Murder Takes a Dare: The First Marisa Adair Mystery Adventure (Marisa Adair Mysteries Book 1) (18 page)

Clay passed his hand over his lips to hide his smile. Thea, who had initially been reluctant to investigate the matter of the residents’ deaths, was flushed with excitement and her green eyes were sparkling like precious gems.

Clay tilted his silver head, staring over Althea’s fragile, silk-clad shoulder. “It’s Mrs. Witherspoon. Her son is pushing her wheelchair.”

Althea twisted her neck to gaze behind her, and then clenched her fists. “If he hurts her in any way...”

Clay’s eyes opened very wide as he continued to gaze at the frail old woman and her pudgy, balding son. “Look, Thea. He’s bending over her quite solicitously. Now, he’s adjusting the blanket on her legs and straightening her sweater.”

Althea took a quick peek and turned back to Clay. “You’re right. He’s the picture of a loving son.”

Clay hissed warningly, “Ssshh, he’s coming this way.”

They were silent as the middle-aged man, the buttons of his slightly grimy shirt straining at the stomach, lumbered past them. The slanting rays of the sun glistening on the back of his balding head, Winterspoon filled a glass with ice and water. He strode past Clay and Althea without glancing at them.

Clay commented, “He’s giving his mother the glass of water.”

Althea shook her head in disbelief. “Thanks to you, Clay, that boy has taken a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn in his treatment of her.”

“I must say I agree. One evening, before I knew his behavior of his mother was so extreme, he came by to see her. He was so cold and hostile toward her I had an overwhelming urge to hit him with my cane.” Clay’s lips curved in a predatory smile. “On his way out, he walked through the common area. As he approached the couch, where I was sitting and watching television, I ‘accidentally’ slid my cane out across his path.”

Althea’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, Clay! You didn’t!”

Clay’s eyes were as hard as slate. “Oh, yes, I did. He went down like a ton of bricks. Of course, I jumped up to apologize.”

Althea could no longer contain her laughter. “Of course!”

Clay’s face was as innocent as a toddler caught with a fistful of cookies. “While I was apologizing and attempting to help him up, I unfortunately stepped on his hand.”

Tears of laughter rolled down Althea’s cheeks. “Oh, my Lord!”

Clay put his hands on his hips in mock severity. “Thea, as hard as you’re laughing at that poor boy’s misfortune, I’m almost afraid to tell you the toe of my shoe somehow managed to connect with his ribs.”

Althea threw her head back. Her laughter seemed to fill the entire the dining room, causing both Winterspoons to stare at her. Even in the common area, the residents craned their necks to see what was so hilarious. A nursing assistant at the nurses’ station leaning over the counter nearly fell as she peered in their direction.

“Clay, you are incorrigible!” Althea gasped, when the waves of laughter finally subsided.

Clay grinned, enjoying Althea’s smiling face and sparkling eyes. “I can’t help it if the boy is accident prone.” He focused his gaze on the mother and son. “I hope this transformation is permanent. If not…then I will have to take more drastic measures than tripping him with my cane.”

Althea pulled her clean handkerchief out of the sleeve of her blouse, and applied it delicately to her streaming eyes.

Clay and Althea looked up as a tall, older blonde woman dressed in a white lab coat over a short, teal dress with a flirty skirt strode through the lobby. A business-like stethoscope circled her neck, and an expensive black leather bag bounced against her hip. Her high hemline revealed long, shapely legs, and her plunging neckline displayed her full breasts. In one arm, she held an open silver-backed patient chart, and her smooth face was set in preoccupied lines as she stared down at it.

Althea frowned. “That’s Esther!”

As they watched, Esther confidently approached Dr. Sean Stimmler, the elderly physician who attended the majority of the residents. He had told Althea he was mostly retired, and only followed the Home Away from Home residents to “keep his hand in.” The short, rotund doctor was standing at the nurses’ station, with several patient charts piled in front of him. One chart was open, his white head bent over it as he wrote in it.

Clay and Althea looked at each other in amazement.

“I’m not positive, but I think Esther is posing as a physician to get more information on the patients’ deaths.” Clay’s voice held surprised admiration.

In the darkness of the covered porch, Marisa ground her teeth in frustration. Russell and Alex refused to leave her on her own after the incident at the wrestling arena.

The three stood at the front door of Brandon Proctor’s mother’s house. The porch light was on, and a swarm of moths circled it in the summer night. “All right, you want to go inside with me while I question Brandon about Jonah’s murder, then fine. Please keep quiet and let me do the talking.”

Marisa knocked on the door.

“What’s with a grown man living with his mother?” Alex asked. His bony face was thrown in relief, and appeared gaunt in the porch light.

“Shhh. I hear someone coming.”

“Exactly,” Russell answered Alex as if Marisa hadn’t spoken. “What’s he up to, mooching off his poor old mom?”

The door opened, and an older lady with her hair in curlers peered out.

“Mrs. Proctor, I’m Marisa Adair. I work with your son at the hospital. Is he home?”

She flung the door wide and smiled. “Miss Adair! My son thinks the world of you. Please come in.”

The interior of the house was dimly lit by scattered lamps on table tops, and smelled of furniture polish and fresh baked goods. Mrs. Proctor led the way through the crowded living room. It was crammed with massive, old-fashioned furniture, which in turn was covered on every available surface by a cluttered hodgepodge of figurines, knick knacks, and framed photographs.

Russell whispered to Alex, “Take a load of all of those crocheted thing-a-ma-bobs. Doilies, covers, and spreads everywhere you look. The old woman must have way too much time on her hands.”

“Heh? Speak up back there.” Mrs. Proctor swung around so sharply, she bumped into Marisa.

Thrown off balance, she winced as she painfully bumped her hip on the corner of a sewing machine, piled high with squares of bright fabric.

“They were just admiring your crochet work.” Rubbing her hip, Marisa glared at Alex and Russell.

A smile lit the elderly woman’s face. “Actually, it’s Brandon’s work. He finds it relaxing.”

Marisa hid a smile at the mental picture of the masculine and attractive Brandon sitting in the living room with his mother, crocheting.

Russell, Alex, and Marisa carefully followed their hostess along a winding path, narrowly avoiding bumping into the sharp corners or knocking over the delicate bric-a-brac.

As they sat at the ancient yellow table in the tiny kitchen, Mrs. Proctor looked at them expectantly. “Now, what can I do for you folks?”

Marisa clenched her teeth in frustration. “We’re here to speak with Brandon. Could you get him, please?”

“Oh, my, Brandon doesn’t live here. He moved out about a year ago to his own place.”

Russell shifted in his seat. “Why didn’t she tell us at the door rather than dragging us through this obstacle course?”

Alex groaned, closed his eyes, and rubbed his forehead.

“You two didn’t have to tag along. In fact, I would have preferred it if you’d just dropped me off at the house so I could change my clothes, and let me complete this mission in peace.”

Russell glared at Alex as he answered Marisa, “You needed my car for a ride.”

Alex growled, “I could have brought her here on my motorcycle. We don’t need you.”

“Pretty difficult for you to give her a ride when your motorcycle is back at the wrestling…er…arena.”

“Stop it, you two. We’re just lucky the police trusted Russell to drive himself to the police station. I suppose they don’t have the resources to transport mobs.” Marisa managed to tamp down her impatience and smile at Mrs. Proctor. “If you’ll give us his address, we’ll be on our way.”

“Let me grab my sweater, and I’ll lead you over there. I baked a nice apple pie I was going to run over there tomorrow. I can take you over there and deliver his pie.”

“That’s not necessary—”

Mrs. Proctor whirled from the room.

“Pretty spry at the prospect of an impromptu visit to her son’s home,” Alex observed.

“She’s not that old,” Russell interjected. “Sixty-five or less.”

“You two are taking this development pretty well. It’s going to be difficult to question him with his mother tagging along—”

“I’m ready!” Mrs. Proctor trilled as she bounced back into the room, a fluffy sky blue sweater draped on her shoulders, a patterned scarf tied over her curlers, and a black purse and jangling keys in her hand.

Marisa, Alex, Russell, and Mrs. Proctor rendezvoused in front of Brandon’s tiny patio home. Marisa craned her neck. “It looks like all of the lights are out. He must be asleep. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Nonsense! He always stays up late. He’s probably on his computer.” Mrs. Proctor reached into a hanging flowerpot and withdrew a key. “Come on, I’ll let you in.”

In the hallway, Marisa could see the dim, shifting glow of candles. She sniffed. Scented candles.

“I’m getting a bad feeling about this,” Marisa whispered to Alex. “I think we’d better hustle Mrs. Proctor out of here—”

The neighing of a horse interrupted her.

Directly in front of them, Mrs. Proctor muttered, “He must be watching one of those dang westerns. When he was little, he loved cowboys and Indians—”

They rounded the corner

Mrs. Proctor flipped on the light.

On the floor,  a man was on his hands and knees. A horse head mask completely covered his head, and his body glowed white…and naked…in the candlelight.

Marisa’s mind contrarily skittered to the horses in the fields of the rural area where she’d grown up. The equine penises had stretched from the horses’ bellies nearly to the ground.

Mrs. Proctor gasped in outrage and dropped the pie, splattering gooey apples and crust.

Alex hissed, “Quick, I need a sharp stick to poke my eyes out!”

“I’ll take mine with a flaming point, just to make sure they’re thoroughly burned out,” Russell added.

A figure rose from behind the couch like Aphrodite rising from the waves and lunged toward the naked figure on the floor. She was wearing black riding breeches, knee-high black, high-heeled boots, and a straining red bustier. In one hand was a riding crop. She screamed.

Marisa couldn’t help making the connection between the whip and its natural target. Her eyes automatically went to the man’s ass. Even in the dim light, she could see the red welts slashing cross the smooth white skin.

The “horse” ripped off the mask and whipped it to his crotch.

Mrs. Proctor’s face was purple and her bosom was heaving. Her blue sweater had fallen in her outrage. “Brandon Eric Proctor! What in God’s name is going on here?”

“Wow. Is he ever going to get it,” Russell whispered.

“Hopefully, he won’t get a spanking,” Alex hissed back. “That would be redundant.”

“I’ve asked you to call before you come over, Mom.” Brandon reached for his pants, and then swore as he realized he couldn’t put them on and keep the mask over his privates at the same time.

“My poor innocent boy, victim of this harlot—” Mrs. Proctor strode across the room to the woman, her arm raised. With a strangled sound, she stopped short. Globs of pie slid down her legs and onto the floor.

“Amelia Cranston? What are you doing here with my baby? My God, you’re MY AGE! You tramp! You pedophile! I’ll have the law on you!”

With a jolt, Marisa recognized Mrs. Cranston from the hospital lobby. It appeared Brandon enjoyed more than verbal sparring with her.

Marisa took Mrs. Proctor’s arm and tried to pull her away.

“You’re a mountain lion or bob cat or whatever the hell they call old, dried up crones like you who prey off young men!” Mrs. Proctor lunged toward Mrs. Cranston.

Amelia Cranston nimbly skipped out of her way.

“It’s ‘cougar,’ Mom! That’s what they call older women who pursue younger men. But it doesn’t apply to Amelia. I chased her, not the other way around!”

The enraged mother’s hands were curved in claws, reaching for Amelia’s throat.

Amelia Cranston sidestepped the furious hands. “Agnes! This happens all of the time! It’s socially acceptable!” Her wheeling eyes fell on Marisa. She pointed with a shaking finger. “Look at Marisa Adair! She had a scorching affair with Jonah Graham, who was half her age!”

Amelia slapped her hand over her mouth and turned to Brandon in agony.

Brandon covered his mortified face with his hands.

The horse mask fell.

* * * * *

“You do realize every time I hear ‘giddy up,’ I’m going to have a flashback.” Alex slid into a seat at Brandon’s dining table.

Russell hid a smile. “How about ‘ride ‘em, cowboy’ as a trigger?”

Alex’s mouth twitched. “Or ‘rawhide.’”

Marisa indulged herself in a satisfying vision of cracking their heads together like coconuts. She straightened in her chair. “Stop it, you two, they’re coming out.”

Dressed in sweatpants and sweatshirt, Brandon held the chair for Amelia, who’d covered her bustier with one of Brandon’s dress shirts.

Brandon fell into a chair. “I am so sorry, Marisa. Not about my relationship with Amelia, but I am sorry I told her about you and Jonah. I should have kept it to myself.”

“No,” Amelia interrupted, pushing her curls out of her eyes. “I am the one who blabbed. I owe the apology. Brandon was very upset after what happened at the hospital and his experience with the police. He was so rattled he told me about your relationship with Jonah. It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

“You could have told me, Marisa.” Alex turned away from her.

Marisa opened her mouth to tell him to mind his own business. The disappointment, rather than accusation, in his voice stopped her.

“Yes,” Russell agreed, “you deliberately withheld information.”

Why the hell were the two of them ganging up on her? Marisa took a bracing breath. “I didn’t tell you because it doesn’t pertain to the investigation. I dated Jonah BR. Before Rehab,” she added for Amelia and Brandon. She suspected Alex already knew, since she’d been forced to miss work. “Afterward, I couldn’t maintain a sober lifestyle and still see Jonah. He didn’t want to give up the club and his own drinking. We both agreed it was best to convert our romantic relationship into friendship. End of story.” Marisa turned to Brandon. “I’m sorry we came here with your mother.”

Brandon leaned his head on his hand. “It’s OK, Marisa. My mother needs to realize I’ve grown up.” He raised his weary head to look at Marisa. “Why did you need to see me? Is it the layoffs?”

Russell snickered and Alex turned away to hide his smile.

Inwardly, Marisa fumed. She kicked Russell, then Alex. They both grunted and pain filled their faces. How juvenile could they get? They were like teen-aged boys, giggling at “LAYoffs.”

“I thought you knew about it.” Brandon’s dark brows rose until they nearly met his hairline. “After you and Mr. Caldwell left earlier on his motorcycle, Mr. Reed, our Chief Executive Officer, asked me to announce an emergency staff meeting. Everyone who could attend was ordered to be there. He announced staff layoffs, effective Monday. He passed out letters to the effected personnel.”

“I don’t believe it.” Marisa turned to Alex. “Did you know anything about this?”

Alex was as bewildered as Marisa. “No. I knew Payton was trying to cut expenses to the bone, mainly to net the biggest possible bonus for his own bank balance. He’s been refusing to order any office supplies,” he glared at her, “like paper. But unfortunately, he also told the nursing supervisors to do without supplies for the rest of the month. I didn’t know anything about staff cuts.”

“He obviously waited until you, I, and the rest of the management team were out of the way. Why else do such a thing late on Friday afternoon, with no warning at all?”

Alex frowned. “Actually, it’s a stroke of genius. When we do confront him, it’s too late. What can we do? He’s trusted by the corporate office. The corporate execs don’t know us or trust us. They placed Payton in his position of power. Therefore, his power is absolute.”

Marisa turned to Brandon. “Was your position cut?”

Brandon shook his head. “No, I still have a job. But he eliminated the evening and night receptionists. He also cut the food service staff by half, the janitorial employees by two-thirds, and eliminated the jobs of nursing assistants, registered nurses, and unit secretaries throughout the hospital. In the meeting, he said three hundred jobs were cut.”

Marisa’s mouth fell open. “We can’t run the hospital without staff!”

Amelia glanced at Brandon. “I think he’s going to fill the holes with volunteers.”

“Volunteers?” Marisa’s high-pitched shriek caused Russell and Alex to wince.

Amelia nodded, making her tousled hair bounce. “I and my friends were visiting patients. I heard Myrtle Wiggens, the hospital volunteer program director, remind Payton Reed of their late night ‘supper date.’  The poor woman had on a hideous bright pink dress which looked like it came from the junior section of Wal-Mart, and matching high heels. Her hair looked freshly washed and set, her eyes were shining in a distinctly gleeful way, and she was grinning like a maniac.”