Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures (36 page)

My face hurt. My ribs hurt. Every part of me was sore. I rubbed my forehead. Remembered the veiled woman who’d appeared in the night and torn off Jen’s bandages. She’d also been about my size. Had that been Alain dressed in his wife’s clothes? Hiding under her shawl? If not for Susan and me, would Jen have been his third murder victim?

No. What was I thinking? Alain hadn’t done any of those things. Couldn’t have. I’d slept beside him, had sex with him. He’d been tender. Serial killers weren’t tender, were they?

My head hurt. Snippets repeated themselves: Alain blaming himself for his wife’s injuries. The bathroom lacking tampons. The house reflecting nothing of Mrs. Du Bois’s taste. The wig and the uniform hanging in the wardrobe. The maid working in Greta’s room. The veiled woman tearing at Jen. My mind went round and round, seeking connections.

But maybe there were no connections. The explanations I was imagining were far-fetched. For example, it wasn’t believable that Alain’s guilt and despair over his wife’s accident had caused his personality to split into two. The first part was his persona as Dr. Du Bois; the second as his wife. And when his wife’s was in charge, he’d disguised himself as a woman—internalizing his wife, expressing her pain, jealousy, and rage. Acting out her desires.

No. That scenario was unthinkable. Unimaginable. And yet, there I was, thinking and imagining it: Alain dressed as a
woman, exacting his wife’s revenge upon Greta and Claudia, murdering his own lovers.

I closed my eyes, saw a veiled woman raise her fists in the dark, crying out “
Quiero la venganza!”

Ridiculous. I had to stop this far-fetched twisted thinking. The dress belonged to Ana. Probably the wig did, too. Not everything had diabolical significance.

I picked up the nutty pastry. Smelled almond paste. Scolded myself for eating so many sweets. And for doubting a man who’d been nothing but kind and affectionate to me. Who just the night before had fed me dinner and tended my wounds. And kissed me gently, telling me—what had his words been? Something like, “Already, Elle, you’ve become dear to me.”

Oh, shit. I swallowed, nearly choked on almond paste.

I told myself that his words didn’t mean anything. I wasn’t like Claudia and Greta, wasn’t one of his patients. Wasn’t having an actual affair with him. And besides, he wasn’t a psycho, killing his lovers for his wife’s sake. No. I wasn’t even going to consider it.

To prove it, I took another bite of my pastry. Chomped on it. Gulped cold coffee.

But what if being a patient didn’t matter? What if the connection between the dead women was simply that they’d slept with Alain? Would that qualify me to be the next victim? Would the part of his mind that had snapped and become his wife—if indeed part of it had—would that part want to eliminate me as well? I touched my face, pictured Greta’s.

Nonsense. Bull.

Alain didn’t have a split personality—if there even was such a thing. This wasn’t a Hollywood movie. Real people didn’t simply divide into two personalities. The maid’s uniform was simply for Ana, the housekeeper. The wig, like the dresses and shawls, probably belonged to his wife. Alain had nothing to do with either of the deaths at the hotel.

Fine. Enough. I put the topic to rest.

And then I rushed into his bedroom, pulled on my clothes, called a taxi, limped out to the street to wait. My leg throbbing and scrapes burning, I hid in a cluster of bushes so Ana wouldn’t see me if she arrived before the cab came. I hunkered down, picturing Alain in a maid’s dress, coming at me with a butcher knife. Or cutting ribbons in Greta’s face or backing Claudia against the railing, shoving her over.

Of course, none of that was real. Alain was innocent. Even so, I counted seconds and minutes, waiting for the taxi, filling my head by counting time, shoving out images of wigs and uniforms and a man acting out the anger of his dead or incapacitated wife.

When the cab pulled up, after I’d counted six minutes fifty seconds, I darted into the backseat, my breath shallow and my body shaky. I told the driver the name of the hotel and then stared out the window, refusing to think, especially about Ana. An old pickup truck had dropped her off at Alain’s as I’d watched from the bushes.

The housekeeper was a short, wide woman. Very round. Definitely too large to fit in the maid’s uniform.

I heard Jen when I came in. “I can’t wait to see you either, Honey Bear. I miss you so much.”

They’d been married for what? Twelve years? Despite her normally foul language, she called Norm Cuddlesnooks. Sweetikins. I’d never called Charlie anything but Charlie. Not true. I think I called him a fucking wad of slime once or twice. But Honey Bear? Never.

Susan was on the balcony, sunning herself. She looked up when I opened the door. “You’re back?” She looked me over, frowning. “I thought Alain was going to take care of you. What are you doing here?”

I sat on a chair next to her, deciding how to explain. Wondering how crazy I’d sound.

“Honestly, Elle, he promised you’d stay at his place today.
You look like hell. And you shouldn’t be on your feet. And look at your face—is it infected? Because it looks slimy and, honestly, I’m not qualified to deal with it.”

She went on. I waited for her to quiet down. But Jen came out before Susan stopped for a breath. Her eyes were less black and her nose less swollen.

“What’s Elle doing here?” Her eyelashes batted at me.

“Not sure.” Susan took a sip of lemonade.

“I couldn’t stay there alone,” I spoke up. “I took a taxi back.”

“So Alain doesn’t know you’re here?”

I shook my head. Bit my lip.

“You look frickin’ terrible. Do you hurt?” Jen eyed my face.

Only everywhere. “I’m fine.”

“Well, stay out of the sun,” Jen squinted at my glossy abrasions. “You don’t want scars.”

“I thought sunlight helped healing,” Susan said.

“Nope. Gives you wrinkles, scars, and cancer.”

They discussed the effects of sunlight. A pelican swooped by the railing. I looked down at the people lying by the pool, absorbing large doses of wrinkles, scars, and cancer. Chichi and Becky canoodled near the waterslide. No sign of Luis. I hadn’t seen him since Melanie’s—

I pictured the wrestling mask. The knife sticking into her.

“Elle?”

“What?”

“I just asked you if you knew when Dr. Du Bois would be by. He’s usually here by now.”

Oh. Damn. Alain would come by any minute to check on Jen. What would I do? Hide in my room? Explain that I’d freaked out and run away? Ask if he was a cross-dressing killer?

“No, sorry. I don’t know.”

“Hungry?” Susan got up. “I’m getting some fruit.” She opened the sliding door, headed into the suite, and we heard someone at the door, knocking.

Oh God. Was it Alain? I froze, facing the railing. Deciding
what I would say. Maybe I’d say that I’d needed to get something from the suite. Or that I’d been uncomfortable staying in his house by myself. Or just that I’d wanted to come back, and leave it at that. After all, I didn’t owe him an explanation. Thinking of Alain made me queasy. Brought up gooseflesh on my arms. Had I made love to a murderer? A psycho serial murderer?

No. And anyway. I was here now, safe with my friends. I took a breath and stepped into the suite, ready to face him. But Susan was alone. She held out a plate of pineapple slices. “Want one?”

“Who was at the door?” I limped inside, wished I’d taken a pain pill.

“Nobody.” She picked up a slice, bit into it. “Just the maid. I told her to come back later.”

“A maid?” My spine felt like ice.

“Were you expecting someone else?”

“Susan. Are you sure it was a maid?”

She stopped chewing, looked at me.

“Not just someone dressed like a maid?”

“Sorry. What?”

I went to the door, opened it slowly, checked the hallway. A maid’s cart stood outside the suite across the hall.

Probably it was really a maid.

“Elle? What’s going on?” Susan’s cell phone rang and she grabbed it.

I closed the hallway door, felt her watching me.

“Yup, she’s here.”

Damn. Alain was calling.

“No, she’s fine. Want to talk to her?”

I shook my head, no. Violently. But she held out the phone, scowling, and mouthed, “What’s wrong with you?”

I put my hands up and backed away, refusing the phone, whispered, “Tell him I’m asleep.”

She let out an exasperated breath. Mouthed, “Why?”

I kept shaking my head.

Susan glared at me. “Alain? I just peeked into her room and she’s asleep. Want me to wake her?” Susan paused. “Okay. Sure. That’ll be fine.”

I stood motionless, listening. Feeling my face get hot.

When the call ended, Susan turned to me, hands on her hips. “Want to tell me what the hell’s going on?”

We sat in the living room. Susan brought the pineapple slices and munched as I talked. I spoke in a hushed tone, didn’t want to involve Jen if I could avoid it. Alain was her surgeon, after all. I told Susan about the maid’s uniform and the wig. Reminded her about the maid in Greta’s room.

“That’s it?” She crossed her arms.

No. “Listen, Alain had had affairs with both Claudia and Greta. And his wife might have found out.”

“But you said she’s an invalid.”

“Yes, and Alain blames himself for that. The accident was his fault, so he blames himself for her condition.”

“Sorry.” Susan shook her head. “I’m lost. What does that accident have to do with a maid’s uniform?”

I explained my theory. That Alain himself might be punishing the women who attracted him, might be acting out his disabled wife’s jealousy and anger. I told her about finding shawls and scarves, and reminded her of the intruder who’d ripped off Jen’s bandages.

Susan blinked at me. “So you’re saying Alain dressed up in shawls, broke in here, and attacked his own patient. Because—why? Are you saying he’s attracted to Jen?”

“Maybe. Susan, I don’t know. But I swear. Something was off at his house. There wasn’t a single photo of his wife. She had no personal items like tweezers or nail files. And, come to think of it, there was no wheelchair. No hospital bed or bedpans. Nothing installed in the shower for someone—”

“Elle, what in God’s name are you saying?”

Good question. For a moment, I couldn’t articulate it. But I
realized that the house gave no indication that a handicapped person actually lived there, even part time.

“What do we know about Alain’s wife?” I asked. “Do we know anything about the accident? What happened to her?”

“All I know is what you’ve told me.”

“Alain said she’s been staying at the clinic. But what if it’s not because she’s disabled? What if it’s worse? Like she’s in a coma? A vegetable?”

Susan frowned, looking doubtful. “Elle, are you hearing yourself? When’s the last time you met with your shrink?”

“What?”

“I think you might need some help. You’ve been through a lot, and with your disorder—”

“Susan. This has nothing to do with my disorder.”

She leaned back against the sofa cushions. “Fine.” She let out a sigh. “Then consider this. You don’t know that anything you’ve just told me is based in fact. But if Alain’s wife is indeed in a coma, which we have no reason to suspect, her condition might explain why there’s no need for equipment for her at home. And it still wouldn’t imply that Alain has been dressing up in women’s clothing and committing murder.”

She went on, but I didn’t hear her. Charlie was standing in the kitchenette, munching discarded pineapple pieces, listening to us talk. I closed my eyes, but when I opened them, he hadn’t gone away. What was he doing there? He didn’t say anything, just stood there, watching me with a twinkle in his eyes. Except that, obviously, he wasn’t watching me. Wasn’t there at all. I was conjuring him up again. Why was I doing that? What was my mind trying to tell me? I stared at him, missing him, wishing that he weren’t dead.

But he was.

Oh, wait. Was that it? Had Charlie shown up to indicate that Alain’s wife was like him? Also dead? I remembered seeing Charlie on the beach with a woman. Had that woman been
Mrs. Du Bois? Had she been killed in the accident? Had it even been an accident?