Plain Jane (4 page)

Olive sniffed Mike’s shoes and trouser legs. She was probably smelling his cat.

“Why would I want to sue the carpenter?”

“It looks like the crooked little man’s house—everything’s crooked, and the corners don’t meet. I know a good lawyer.” He marched over to the bookshelves. “Good God, do you have the whole set?”

It was a moment before Jane could get far enough past the crooked little man to answer. “Whole set of what?” she asked coolly.

“Dingle. It looks to me like you have the whole set, and they’re in mint condition. I only have about sixty in my own library, but I’ve read every single one of his books, some more than once. I’d kill for these. Did you pick them up at a garage sale or what? I never would have figured you to be the blood-and-guts type,” Mike said all in one breath.

“Really. What type books did you think I would read?” Olive’s head jerked upright as she listened to her mistress’s frosty voice. She slunk closer to Mike, her tail between her legs.

“That sappy romance stuff all women seem to read. These are guy books. You know, murder and mayhem, blood and guts. T. F. Dingle was one of the first authors I read just for myself back in school. The whole set! I can’t believe it. I don’t suppose you want to sell them, do you?”

“No, I do not want to sell them.”

“Over the years I must have written a hundred letters in care of his publisher. He didn’t respond to even one of them!”

“He who?”

“T. F. Dingle. The author. I think he must be some kind of recluse. I heard he lives in a shack somewhere and pounds out his novels on an old Underwood. Can you imagine that? Now there’s a guy whose head I’d like to get into to know his thoughts. How about you?”

Her annoyance dissolved into smug satisfaction. “No. I can’t say that’s one of my top priorities,” she said, enjoying that she finally had one up on him.

Mike stood back from the bookshelves and did that thing with his hand again. “The whole thing is off a good half inch. How can you showcase T. F. Dingle’s books on a crooked bookshelf? Who’s Stephen Rhodes and why does he get a shelf all to himself?” he asked, walking over to the shelves to inspect the books.
Velocity of Money, The Money Trail.
“Are they any good?”
Little Women, Gone With the Wind,
the Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew? “You do have an interesting list here. Don’t you get dizzy when you come in here?”

“Shut up, Mike,” she said, surprising herself at her boldness. “I don’t want to hear any more. For your information, Stephen Rhodes writes about money. I like reading about money. He’s very good. No, you can’t borrow them, buy your own. Authors depend on royalties and frown on their books being loaned to other people. He has a shelf to himself because he’s going to write a lot of books, and I’m going to buy them all. He might even end up writing more than Dingle. So there. The others are my favorites. Didn’t you read the Hardy Boys growing up? Bring the food into the kitchen. If we eat in here, you might get dizzy and throw up.”

Jane was aware of him on her heels as she headed into the kitchen. “Sit down,” she said, motioning to an oak pressed-back chair. She zipped around the kitchen collecting plates, napkins, silverware, and, finally, two bottles of beer. “
Bon appetit,
” she said, setting it all down in the center of the table.

“I hope I haven’t offended you,” Mike said, his grin conflicting with his words.

“It takes a lot more than a wiseass psychiatrist to offend me,” Jane snapped back as she dug into the carton of fried rice.

“Ow,” he said, rubbing his cheek as if she’d slapped him.

She ignored him.

“Hey, I like these paper plates—”

“These aren’t paper, they’re
plastic.
There’s a difference. See, these are hard, and the food doesn’t soak through.”

“Why so testy? I’m for whatever it takes to make life easier. Paper plates. Carryout. Housekeepers. Gardeners. If you can afford it, I say go for it.”

“Do you have an opinion on
everything
?”

His composure melted like butter, and for a moment he looked like a shy little boy. “I talk a lot when I’m nervous. I was nervous about coming here. Then, when I saw those books I was off and running.” He forked a helping of sweet-and-sour pork onto his plate.

Jane put some white rice and chow mein onto a plate and set it on the floor for Olive. “She’s a vegetarian,” she explained. “There’s no MSG in this food, is there?”
He’d been nervous about coming.
She couldn’t decide if she should be flattered or annoyed.

“No MSG.”

Jane uncapped the two bottles of Corona and took a swig from hers. When he didn’t reach for his, she wondered if he was expecting a glass. A devil perched itself atop her shoulder as she reached behind her for a bright red plastic tumbler.

“The bottle’s fine,” he said. “How’d your session go this afternoon?”

“It didn’t. He canceled two minutes before he was supposed to show up. I explained about you and next week. He’s okay with it. How’d it go with your battery guy?”

Mike sighed. “He said he bought stock in Duracell yesterday. A lot of stock. Five thousand shares to be exact. And he found a wholesaler who will deliver batteries to him once a week. Kind of like a home-delivery milkman.”

Jane digested the information. “So did you find out why he’s so obsessed with batteries?”

“No, not yet. He took a circuitous route around every question I put to him.”

Over the years Jane had treated any number of patients with obsessions—hand washing, collections, organization. But never batteries. Was the man worried there would be a loss of power? Or did he think the batteries would
give
him power? “Does he have any health problems?”

Mike finished chewing before answering. “Yeah, a bunion on his left foot. The guy’s an ox. He radiates good health.”

“What does he do work-wise?”

“He’s some big comptroller at a mega chemical company.” Mike waved his fork. “Let’s not talk about him. It makes me crazy when I think about him lugging all those batteries around everywhere he goes. Tell me about you, Jane. I’ve seen you at various conferences, and I’ve heard you on your radio show, but other than that, all I know about you is what I remember from high school. Are you married, divorced, what?”

“Single. Between renovating this house and my practice, I haven’t had much time to get involved. That’s not to say I don’t date occasionally. I do.” Carefully, she removed the foil on a piece of paper-wrapped chicken, popped it in her mouth, and savored the delicious taste. Paper-wrapped chicken was her favorite. After that, the dish of choice was moo shoo, which she’d learned to make herself using flour tortillas. “My parents died four years ago, which is why I bought this house—to keep my mind active and positive. I’m close to my godparents and see them regularly. And I have Olive here and a few good friends. How about you?”

“I’ve been involved a couple of times but never tied the knot. This last time, we found we wanted different things out of life. She moved on, and so did I. Mom and Dad didn’t like her, said she thought she was pretty high up on the Christmas tree. I have a brother in Montana and a sister in England. We e-mail. But basically, it’s just me and Noodle.”

“I had a crush on you back in school,” Jane blurted, and immediately wished she hadn’t.

Mike put down his beer and cocked his head. “I didn’t know that,” he said, looking far too deeply into her eyes.

“Of course you didn’t,” she answered. “You were too busy being Mr. Popularity and running after Ginger and Lonnie and all the cheerleaders.”

He threw up his hands in self-defense. “Hey! I admit it. I was a real jerk back then. I thought only of myself, how much fun I could have, and who I could have it with.”

“That’s a fair assessment,” Jane smirked.

“Yeah, but I’m not like that anymore. I’ve changed. And so have you. You used to be quiet and studious, and you kept to yourself.”

“That’s because I had low self-esteem. I had a very vain mother, who was pretty and thin and didn’t wear glasses. She loved to point out our differences to her friends.”

Mike studied her for a moment. “If
I
hurt you in any way, Jane, I apologize.”

Jane pushed her plate away. “I’m basically a vegetarian,” she confided. The food was good, but she wasn’t nearly as hungry as she’d thought. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?”

“You bet, but first I’d like to see the well.”

“The well?”

“Yeah, where the guy fell down and the dog died waiting.”

“Oh, sure.” She shook her head to clear her thoughts. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

They left the food sitting on the table and went out the back door and down the steps. A gently curved brick path meandered through the garden, widening and narrowing as it went.

“I’ve been looking forward to this ever since you mentioned it at lunch,” Mike said behind her. “I’m going to sleep like a top tonight. First, I find a complete set of T. F. Dingle, and now I’m going to the site where a ghost might be dwelling. Today was an absolute fluke. I think we should both buy Duracell. My guy might be onto something.”

Jane laughed. It was the first good laugh she’d had in a very long while. She led him down the path to the well. She turned when she heard Olive barking. By the time she realized the dog’s intentions, Olive already had a hold on Mike’s ankle.

“Get her off of me,” he yelled.

“Ollie. Let go, Ollie,” Jane commanded. But Olive was determined and refused to let go. Jane did the only thing she could think of and struggled to pick up the springer. “I’m sorry,” she said, grimacing. “She’s become very territorial where the well is concerned.”

Mike pulled up his trouser leg. “I think she took a chunk out of my leg.” Blood was oozing through his gray sock. “Look, I’m bleeding.”

“Oh, it’s just a little nip,” Jane said, purposely making light of it. For a big man he was certainly acting like a
wuss.
She pulled a tissue out of her pocket, tore off a piece, spit on it, and started toward him. “Here, let me just—”

He dropped his trouser leg. “No! You are not going to stick that on me,” he said, backing up a couple of feet.

“It’ll stop the bleeding.” She continued toward him.

“It’ll stop by itself, thank you anyway,” he said, holding up his hands to stay her.

Jane repocketed the tissue. “Okay, if that’s what you want. But you’d better not sue me.”

“I’m not going to sue you, for God’s sake. What kind of guy do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. I only know the old Mike Sorenson, the one who smoked pot under the bleachers at the homecoming game and who—”

“Never mind,” he cut in. “I guess I’ll just have to prove to you that I’ve changed.”

“And just how do you intend to do that?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think on it,” he said, hobbling along behind her.

Jane could think of a couple of ways he could show her how he’d changed, but she wasn’t about to offer any suggestions. She was still an old-fashioned girl and preferred the man to do the asking. That didn’t mean that she couldn’t hope. Admittedly, after today’s luncheon, she had been hoping that something might spark between them. But as soon as he opened the front door and caught her playing with Olive, her hope died. After that, she figured there was nothing to lose, so she just acted her normal self.

Past experience had shown Jane that her “normal” self wasn’t what most men were looking for. But was Mike Sorenson like most men?

Jane grinned as she continued on to the well. If nothing else, she had finally made him notice her where before—in high school—she doubted he’d even known she existed.

That was then, this is now,
she thought smugly.

2

The well sat in the corner of the backyard, a good three hundred feet away from Jane’s perennial garden. Jane smiled as Mike trudged behind her through the dry twigs and crackly leaves. She wondered how this learned colleague of hers could be so interested in something as nebulous as ghosts.

“Here it is,” she said, waving him past her. The well had become the focal point of her backyard, not because of the ghostly legend but because it was so Snow Whitish in design, a real storybook wishing well with a waist-high stone wall and a wooden, V-shaped roof that dripped with ivy.

Mike’s expression was eager as he made for the well. She watched him rub his hands together, touch the stone rim, then close his eyes.

Olive howled. Olive
never
howled.

The fine hairs on the back of Jane’s neck stood on end at the mournful sound. “Olive, what’s the matter with you, girl?” She leaned down and rubbed the dog’s neck to soothe her.

“What’s all this stuff clogging up the hole?” Mike asked, looking over the edge.

“Rocks. I didn’t want history to repeat itself, so I had the guy at the nursery dump a couple of loads of rock into it.” Olive inched closer to Jane’s leg and howled again. “Honest to God, I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” Jane said, staring down at the spaniel, who was looking up at her as if she was trying to tell her something important.

“Dogs have a sixth sense, you know. She either senses or sees something,” Mike said, excitement ringing in his voice.

Jane offered up an indulgent smile. She had never bought into the ghost theory though she’d gone along with it, even encouraged it from time to time when the occasion called for it. All in fun, of course. She glanced down at Olive. A sixth sense? No, she didn’t buy into that theory either. More than likely Olive’s howl was due to detecting a particularly strong scent—a rabbit or a squirrel, something other than a dog.

Minutes passed during which neither Jane nor Mike spoke. Jane became increasingly aware of the garden’s stillness. When she’d first come outside, the birds had been chattering, but now they were silent. The crickets were quiet, too. The only sounds were of her, Mike’s, and Olive’s breathing. She glanced around at the huge old oaks and realized not a leaf was stirring.

A chill chased itself down her spine. She wished Mike would finish whatever he was doing so they could return to the house. A second later, Olive barked sharply, then took off toward the back of the property at breakneck speed.

“Did you
feel
that ?” Mike asked, rubbing his upper arms.

“Feel what? What are you talking about?”

“It was a—” He slashed the air with his hand “There was a—” His expression begged her to help him out, but she couldn’t. She had no idea what he was talking about. “I don’t know. But whatever it was, I felt it, and your dog ran after it.”

Jane’s eyebrows rose to a peak. She was tempted to go into her psychiatrist mode but decided he might think she was making fun of him. It would be better just to act herself and say what was on her mind. “I hate to say one of my peers is nuts, but you are, Sorenson. Certifiably nuts.” She leaned toward him, her eyes boring into his. “Read my lips; there is no such thing as a ghost. Olive probably picked up the scent of a rabbit or a squirrel.”

Mike shot her a withering look. “Think what you like. It makes no difference to me. I know what I know. There was something here not of this world. So there, Jane.”

He was serious. Very serious. And if she ever wanted to see him again, she would be wise not to mock him. “Okay,” she said, cautiously backing down off her soapbox. “So maybe you aren’t nuts. But if you want me to believe in ghosts, then you’ll have to prove their existence to me. Let’s start by you telling me exactly what you
felt,
” Jane said, stretching her neck to see where Olive had gone.

He thought a moment. “There was a—a presence,” he said, squinting as he looked at her. “It was stronger when Olive was here and then . . . there was this flash of cool air. Right after that, Olive took off. I didn’t see anything, though. I wish I had.” He smiled at her. “Maybe next time.”

“Next time?”

“I’d like to come back if you don’t mind.”

“Why I—No. How about Saturday? We can have a picnic brunch right here next to the well.” Picnics were good, she thought, because they were romantic—just the two of them sitting side by side on a blanket eating little sandwiches, nibbling on fruit, and drinking champagne.

“In all the time you’ve lived here you’ve never felt or experienced
anything
?” he asked. “Even just something a little out of the ordinary or something you couldn’t quite put your finger on?”

Jane gave him an apologetic look. “No, I’m afraid not, but like I said before, every once in a while something spooks Olive. I’ve seen her run circles around the well, and the way she took off a minute ago—she’s done that before. But she’s never howled like that. In fact, she’s
never
howled at all.”

She could imagine what Trixie would say to all of this.
Play along. If you have to, make something up.
But she couldn’t do that. It wasn’t her style.

Suddenly, Olive came bounding through the trees and sat down next to her feet. Jane blinked at the way she was panting and shaking—as if she’d seen a—

“I guess I should be going,” Mike said, starting back toward the house.

“I thought you wanted to see the rest of the house,” Jane grumbled. He’d just gotten there. It was too soon for him to leave. Leaving meant she hadn’t passed muster where he was concerned.
Screw it,
she thought as she headed back toward the house.

“I’ll see it all Saturday. I really wish I could stay longer, but I need to get home. I’ve got a couple of cases I need to go over. I enjoyed dinner and our little foray out here. You’ve really done wonders with the place, Jane.”

“Thanks. It’s been an experience to say the least.”

They walked around to the front of the house, where Jane sat down on the porch step and put her arm around Olive. She loved this time of day, the soft purple shadows of evening, the quietness. She saw a nail protruding from the step she was sitting on. The step had been one of her weekend repair projects. She’d hammered the nail but hadn’t driven it home because it had bent. Her father had told her hammering nails was all in the wrists. Obviously, her wrists weren’t up to snuff.

“Is it your intention to do a complete restoration?” he asked.

She moved her foot over the nail so Mike wouldn’t see it. Suddenly she felt terribly inadequate. Maybe her mother had been right, and she really was a misfit. Plain Jane who couldn’t quite cut it according to her beauty-pageant mother.

She thought about Connie Bryan again.

Jane heaved a sigh. “I’m not sure what my intentions are at this point. There are days when I love this old house and days when I hate it because it needs so much more work.” She rose to her feet. “I’ll see you Saturday.” A moment later she was heading up the steps to the porch.

“Jane!”

She glanced over her shoulder.

“How about we take in a movie next week? Say, Thursday, after I sit in on your session. We could grab a bite to eat either before or after, too.”

She stared at him, openmouthed, her heart pounding. “You mean a date? Sure.” A date with Mike Sorenson. La-di-da. Wait till she told Trixie. A date. Things happened on dates or afterward. Uh-huh.

“Yeah, a date. I come by, ring your doorbell, and say, are you ready? You’re on, lady.” In two quick strides, he was on the step next to her, taking her face between his hands and kissing her lightly on the lips. “Thanks for inviting me over,” he said, gazing deep into her eyes.

“You’re welcome,” Jane gasped. Her tongue felt like it was glued to her teeth. She wondered if her hair was standing on end with the electricity ricocheting through her body.

“Okay,” Mike said, smacking his hands together as he danced from one foot to the other. “See you Saturday midmorning.”

All she could do was nod.

Once he was gone, Jane ran into the house and sat down on the bench in the foyer. He’d kissed her. A light, friendly kiss, but a kiss just the same. To think, in high school he would have gagged at the thought of even touching her.
Funny,
she thought,
how things change. How people change.

A half hour later, she looked up from her musings to realize the house was completely dark. “You should have said something, Olive, instead of just letting me sit here. Come on, let’s put some light on the subject.” Jane meandered from room to room, turning on all the lamps and overhead lights so she could see the house through Mike Sorenson’s eyes. She did what she’d seen Mike do and made a telescope with her hands. Perhaps the shelves were a hair off, but they certainly weren’t
crooked.
Trixie and Fred’s books weren’t listing to the side. Stephen Rhodes’s books were nestled alongside one another and upright. She uttered an unladylike snort. Just her luck to be attracted to a nit-picking perfectionist.

She turned away from the bookshelves and studied the parlor. It was the only room in the house that had been completely restored to its original grandeur. One day she hoped to replace all the furniture with fine antiques.

Olive barked and ran upstairs. Jane followed her up with the intention of changing into her sweats. She paused on the landing, turned, and looked down past the foyer to the parlor and imagined wide-eyed children standing where she was, gazing at the Christmas tree in front of the bay window.

Her gaze switched back to the foyer when she heard a noise. One of the file folders in her briefcase had fallen out onto the floor. Odd, she thought, frowning. She clearly remembered zipping the compartments closed before leaving the office. She looked down at Olive, who was looking between the stair rails at the fallen file folder. The fur on her back was standing straight up. Jane was about to reach down and pet her when the chandelier tinkled. She looked around and saw the prisms swaying from side to side.

Olive let loose with another ungodly howl, then bounded down the stairs and ran through the foyer to the parlor and beyond. Her barks echoed through the sparsely furnished house.

“Come back here, Olive. What’s gotten into you?” Jane kept her eyes on the tinkling chandelier as she crept down the stairs. “Damn you, Mike Sorenson, if you’ve stirred something up, I’ll never forgive you!”

The chandelier had stopped tinkling by the time Jane reached the bottom of the stairs. Nevertheless, she decided to give it a wide berth just in case the nuts and bolts that held it had come loose. She walked over to the bench where she’d tossed her briefcase, picked it up, and saw that
all
the zippers were open—the outside zipper; the inside, change-purse zipper; and the two file zippers. She dropped the briefcase like a hot potato. Her frightened gaze swept to the file folder on the floor. Frightened but curious, she stretched out her right leg and, with the toe of her shoe, pulled the folder toward her until she could see the tab. It was the Ramsey file.

Shivers ran up her arms. Reluctantly, she squatted to pick it up and was knocked off-balance when Olive came from out of nowhere and threw herself onto Jane’s lap.

“Olive! What the hell’s wrong with you?” she shouted as she tried to get the spaniel off her lap so she could sit up. “Damn it, Olive—” It suddenly dawned on her; Olive was terrified. She was panting heavily, and her entire body was trembling. Overcome with guilt, Jane grabbed the spaniel and held her close. “It’s okay, girl,” she crooned softly. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. It was probably just the house settling,” she said, thinking the dog’s fear was due to the tinkling chandelier, something she’d never heard before.

Looking over Olive’s head, Jane watched in horror as the rest of her paperwork slithered, page by page, out of her briefcase and onto the old pine bench. “Easy, Olive, easy. I’m sure there is a very logical answer to all of this. I don’t know what it is yet, but once I analyze everything—” She chuckled. “It’s probably just a draft. Yeah, that’s what it is. A draft.” She twisted her head around to see if any of the windows were open in the parlor. They weren’t.

“This is silly. Get up, Ollie.” She pushed the dog off her lap and struggled to her feet. “After I pick all this up, I’m going to go—” She stared at the papers in her hand. “What we’re going to do is—” They were in order. They weren’t that way when she’d jammed them into her briefcase. “We’re going to the Ramsey house is what we’re going to do!” she said, shoving the folder and all the papers back into the briefcase and zipping all the zippers. She looked around to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. With trembling hands, she carefully hung the briefcase by its shoulder strap on the hall tree.

Olive pawed at her leg.

Jane glanced down at her. “You wanna go for a ride?”

Olive stood up on her hind legs and grabbed the leash hanging from one of the hall tree’s hooks.

“Okay, okay, calm down,” Jane said as she hooked the leash to Olive’s collar. The crazy dog loved going for rides even more than she loved pig ears. On occasion Jane had tried to fool her and sneak out of the house without taking her, but Olive always knew and came running, dragging her leash behind her. It was like she had a sixth—She stopped herself from completing the thought. Dogs were “sensitive” to certain weather conditions, earthquakes, and their owners’ moods, but they did not have a sixth sense.

With Olive at her side, Jane walked through the house, turning off the lights she’d turned on a little while earlier. “I know this isn’t going to make any sense to you, Ollie, but my gut tells me I need to do something about Mr. Ramsey. If that means getting personally involved, then so be it. My patient is my first concern. No, that’s not true,” she said, bending to pet Olive. “You’re my first concern.” Olive looked up at her expectantly. The excitement of going for a ride had made her forget her fear.
Wouldn’t it be nice,
Jane thought,
if my patients could be cured of their fears so easily?