Final Exam (13 page)

Sixteen

Etheridge had made good on his promise of a new toilet and I had one when I returned home the following evening. I didn’t need to use it in the most literal sense, but I put the seat down and sat on it, just to get a feel for it. I had never been so happy to see a toilet in my entire life.

Max had called me earlier in the day and asked if she could come up to campus for dinner. “I’ll bring Indian,” she said. I told her that there really wasn’t enough room in my dorm room to eat but that if she wanted to stay on campus, we’d have to eat in the TV room. “That’s fine. I want to take a trip down memory lane. The present isn’t turning out to be so great.”

“And remember!” I called out before she hung up. “No booze.”

“Just like old times,” she said, sighing, but I didn’t know what “old times” she was talking about. I didn’t remember her ever being in a “no booze” state when she was a student here. I do, though, remember a keg in my closet when I returned from Christmas break and which I hadn’t been too pleased to find out had a drippy spigot. I had at least half a keg drain into my snow boots so that whenever it snowed during the entire second semester, I walked around smelling like a bar wench, eau de Budweiser filling the air around me. Unfortunately, that winter had been particularly bad weatherwise.

Before she arrived, I stared at myself in the mirror and practiced the faces I would make to see if they looked guilty, indifferent, seminormal, or none of the above. I was carrying around the information about her marriage and I wasn’t happy about it. Nor am I a very good actress, Coco Varick, Air France flight attendant, being the only exception. And I had been playing her a lot lately, at least in my head. I e-mailed Kevin and told him to stay clear of the TV room, the lobby, and anywhere else Max and I might be in the building from the hours of seven to ten, just to be on the safe side. I didn’t want him seeing her, because as bad as I am at concealing the truth, I can only imagine how bad Father McGossippants is.

She looked much better than she had when I had left her just a few days before. She received an appreciative glance from Tommy Moore, who was sitting desk when she arrived. I was already in the TV room, setting up the small card table for our dinner, but I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was sitting up straight and that his face was a little flushed. Max must be here, I thought. When I went out to greet her, she was signing the log-in pad, leaning over the desk, her ample bosom—usually rare for someone a hundred pounds dripping wet—peeking out of her V-necked top. She stood and I could see that her short hair had been colored, her eyebrows waxed, and her face the recent recipient of a facial.

It’s amazing what a couple of days can do, especially when someone lives at hyperspeed like Max. Her recovery was like her metabolism—quick, efficient, and highly effective.

“You look so much better!” I said, and gave her a hug.

She broke away and picked up the bags of Indian takeout that she had left on the desk. “Going back to work was just what the doctor ordered.”

Finally, someone had taken my advice, and finally, it had been right.

Over murgh tikka masala and Diet Cokes, I gave her the details of my Wayne sighting, the man who approached me, and finally, because I had forgotten that part of it, the whole Sister Mary breakfast/bathroom sighting.

“So, old Mary uses the toilet, huh?” she asked. “Never would have thought she was human like the rest of us.”

“I think she’s got him in the convent,” I said.

“Sounds like it.”

The old Max would have immediately begun hatching a plan to get us into the convent, but this Max just sat silently eating her dinner. I asked her to tell me about work, figuring that might loosen her up a bit.

“The Hooters PI show is coming together nicely,” she said, her mouth full. “Thank God I went back to work! My assistant program director was about this close to screwing the whole thing up,” she said, holding her thumb and index fingers less than an inch apart.

I helped myself to some rice. “How’s my house?”

She looked away quickly. “It’s great!” she said with a little too much cheer.

“Great?” I put my fork down. “You sure?”

“Yes, great,” she said, making a fast recovery. “I’m keeping it clean.”

“You’d better be. Remember, Magda comes every Friday to do a thorough cleaning.”

“She does?” Although I reminded Max of this every week, she either chose to forget or didn’t hear me at all.

“Yes,” I said. “I told you that before I left. Remember?”

“Apparently not,” she said. She pushed her plate away. “If I eat any more of this, I’m going to vomit.”

Glad I had a new toilet. And if that was her way of changing the subject, she had succeeded.

“You know what would be nice?” she asked. “Some rum in this Coke.” She got up and went into the lobby to talk to Tommy. “Hey, kid, got any booze in this place?”

I didn’t hear Tommy’s answer, but I hurried into the lobby to grab her before she did any more damage. I passed by the staircase and then the front door, where I spied Crawford’s Crown Vic pulling into a visitor parking space in front of the dorm. I had to admit: living on campus had its advantages, particularly if Crawford was going to come by as often as he did; I was a lot closer to the precinct here than at my house. I stopped by the front door and watched as he maneuvered the car into the space.

He got out of the car and gave me a quick wave. And then the passenger side door opened and Fred emerged, his hulking shape unmistakable even in the fading light of day. The smile that was on my face left immediately like ice cream sliding off a cone. I returned Crawford’s wave with a hand motion that I interpreted to mean “stop” but on which he apparently didn’t get the memo. He waved again and pointed surreptitiously toward Fred who was lumbering behind him, his bald head catching the light from the one working streetlight in the little lot.

I turned to give Max the high sign but she was deep in conversation with Tommy, who apparently did know where there might be a stash of rum. He was on the phone as she sat on the edge of the desk, swinging her shapely legs back and forth, Tommy’s eyes following every motion, mesmerized. He hung up and gave her a fist bump to indicate success.

Crawford came in the outer door and gave me a funny look, probably wondering why I was still pressed up against the glass of the inside door. As he put his hand on the doorknob, he looked over my head and caught sight of Max. Fred, right behind him, plowed into his back, flattening Crawford on the other side of the glass, creating a tempered-glass sandwich of me and Crawford.

Fred saw Max, too, because he shouted “Move!” at the two of us, and the sound carried through the thick layer of glass, across the lobby and to Max, who stopped swinging her legs and looked toward the door. Her face froze. Once happy about finding a rum dealer, she now looked a bit surprised, a bit angry. She jumped off the desk and stood in the lobby.

I backed away from the door because Fred, in a hurry to get to his woman, looked like the Incredible Hulk without the green body paint and torn pants. He pushed Crawford to the side of the little anteroom, pulled open the door, and walked into the lobby.

“Why won’t you return my calls?” he demanded of her.

Tommy Moore stood up slowly and backed away from the desk, apparently thinking that Fred could read the impure thoughts he was having in his mind about Max. He picked up speed and hustled up the staircase to floors above, probably not stopping until he got to the roof.

“Why won’t you get the hell out of my apartment?” she asked.

“
Our
apartment,” he reminded her.

“Last time I checked,” she said, throwing her hip out to the side and putting her hand on it, “my name was the only one on the deed.”

Fred didn’t have an answer to that. He’s not the most talkative guy nor the quickest with a retort so it didn’t surprise me that he had nothing to say. What was there to say, really, except for “Hey, guys, you’re not really married so this is all a bit of a waste of energy.” But I wasn’t going to say that and neither was Crawford, who was rubbing his upper arm after being body-slammed into the door.

“Well, it was ours when we lived together,” Fred said weakly.

“Yeah, until you made a mockery of our marriage,” she said, but I could see that she was losing her strength on that one. It appeared that, exclusive of the apartment-ownership issue, Max’s resolve was beginning to crumble slightly despite how hard she tried to hold fast to her stance.

He put his hands out in a conciliatory gesture.

“I wasn’t married to you when that happened,” he said.

I sat down on the stairs. This was going to take a while.

“Yeah, but you never told me. And that’s what hurts.”

“Have you told me everything about your life before?” he asked.

Good point. I knew she hadn’t. Because if she had, they would still be undergoing a battery of blood tests.

She bit her lip. “Yes,” she said, wavering.

I felt like this was a complete rehash of every other conversation they had had prior to splitting up and couldn’t understand why we were going down this road again. I looked at Crawford, who was standing in a corner of the lobby, looking up at the ceiling, clearly wishing he were anywhere but here.

I encouraged the two of them to go into the TV room so that they could chat and have a little more privacy. I pulled the French doors closed behind me and asked Crawford if he wanted to come down to my room, visitation ordinances be damned. It was still early enough so that I wouldn’t get in real trouble if he was discovered, but I hadn’t signed him in and had no intention of doing so.

We went into the musty living room of the suite and sat on the old Victorian sofa, which I was sure was an original.

“I think I’ve officially had it with this situation,” he said, letting out an exasperated sigh.

“Which one?” I asked. “Because we’ve got so many ‘situations,’ I don’t know where to begin.”

A faint but persistent buzzing noise interrupted our ruminations.

“What the hell is that?” Crawford asked.

It took me a second to realize that someone was pressing the buzzer on the front door. Since Tommy Moore had taken off for parts unknown, no one was manning the desk and I was pretty sure that neither Max nor Fred would interrupt their conversation to let the person in.

“Stay here,” I said, and started down the hallway. “Coming!” I called as I got closer to the front door. The buzzing continued. “Coming!” I yelled, louder this time.

I skidded to a stop at the front door and looked through the glass. I didn’t think this day could get any worse, but it appeared it was about to. Because peering back at me through the two doors was Eben Brookwell. And behind him, the lovely Geraldine.

I hit the buzzer, unlocking the two doors. The Brookwells walked in.

Eben Brookwell couldn’t contain his surprise or delight at seeing me. “Coco?”

Behind me I heard footsteps. Crawford had come out to investigate.

Eben smiled and held out his hand. “And you must be Chad.”

Seventeen

“It is Coco, right?” Eben said, holding out his hand.

I had been stunned into silence. Crawford spoke first. “Yes, Mr. Brookwell. And I don’t think we’ve met officially.” The two men shook hands. I noticed that Crawford didn’t perpetuate the lie by calling himself “Chad” but he was keeping up the charade nonetheless.

Geraldine gave me a quick hug. “What are you doing here, dear?” She looked at Eben. “This is so strange! Isn’t this strange?”

“It’s strange,” he said. “But good strange.” He was such a gentleman that I felt tremendous guilt over my subterfuge.

Crawford gave me a nudge in the back. “Tell them what we’re doing here, honey.”

I looked at him. “We’re . . . ,” I started, distracted by the sight of Mary Catherine Donnery bouncing up to the front door, probably for the booty call that was going to save my skin. “Here to see our daugh . . . niece!” I yelled and ran to the front door. I remembered telling Eben that Chad and I didn’t have any children just in the nick of time. “And here she is!” I met Mary Catherine in the space between the outer and inner doors and pulled her close in an embrace. “My name is Coco Varick, and the big guy in there is Chad, and you’re our niece.”

She tried to pull away but I outweighed her by thirty pounds; I also had the Vulcan death grip on her arm. “What?”

“Just go along with it and I’ll be sure to make it up to you.” I continued to hug her. “Ready?”

She started toward the door and then stopped. “Wait. What’s my name?”

“You can still be Mary Catherine. Just don’t say too much and we’ll be fine.”

We walked in. “Look, Chad. It’s Mary Catherine! Our niece has finally come home!” I said, probably too gaily, but fortunately the Brookwells didn’t know me, didn’t know that I wasn’t a flight attendant, and probably thought my overly enthusiastic verbal stylings were a by-product of serving peanuts and martinis to strangers at thirty thousand feet.

Mary Catherine played her part perfectly, walking over to Crawford and giving him a big hug as well as a lingering kiss on the lips. Tonight’s underwear-as-clothes ensemble consisted of tight jeans, a champagne-colored camisole, and high wedge sandals. A lacy thong peeked out from the back of her low-riding pants. “Uncle Chad,” she said dreamily. It looked like she had been waiting to do that for a long time and I thought back to the undressing she had given him with her eyes when she had first seen him a few nights earlier. “I’ve missed you.”

I was behind the Brookwells and pulled my flattened hand across my throat to get her to stop. “Okay, then,” I said, clapping my hands together. “We’re going to dinner. And we’ll have to get going, Chad, if we’re going to keep our reservation.”

Crawford peeled Mary Catherine off him and took my hand. “It has been a pleasure, Mr. and Mrs. Brookwell.” I could see a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.

The murmured voices in the TV room were getting louder and I, too, felt the sweat starting at my hairline. Eben Brookwell looked at me quizzically. “Don’t you want to know why we’re here?”

“Right! Why are you here?” I asked, moving closer to the TV room.

“We’re here to see our son Wayne,” Geraldine said, beaming. “He’s the resident director here. We wanted to surprise him and take him to dinner.”

Not anymore, I thought. Then I thought about Trixie locked up in the suite and got a little sick. If the Brookwells went down to Wayne’s room to knock on the door, she would bark, the jig would be up, and I would be out of a job in no time flat. I was sure of it.

Crawford was one step ahead of me. “Is that the nice young man that we just saw leaving?” he asked.

Mary Catherine proved to be a fine operative, as well. She made a sad sound and pulled her lips down in a beautifully executed expression of fake sadness. “I just saw him leaving campus. He was headed to the city to see a show,” she said, her voice filled with regret. “You just missed him.”

Geraldine looked crestfallen. “Oh, no!” She looked at Eben. “I told you we should have called first, but
you
wanted to surprise him.”

The activity in the TV room was escalating and I heard a chair overturn. “We’d better be going, Chad,” I said, and pulled him close.

Eben smiled. “Well, all’s not lost. Geraldine’s sister is a professor here and we’ll take her to dinner instead. Maybe you know her. Sister Mary McLaughlin?”

I looked up, seemingly trying to remember if I knew her. I glanced over at Mary Catherine who was on the other side of Crawford. “Was that the fabulous professor you had for your Renaissance course last semester?”

Mary Catherine nodded enthusiastically. “It was, Aunt Coco. She’s a great teacher,” she said, looking at the Brookwells earnestly. She slipped her hand into Crawford’s and he looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him up.

The Brookwells conferred for a few more minutes and then decided it was time to leave. “We just can’t believe this coincidence,” Eben said again, and gave me a warm hug.

“It’s a small world,” Crawford agreed.

“Shall we?” Eben said, suggesting we all leave together.

I gave Mary Catherine a look and sent her a telepathic message to delay. She picked up on it and ran with it. “Aunt Coco, I have to run upstairs and get my bag. Can you wait for me?”

“Sure, honey,” I said, and she took off. Crawford turned away so as not to have his eyes burned out by the sight of a twenty-year-old girl’s ass in the tightest jeans I had ever seen running up the stairs. I knew what this meant: no sign-in meant nobody knew she was there. She was spending the night and there was really nothing I could do about it after bringing her into this nightmare of a one-act play.

We bid good night to the Brookwells, and when we were sure that they had gotten into their car and driven away, Crawford collapsed on the second to last step of the staircase, his head in his hands. “I feel like I’m going to throw up,” he said.

“I guess you’ve never worked undercover?” I asked innocently.

“I’m a graphic designer!” he cried. “I’m not supposed to be undercover.” He sat there for a few more minutes, his hands hanging down between his legs. “How old is that girl, by the way?”

“She’s at least twenty,” I said.

“Good,” he said. His first guesstimate had probably been in the nonlegal area and that would have sent him off the deep end for sure. “How in the hell did we get into this situation?”

“I don’t know,” I said, and put my ear to the TV room door. It didn’t sound like anything too exciting was happening and their voices were back to a normal timbre. “But what’s interesting to me is that the Brookwells don’t know that their son is missing. That is extremely disturbing.”

Crawford stood. “Well, what do we do now?”

I thought for a moment. “I have to get into the convent.”