and that she’d pulled me to shore only after she thought she’d succeeded.

“Well, that supports Elle’s claim of self-defense.” Susan gestured lawyerlike.

“Indeed, señora. You need not worry. There will be no charges, as far as I can tell.”

A cell phone rang and Jen dug into her bag. Rolled her eyes. Mouthed, “Norm.” Walked into the hall to take the call.

Susan thanked Sergeant Perez for coming by, walked him out of the room, asking questions in a muted voice.

Becky closed in on me. “I feel terrible, Elle. It’s just like the other day. If I’d have been there, it never would have happened. She wouldn’t have attacked us both.”

“It’s not your fault.” I reached for the control button so I could sit up a little. Grunted because every part of me hurt.

She grabbed the control, handed it to me. “I know. Because somebody had to be here to help Jen. And besides, Chichi and I have only two more days together. I couldn’t have gone with you. I couldn’t bear to lose a single minute with him.”

“I understand.” The head of the bed came up. I could see her better now. Her hands fidgeted. Her round eyes were strained.

“Honestly, Elle. Just two more days? I don’t know how I’ll manage without him. It’s not possible. How do you let go of someone you love?”

She asked me as if I’d know. I reached out, held her hand. She didn’t wait for an answer, kept talking.

I closed my eyes. I think they’d given me pain medicine. Maybe I was just numb and exhausted. But I drifted, and fading, I saw Charlie in the distance. He called to me, held his arms out for me, and disappeared into haze.

It was sometime after lunch. I’d managed to feed myself some noodle soup and yogurt with the arm not connected to the tube. Left the rest untouched. Now I was alone in my room in the medical center, lying in a drugged daze. Drifting. Dropping in on my past. Visiting life with Charlie, our good times, when I’d still held happy illusions about life, about Charlie. We were in the den, sharing a bottle of Shiraz. Watching an old mystery movie—
Charade
? Or
Arsenic and Old Lace
? Something with Cary Grant. And chowing down on white pizza with spinach. Or maybe shrimp. Charlie flashed me a steamy smile, and my heart did a fluttery dance. Oh God, I missed him. The good Charlie. The one I’d thought I’d married. Picturing him, I could almost hear him breathing, smell his Old Spice. Or not Old Spice—something sharper. Wait—had Charlie changed his aftershave? Did men even shave after death? Never mind. I was losing the memory. Went back to it. We were in bed, now, lying side by side, staring into each other’s eyes. Charlie put a hand gently on my cheek and ever so lightly placed his lips on my mouth.

Wait. I held my breath. The kiss felt real.

And the lips. Weren’t. Charlie’s.

I opened my eyes.

“Hey, there.” Alain pushed a wisp of hair off my forehead, smiling. He pulled a chair up beside the bed. Sat. Took my hand. His teeth gleamed white against his tan. “You awake?”

“Hi.” I tried to return his smile, felt my lips crack.

“You’ve been sleeping most of the day.” He furrowed his brows, focusing like a doctor. “Do you have any pain?”

“No, no pain.”

“I didn’t think you would. We’re giving you painkillers.”

Yes. I was swimming in them. The IV tube was pumping them into my arm.

“You were in a sorry state last night.” He studied me. I felt like a specimen in a lab. “You gave me a fright, Elle. But you look much better now.”

I did? Oh. I hadn’t thought about how I looked. I put a hand to my hair, felt tangles and frizz. Became aware of gauze patches on my hands and forearms. Touched my face. Felt another patch on my cheek. And one on my chin.

“Those will come off tonight. They’re mostly for protection, to keep the wounds clean. A good deal of grit and dirt had worked their way in; it was a job cleaning them out. But the knife wounds shouldn’t scar. And the abrasions were superficial; they’ll heal well. I think you’ll be pleased with your results.”

My results?

“I sutured you myself.” His voice was low, intimate. His head glowed, backlit by the window.

“Thank you.” My mouth was dry. I licked my lips, tasted blood where they’d cracked.

“In a few months, I doubt you’ll be even able to locate the spots where your cheek was cut. Or your clavicle, for that matter. Thank God, the blade struck where it did. Another few inches, she’d have cut your common carotid artery.”

I saw the blade swing, felt the whoosh of air. A sting.

Alain took a breath, frowning. “Your leg, however, was a challenge. Tissue was damaged in and around the wound. Even so, I’m confident I minimized the scarring there. You’ll have a mark, but over time, it should fade and become less noticeable.”

He tried a smile. It didn’t work.

I squeezed his hand, asked for some water. He held the glass for me, put an arm out to support my back. My ribs ached, my head felt heavy, and the distance seemed far from the pillow to the glass, but finally my mouth made contact with the rim. My fingers wrapped around Alain’s, tilting the glass, trying to pour the water down my throat.

“Slowly, Elle. Just little sips.”

I ignored him, gulping. Breaking into a spasm of coughs that made my ribs shriek.

“You need to be patient, Elle. It will take time to get your strength back.”

I was still coughing, holding my sides. Couldn’t respond.

“But there’s no reason for you to remain in the clinic. You are being discharged and can leave as soon as you are ready.”

Really? I looked around for my clothes. Didn’t see them.

“Susan brought over some fresh clothes.”

Was he reading my mind? He held up a plastic bag, laid it on the bed.

“So, you can go back to your hotel suite to rest. But I’d like to propose an alternative.” He paused, eyes zeroed on mine. “Why don’t you stay at my place? I can monitor you, make sure you have no infection or pain.”