The Cornerstone (13 page)

Her mother coughed slightly, then started to choke. Claire was on her feet in an instant. Her trained hands went to work, massaging the middle of her mother’s back between the shoulder blades.

“Just lean forward.” One hand on the shoulder, the other on the back, as much for comfort as for therapy. Gradually her mother relaxed and the coughing spasm passed.

Claire remembered being told that her mother had started smoking at a very early age, which, her doctors informed everyone, was the reason she’d developed emphysema. The wasting disease in Gwen’s lungs had really taken hold when Claire started middle school, and by the time she entered high school her mother had become an invalid. Now, at age 66, Gwen had marginal lung function left, requiring her to stay tethered to the portable oxygen generator that hissed softly to itself, artificially sustaining its patient in the land of the living. These days she spent most of her time reading and dozing, dependent on the gray box the size of a small ice chest. There would come a time, though, when the collapse of lung tissue and inability to expel oxygen would take its toll and the patient would suffocate, or end up with a breathing tube down her throat. Dread settled around Claire’s shoulders—not a way anyone would choose to make their exit. There were times when her black mood was on her that she wished she could help nature along. Then she’d feel guilty for having even entertained such a thought.

“Whatever happened…to the one who got hurt?”

It took Claire a second or two to figure out what she was talking about. “You mean Danny?”

Her mother nodded. “Sounded like you should have treated him.”

“Yeah, I know. But Bayard wouldn’t let me. He didn’t seem to think it was that bad. Then the next day he told everybody that Danny had decided to quit the play
and
the company.”

“And his replacement is better?” Gwen sipped the last of her tea.

“Yeah, by light years. I wouldn’t have thought changing one character would make such a difference, but in this case it really has.” Claire thought about it. The play had momentum, excitement because of Tom’s presence onstage. He’d managed to push Morris to a higher level as well, and the two of them sparred as Faustus and Mephistopheles in a way that made the play come alive. She’d never seen the play as anything other than running lines and marking stage positions while Danny had been Faustus. But now it had become a real story, the tragic plight of the worldly scholar risking his immortal soul for fame and fortune—a story of greed and regret as gripping as any soap opera. And in that moment, she decided to give Danny a call.

Claire got up. “Mom, I need to go call about the rehearsal schedule. I’ll use the phone in Daddy’s office so it won’t bother you. Want me to heat your tea while I’m up?”

Gwen shook her head. “Go talk. I’m fine.” She bunched the sweater up under her neck and closed her eyes.

“I’ll leave the door open…call me if you need anything.”

Claire headed down the hallway toward the tiny back bedroom that had served as her father’s home office. Its single window looked out over the fenced-in back yard. A large business style desk took up most of the floor space, with a couple of gray metal filing cabinets pushed into corners.

Jimmie Porter had a real office downtown in the suite maintained by the insurance firm that employed him, but a lot of the time he’d worked from home to be near his ailing wife. Claire was touched when she thought about it. Hard as their lives may have been, Gwen and Jimmie Porter never ceased to care for each other, at least as far as Claire could tell. Their cozy little bungalow on the narrow residential street in their southside neighborhood of old friends encompassed a world they’d built for themselves that had little to do with the brief socialite life her mother had led in college. When they’d gone looking for a house, for Jimmie it had been love at first sight over the small Craftsman with its arched doorways, neat brick fireplace, and pecan floors. Claire remembered going with her parents to see the house when it was on the market and walking though the unfurnished rooms, hanging onto her father’s hand. She’d been four, or maybe five…preschool, anyway. What she’d liked most was the fenced back yard with its big trees, one of which had a tire swing.

Whatever Gwen may have thought of it, given the house she’d grown up in, she’d never challenged Jimmie on his decision to buy the bungalow, at least within Claire’s hearing. Her mother had plenty of opinions about how to furnish the house and insisted on putting a small birdbath fountain in the front yard “to dress it up,” but once they’d moved out of the tiny upstairs apartment of which Claire had only shadowy memories, the family settled in with no complaints. Claire had her own bedroom, so what wasn’t to love? Their first year in, Jimmie added a two-person wooden swing under the arched supports of the open front porch. Claire well remembered him varnishing the pale wood with its cutout heart design across the back. These days the swing was terminally weathered with too many slats missing. It should probably be replaced, but since Claire had no plans to swing in it any time soon, that particular task sat near the bottom of her priority list.

She eased down into the well-worn leather chair behind her father’s desk. It had been all she could do to go through the drawers and piles of papers right after his death. Reading his correspondence and pulling everything out for inspection felt embarrassing, invasive…as if she were plundering through someone’s private life without their knowledge (which, of course, she was). But the deed had to be done because there were things like unpaid bills, letters from clients, insurance contracts waiting to be executed, and so much business trivia to sort through that it made her head ache. She’d sucked it up, though, because there was no one else to do it. At least the one thing she’d especially been dreading—unearthing a stash of porn mags or something worse, like love letters from someone who wasn’t her mother—hadn’t materialized. She thought perhaps there might be a God.

Now, the surface of the desk was mostly clear and she’d started using it herself. She found Addie’s number among the entries she’d added to the rolodex and then hesitated, her hand on the receiver. She could imagine Addie’s reaction to the call.
Holy crap, Claire, give it a rest! What is it with you and this obsession over Danny?
She grimaced and dialed the number.

Addie answered on the sixth ring, slightly out of breath, just as Claire was about to hang up.

“…‘ello?”

“Hey, it’s me. Claire. Sorry, did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, no. I was in the laundry room downstairs. Had to run to catch the phone. What’s up? I hope that rat Bayard doesn’t want us to come in after all.”

Claire laughed. “Not a chance. The reason I called, I just wondered…since you have the cast phone list…if you could give me Danny’s number.”

There was a beat, then two. “Um, okay. Give me a minute.” Claire heard the receiver clunk down on a hard surface as Addie went to retrieve the list. She returned shortly and read out the number. Claire jotted it down and wondered what the bloody hell she was doing. This was none of her business, but like an itch she couldn’t quite reach, she couldn’t let it alone.

“Mind if I ask why you wanna call him?”

“I just wanted to ask him if he got his wrist properly treated. I don’t know if he lives alone or what...” Lame. Completely lame. Addie must be rolling her eyes. Claire sighed and leaned back in her father’s chair, quietly despising herself.

“Well, I can tell you that he lives in an apartment near Inman Park. Don’t know if there’s a roommate.”

“Ah. Well, thanks for the info.”

“So, why do you
really
need to call him?” Addie had switched to her legal assistant’s voice, which told Claire she wasn’t buying any part of the checking-up-on-a-patient excuse.

What to say? “I just have this gut-level feeling that something’s not right.”

Instead of laughing, Addie said, “I could do a card reading on him. Hang on, I’ll go get them.” The phone clunked down again. Claire ground her teeth. She didn’t want a bloody card reading predicting falling towers and whatnot. She just wanted to hear the guy’s voice and satisfy the rat-gnawing worry she couldn’t shake off.

But Addie was back—Claire heard the cards shuffle.

“Okay. Claire, just picture Danny in your mind, if you would, please?” Her voice went up, like a question. Claire sighed. She’d gone this far, might as well play along.

“Are you visualizing, Claire?”

“Yes. Go ahead.”

“So…here we go. I’ll pull three cards. Show us the energy surrounding Danny. Is he safe?” There was silence, then, “Hm. All three cards are reversed.”

“How bad is that?” Claire felt a tension headache starting at the base of her skull.

“Depends. Reversals can mean barriers or blockages, or it might just show delay in the resolution of something. Doesn’t necessarily mean bad luck…usually the interpretation is more complex. Anyway, first card is The Seeker, reversed. My guess would be it means a delay in learning or understanding, or there is a barrier preventing enlightenment.”

Claire made quick notes. “Could it refer to something secret, or maybe something that’s preventing us from finding out what we want to know about Danny?”

“It might.”

Claire added that to her notes. “What’s the next card?”

“Six of Swords, reversed. Hm, not so good.”

“Why?”

“Well, swords generally have to do with actions or physical events, and the number six has to do with the self. So I’d interpret the card to mean selfishness or a failure to do what’s right, a misguided sacrifice maybe.”

Claire’s scalp prickled. “A what?”

Addie’s voice was thoughtful. “The sacrifice of another, for one’s own selfish interests. Not literally a sacrifice, you understand…probably like undermining someone’s well-being to further your own ends…or something like that.”

Claire realized she was holding her breath again, a nervous habit when things she didn’t want to hear came out anyway.

“Claire? You there?”

“Yeah, I was just thinking. Keep going.”

“Last card. Eight of Wands, reversed. Dishonesty, falsehood, communication failure.”

Claire put her pen down. “We’re being lied to. I
knew
that story about Danny quitting the company was bullshit.”

“Huh? But, he did quit. I think.” Addie seemed genuinely confused.

“We only have Bayard’s word for it.” Claire was annoyed—the truth seemed blatantly obvious. He knew what really happened to Danny, but he wasn’t sharing.

“Well, yeah, but why would he lie? I mean, what’s his motivation?”

Claire bit her lip. “Who knows? I’m just suspicious by nature. Do your cards ever give you wrong information?”

“Not wrong information, per se. Sometimes I might misinterpret what they show me, especially if it’s a complicated reading. But looking at this spread, it’s actually pretty straightforward. Three reversals, all having to do with blocked communication and lack of information. It does sound like something being kept secret, doesn’t it?” Claire thought she might have heard a whiff of fear in Addie’s voice. Maybe she remembered that other reading she’d given in the pub.

“Your question was worded to get an answer specific to Danny, and not just in general, right?”

“Yeah…” Claire could almost hear the gears grinding.

“You want to help me follow this up?”

“Absolutely.”

That went better than she’d hoped. Addie was on board. Claire wished she could have pulled Tom and maybe Morris into her little private investigation too, but Addie would have to do for now.

“Tell you what. I’ll give Danny a call. Then we can decide where to go from there.”

“Now you’ve got me worried. What are you thinking?”

Claire chose her words carefully. “I think we’ve been lied to about Danny. I can’t imagine why Bayard would do that, unless he has something to hide. Something bad. And…it bothers me that nobody’s looking into it.”

“You know something, Claire, I really admire you.”

“Why? I’m just doing the right thing.”

“You’re a brave person. To be honest, I’ve had some misgivings myself, but didn’t have the nerve to go poking around in Bayard’s business. He can be a little intimidating.”

“More than a little.”

They both laughed. “Maybe it’s nothing, and we’ve cast him in the villain’s role by mistake.”

Addie agreed. “I would love it if you were totally wrong on this.”

“Well, let me try to call Danny, and I’ll tell you what turns up.”

Claire disconnected and dialed the number she’d written down for Danny, and held her breath. It rang once, twice, four times, then a recorded message came on. “Hey, Danny Ward here. Obviously I’m not home or you’d be talking to me right now. So, leave me a message, won’t you?” Chipper sounding. Claire wondered how old that recording was.

“Danny, this is Claire…from the play, remember? Just wanted to see how that cut was doing. It looked to me like it could have used a suture.” She waited, but no one picked up. “Well, if you wouldn’t mind, just give me a call when you get a chance.” She let her breath out and hung up.
Shit!
She’d forgotten to leave her number. Claire fumed for a couple of minutes, then called again. To her surprise, a voice answered. It wasn’t Danny.

“Yeah?” A male voice, not too old, probably a roommate.

“Ah, hi. This is Claire Porter? I’m…trying to get in touch with Danny Ward.”

“You and everybody else. Haven’t seen him.” Claire tried to gauge the voice. Irritated? Curious? Couldn’t care less?

“When did you last see him, then?” She felt less self-conscious with this stranger who didn’t know her from Adam.

“What’s it to you? You a girl friend or something?” Claire frowned. Maybe not a roommate, who would surely know if Danny had any romantic attachments.

“I’m just a friend, a medic…I’m checking up on an injury he received about a week ago.”

“Don’t know anything about that. He’s skipped out best I can tell. His rent was due two weeks ago, but he hasn’t paid. Another two weeks and I’m putting his stuff out on the street.”