Ms. Simon Says (30 page)

In the kitchen of the big house, Linda hung up the harvest-gold phone and then refilled Harry’s mug with hot chicken noodle soup. He was still running a fever, although it was down from this afternoon’s high of 102.3. He insisted he was fine out in the carriage house.

“I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than hand me Kleenex, Beauty,” he’d said grumpily.

But in truth she didn’t. She felt like taking care of him, so she’d made him trek over here in his pajamas, and settled him under an afghan in front of the fire in the living room.

“Who was that?” he asked when she handed him the steaming mug of soup.

“Some friend of Shelby’s. I didn’t get the name, but she wanted to know what Shelby was wearing tonight so she wouldn’t miss her at Masque.”

Harry slurped the hot broth. “What is she wearing?” “An Armani suit,” Linda said with a laugh.

“Sounds like Shelby.”

Linda laughed again as she reached over to dab at her husband’s chin with a tissue. “I wonder if I should call her, just to let her know somebody’s looking for her.”

Harry leaned forward and put his mug down on the coffee table. She noticed he was frowning, apart from his
I feel like shit
expression. “Give her a call, Linda,” he said.

She stared at him. Her heart squeezed like a fist. “You’re not worried that...?”

“Just give her a call. Now.”

Responding to the urgency in his voice, Linda hurried into the kitchen to dial Shelby’s cell phone number. She let it ring ten or twelve times, until Harry called out to her. “She didn’t take her cell. I hear it ringing upstairs.”

“So, tell me about Mick,” Beth said after the two sisters found a quiet corner where they could perch on a bale of hay along with a floppy scarecrow.

Shelby looked across the crowded room, just managing to catch a glimpse of him in the long line at the refreshment table.

“What about him?” she said, sounding absurdly casual about the most gorgeous man in the room.

“Shelby!” Beth the Pirate bashed her shoulder against Shelby’s. “Don’t give me that
what about him
shit. You’re crazy about the guy. It’s pretty obvious.”

“I like him,” she said, her gaze still pinned on the spot she’d last seen him. Then she saw him again, and had to smile at the ferocious patience carved into his face as he was buffeted by clowns and ghosts and assorted story-book characters. “Okay. Okay. I like him
a lot
.”

“And?”

She turned toward her one-eyed inquisitor. “And what? I’ve only known him a week, Beth, for heaven’s sake.”

“Well, excuse me, Ms. Simon. I may only have one eye, but I believe there is something called love at first sight.”

Shelby snorted, but even as she did, she thought at the very least that she’d been wildly attracted to Callahan at first sight that day he’d scared her to death when he walked into Hal Stabler’s office, looking like somebody who ought to be wearing handcuffs instead of carrying them. She’d been more attracted to him then than any other man she’d ever met. That physical attraction had only increased as she’d gotten to know him.

“I don’t know what will happen with us,” she said now, aware of the underlying sadness in her tone.

“What do you want to happen?” Beth asked.

“Hey! Who’s the world-famous, highly overpaid advice columnist here? You or me, little sis?” Shelby nudged her with an elbow. “You know how you didn’t want to talk about Danny? Well, that’s how I feel about Mick Callahan right now. Okay?”

Beth nodded. “I hear you. I guess we don’t want to talk about Mom and Dad, either, huh?”

Shelby groaned.

“What do you think they’re going to do? This separation has been going on a long time. Five or six months, as far as I know. Do you think we should do something? Has either one of them asked for your advice?”

“Are you kidding me?” Shelby clucked her tongue. “Although, I did suggest...”

“Shelby? Beth?” Somebody in a skimpy little French maid’s outfit was suddenly standing next to their bale of hay. “Is that you?”

Both sisters blinked at the woman, who proceeded to whip off her black-feathered mask and exclaim, “It’s me! Kimmy! I’ve been looking all over for you. Oh, it’s so good to see you guys together.”

Shelby recognized the waitress from the Blue Inn, and Beth immediately jumped up to hug her.

“This is fun, the three of us being together again,” Kimmy said, then she turned to Shelby and lowered her voice, “Hey, I’m sorry about ruining your dinner the other night.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Shelby said. “I was just glad it was a prank instead of the real thing.”

“What real thing?” Beth asked, looking from one to the other.

“I’ll tell you later,” Shelby said.

The Lady Pirate rolled her one visible eye. “With all the things we’ve got to talk about
later
,” she said, “there’s nothing to talk about now.”

“Let’s talk about the time we drove your father’s fiberglass speedboat over the rocks,” Kimmy suggested.

Shelby and Beth replied as one. “Oh, let’s not.”

Harry had gone back out to the carriage house for another jolt of cold medicine, but when he returned to the kitchen he was wearing a pair of khaki slacks with his pajama top, and a trench coat over that.

“Get your coat, Beauty. We’re driving into town.” He jingled his car keys.

Linda didn’t have to ask why. “You’re that worried about Shelby?” she asked.

“I just want to check up on her,” he said. “I tried calling the VFW Hall, but it’s a madhouse. Whoever I talked to had never even heard of Charlie Chaplin. Get your coat.”

Two minutes later, as they walked down the lawn to the garage, Linda reached for the keys. “I’ll drive, Harry. You’ve been slugging that cold stuff all day, and they always caution that you shouldn’t operate heavy machinery.”

He held steadfastly onto the key ring. “A Mercedes isn’t a goddamn piece of heavy machinery, Linda. And I’d like to go faster than fifteen miles an hour, if you don’t mind.”

She sighed in capitulation. She really didn’t like to drive at night, anyway.

As they headed toward Shelbyville, she could tell just how worried Harry was from the deep creases in his forehead and the way his fingers gripped the steering wheel. Ordinarily he was an elbow-out-the-window, one-palm-on-the-wheel sort of driver. But not tonight.

“Mick’s with Shelby,” Linda said, as much to reassure her husband as herself. “He’ll keep a watchful eye out for any problems. I think he cares for her beyond his professional capacity, Harry.”

“I know. I think so, too. I’ll just feel better touching base with our little girl.”

They had only driven another quarter mile or so when Harry said out of the blue, “If I do decide to sign on with Linda Purl Designs, Beauty, I’ve got a few non-negotiable demands.”

She tried not to sound thrilled beyond belief. And rather than scream, “Oh, boy. Oh, boy,” she kept her voice level and replied, “Such as?”

“I’d want to be the CEO,” he said. “Not some vice president or flunky legal adviser. My manly pride dictates that I at least have the title of head honcho.”

“Done,” Linda said. Then she smiled. “Of course, you realize I’ll have to kick myself up to chairman of the board, then.”

“And when we travel,” he said, “I want my days off for golf or fishing or whatever. And unlimited access to the minibar in our room.”

“I don’t have any problem with that,” she said, still trying to keep the “yippee” out of her voice. “Anything else?”

“Just one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

He reached across the center console for her hand, brought it to his lips, kissed her knuckles. “I love you, Beauty.” He sniffed. “And I still feel like shit.”

“I love you, too, Harry. I’ll fix you a hot toddy when we get back to the lake.”

Mick had waited longer to get to the refreshment table than he’d ever had to wait for a table in some of the busiest restaurants in Chicago. That was probably because everybody was chitchatting. Jesus. You’d think most of these people didn’t see each other on a daily basis.

It was probably the costumes, he decided. Everybody had to comment on what everybody else was wearing. Abe Lincoln, ahead of Mick in line, had to quote the Gettysburg Address continually, getting it wrong every damn time. George Washington was wandering around, not telling a lie. Clowns—there must’ve been a hundred of them—felt compelled to juggle and spray seltzer and tell bad jokes. There was a mime, and if Mick saw the guy feel up an invisible wall one more time, he was going to punch him into permanent silence.

Between all the clowns and his funk over Shelby, when he finally advanced along the refreshment table groaning with Jell-O molds and thirty-seven kinds of potato salad and enough brownies to feed an army, he nearly bit off the head of the masked Little Bo Peep who hovered behind the punch bowl.

“You look like a man who’s really thirsty,” she said in a kind of breathless, Marilyn Monroe voice.

He growled in the affirmative and told her he needed three cups of the orange stuff.

“Oh, I know who you are,” she breathed. “You’re here with Shelby Simon and the Pirate, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ve known Shelby ever since we were little,” Bo Peep said as she ladled out another cup of punch. “We used to...”

“Yeah. Okay.” Mick didn’t want to be rude, but he’d been waiting half an hour for these three dinky paper cups of Day-Glo liquid. “Thanks a lot, Bo,” he said, picking up all three cups and wondering how he was going to make it to the other side of the big, crowded hall without spilling half their contents.

He started back, holding the cups aloft, out of the way of tricorn hats and huge multicolored wigs.

Out of the corner of her eye, Shelby spied Mick making his way across the crowded room, and her heart did a little tap dance in her chest. She told herself to tamp down on it, not to get carried away. He was, after all, just doing his job. Who knew? Maybe he just considered their great sex one of the perks.

Rather than get depressed, she turned her attention back to Beth and Kimmy, who were having such a good time reminiscing. The only thing that would’ve made this evening perfect would be seeing Sam limp through the door right now. But since that wasn’t going to happen, Shelby decided she’d have to come up with another plan to get the two of them together.

Maybe Christmas when Sam would be home and fit as ever after finishing his rehab. Beth could fly back from San Francisco, without Danny, of course. Shelby would drive up from Chicago, with Mick, of course. Well, maybe...

“Ladies.” Mick was suddenly beside her, his hands full of paper cups. “Take these before I spill any more.”

“Thanks, Mick.” Beth took two, and gave a cup to Kimmy.

“Here’s yours, Charlie.” He winked as he offered Shelby the last cup.

She was just taking it from his hand when somebody shouted, “There they are. Yoo hoo, Shelby Simon. Yoo hoo, Beth. Come over here, you two.”

The shouter was Thelma Watt, the postmistress, who was decked out in full postal regalia, including gold-fringed epaulettes on her blue jacket.

“Oh, Lord,” Shelby moaned, echoing Beth. “I guess we better go see what she wants.” She handed her cup back to Mick. “Hang on to this for me for a sec, will you?”

“Mine, too,” Beth said, putting her cup in his other hand. “Thelma will have a fit if she sees us drinking. She still thinks we’re teenagers.”

“Hurry back,” Mick said, then he leaned down to whisper in Shelby’s ear, “I want to get you out on the dance floor so I have a good excuse to hold your hot little bod.”

She laughed. “You just want to see what it’s like to dance with a guy in an Armani suit, Callahan.”

Then she grabbed Beth’s hand. “Come on, Pirate Pete. Let’s get this over with.”

“Argh,” Beth groaned.

Mick put the cups of punch down on the bale of hay next to the scarecrow.

“How’s it going?” he asked the woman he recognized as Kimmy, the waitress, who was now apparently some kind of sexy French maid. It was a wonder he recognized her at all behind the black feathered mask she wore. Her blue eyes were about all he could see of her face.

“I’m sorry about last Saturday night,” she said, looking at him over the rim of her punch cup. “I went home and told that asshole to pack his stuff and get out of my life.”

“That’s good,” Mick said.

“He was
so
immature.” She took another sip of the rum concoction. “What a loser. He’s here tonight. Someplace.” She gestured toward the crowd. “If you see somebody wearing an asshole costume, that’s him.” Kimmy giggled and tossed back the rest of her punch.

Mick figured it probably wasn’t her first cup. Her speech seemed to be getting a little slurred.

“You were so sweet to me the other night, helping with the cops and all. Did I tank you? I mean, did I
thank
you?”

“That’s okay,” he said.

Man. Speaking of tanked, poor ol’ Kimmy was really on her way. Her blue eyes, peering out from the black mask, seemed to be dilating even as he watched.

“Well, thanks,” she said. “I . . .” She rocked forward a bit. Then back. “Ooh, boy. I’m not feeling show great...”

Mick reached out to grasp her arm just as the woman’s eyes completely dilated and a bit of orange foam leaked from a corner of her mouth.

He caught her limp body a second before she hit the floor, and he knew immediately what was wrong. Judging from the scent of almonds that wafted up from her open mouth, Kimmy wasn’t just drunk. Jesus H. Christ. She’d just drunk cyanide.

CHAPTER TWENTY

T
he instant Shelby heard Mick cry out, she knew something was horribly wrong.

“Get a doctor,” he yelled. “Somebody call an ambulance. Now!”

She rushed toward him to find Kimmy lying on the floor, her body twitching in convulsions as Mick knelt beside her. “Oh, my God, Mick. What happened? What can I do?”

“She’s been poisoned,” he said, glancing up. “And I don’t want you to do anything except stick to me like glue. Do you hear me, Shelby?”

“Let me go find a doctor or something,” she said. But when she started to turn, Mick’s hand flashed out and grabbed her by the ankle.