On Call: An Original Short Story (3 page)

“Wait,” I said. “She
really
came on to you?”

“More than once. I decided it was better just to say no to her and not say anything to Victoria. They were roommates and I knew Victoria was already suspicious that there might be something between us.”

“Lord. Well, if you’re right about her, maybe Annabelle planted the drugs in your locker and called the police to take revenge on you, and then spread rumors that Lou is the one who framed you to get back at him.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s not what she looks like, Gabe. She’s incredibly manipulative. Annabelle started to hit on me right after Lou broke up with her. It was like she wanted to prove to Victoria that she was superior, that she could get anything and anyone she wanted to have. It’s like…like there’s a piece missing.”

“Lou thought nobody knew he was involved with her. He alluded to the same sort of discomfort you just did.”

“Victoria kept me in the loop about Annabelle and Lou, but I figured if he wanted to talk about it, he’d talk about it. Now I feel like an ass.”

“Don’t worry. It made sense you’d think he might be involved. But he told me that unless he has your blessing, he won’t take the chief resident job.”

“Now, that sounds like Lou. I’ll get in touch with him as soon as I can.”

“That’s fine, Paul, but we’ve got bigger problems.”

“Like I’m going to jail for dealing drugs.”

“And the person who is probably responsible is dead.”

“What do we do?”

“We’ve got to find out who killed Annabelle, because right now, you’re a prime suspect there, too.”

A dark look crossed Paul’s face. “I’ve been thinking about something, something I’m not even sure I should say. That’s why I came over this morning after our big blowup. I had to tell somebody.”

“Go on.”

“It’s Victoria. We’ve been fighting about Annabelle on and off for weeks now. She said she knew Annabelle wanted me. She also said she’s never met a man who could resist her.”

“Lord knows I’m no expert, but I do believe trust is the cornerstone of a healthy relationship.”

“When Annabelle started hitting on me, Victoria suspected immediately, even though I never said anything to her about it. She went kind of crazy. Gabe, she was checking my cell phone almost daily to see if Annabelle had called or, I guess, if I had called her.”

“Annabelle was calling you?”

“All the time since Kincaid announced I was going to be chief resident,” Paul said. “I had to keep deleting my call history to hide it from Victoria, but that only made her more suspicious. She was insane about the woman. There is so much good about Victoria, but this jealousy thing was getting to be like the elephant in the living room. When the diary surfaced, it was the final nail in our relationship coffin. I didn’t know Victoria could get so angry. Honestly, Gabe, I was a little bit scared she might try to hurt me.”

“Have you been wondering if Victoria could be responsible for Annabelle’s murder?”

“I don’t know. At the moment, I don’t know anything. Maybe you can get a sense of what I’ve been up against, and whether it’s possible that…”

Paul’s voice drifted away.

“You want me to speak with Victoria and see if I think she could be a murderer? That’s what you’re asking me?”

Paul nodded. “It sounds so crazy to say.”

“Well, given what’s happened, crazy has become the new normal. I’ll talk to her and let you know what I think.”

Victoria and her now deceased roommate lived in the Adams Morgan section of town, in an immaculate two bedroom that could have been an ad for Crate & Barrel.

“It’s not going to help,” Victoria said.

She placed a silver tray on the coffee table and poured me a cup of Golden Mojito White from an extensive collection of exotic teas, claiming that it would make me a tea drinker forever.

I took a sip and hated it, but managed a grin and a thank-you. “Delicious,” I said. “Anyway, what’s not going to help?”

“Your being here. Paul sent you, didn’t he?”

“It’s that obvious, huh?”

“Why else would you call and come here like this?”

Victoria was a slender, pretty woman with shoulder-length chestnut hair and a pert freckled face that could easily have graced the cover of
Connecticut
magazine. She didn’t at all strike me as the murderous type, but as with relationships, I wouldn’t exactly label me an expert on the subject.

“It’s true, Paul sent me,” I said. “He wants you to know that he never slept with Annabelle.”

“Oh, and you believe him?” The venom in her voice hit me like cobra’s spit.

“How about you, Gabe? Have you bunked down with her?”

“Maybe I should go.”

“No, no. I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

“Like most men, I wanted to at one time or another. But it’s like smoking cigarettes after you’ve quit. It’s perfectly okay to want to. I just didn’t.”

“Yeah, well, that’s a good analogy, because Annabelle was like a cancer. I lived with her for two years, but I should have moved out after the first batch of men she seduced, before she got to Paul. Now I’m stuck in this damn apartment, living with Annabelle’s ghost, wondering if I can get out of our lease. Nobody is going to rent a murder victim’s room.”

“Maybe you and Paul can patch things up and he can move in with you,” I suggested.

“Ha! That’s a good one. Did you read her diary entries? The police showed them to me. At least a few of the more explicit ones.”

“Why would they do that?”

“I suspect they wanted me to turn on Paul.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

On the Singleton Believability Scale, I rated her response a five out of ten. Doubts remained.

“Do you know anybody who’d want to hurt Annabelle?”
Like yourself, perhaps?

A disgusted look crossed Victoria’s face. “She’s a siren, Gabe. A lot of her lovers past and present might want to do her in. Hell, she has a box of letters from her admirers. Maybe it’s one of them.”

“She showed you this box?” I asked nervously.

Victoria’s expression turned sheepish. “No,” she said. “I went looking for it. Soon as she started hitting on Paul, I started going through her things, looking for evidence. Wouldn’t you?”

Paul’s description of Victoria’s jealous streak somehow seemed to have understated the reality. Sneaking a peek at her lover’s cell phone, rummaging through her roommate’s belongings were signs to me of a very disturbed individual. My mind’s eye tried to picture the last moments of Annabelle’s life, confronted by an enraged Victoria in On-Call #6, demanding to know if she was awaiting a Love Shack rendezvous with Paul. A furious scuffle ensues, Victoria’s hands finding Annabelle’s neck. Slowly, ever so slowly, Victoria squeezes the life out of her rival, her jealousy overwhelming each murderous moment. If anything, Annabelle was an inch or two the taller of the two, and perhaps a few pounds heavier. It seems that beyond the tissue under Annabelle’s nails, there would have been more signs of a struggle. I looked for the sort of scratches I had noticed on Lou’s hands, but saw none.

Victoria poured me some more tea. I took a thoughtful sip of Golden Mojito White and held back the grimace from my taste buds. Though I could see the scenario in On-Call #6 playing out as I imagined, there were many loose ends, and many other possibilities. Victoria had the motive, means, and opportunity to have committed the murder, but she was hardly the only one. Perhaps I’d find a more likely suspect amongst Annabelle’s many admirers.

“Would you mind if I had a look at that box of letters?” I asked.

“Sure,” Victoria said. “I’ll be right back.” Moments later, she returned with a much larger and much fuller box than I could have ever imagined.

“I told you she had a lot of admirers and lovers,” Victoria said with unbridled disgust.

I began rummaging through the letters, some of which were scented with cologne (bad cologne, but that went without saying). The envelopes were as varied as the handwriting within. Several of the men I knew. A few were from women. Without much effort, I was able to separate the letters into four categories: You are so wonderful; I’ll love you always; I want you to love me; and please love me again. I felt more than a bit voyeuristic, flipping through the longing and pain of these discarded admirers, but I was now digging for clues and determined to find something that would pull Anderson and Rodriquez away from Paul. I was about to look inside an envelope swathed in what I suspected might be Old Spice, when, for reasons I couldn’t pinpoint, a small blue envelope with the initials
G.K.
on the corner caught my eye.

I opened the envelope and read the contents of the letter dated one month before.

I could feel my heart jackhammering. It had to be him. G.K., who worked with Annabelle. George Kincaid. It would be easy enough to prove. All I needed to do was check up on Medtransit. I decided to keep my suspicions to myself. After committing the note to memory, I tossed the letter back into the box along with the others, checked one or two more just for effect, and closed the lid.

“I didn’t see anything helpful,” I lied.

“Gabe, I appreciate what you’re doing, but just so you know, I’m not ready to see Paul.”

“Well,” I said, “at least you let me plead his case.”

We gave each other perfunctory hugs and air kisses and I left, my thoughts dominated by the G.K. correspondence, and by a single word on the letter within: Medtransit.

It took two days to get Los Tres Médicos reunited for the first time since Paul’s arrest. My two friends were again on speaking terms. We were at Lou’s place, seated around his kitchen table, Cokes in hand, discussing next steps. I had just finished telling the guys about Annabelle’s box of letters and the newest suspect in her unsolved murder investigation.

“So, Annabelle and George were seeing each other,” Lou said, shaking his head in disbelief and disgust.

“It certainly doesn’t sound as if old George had any idea he was one among many,” I said.

“So I think it’s safe to say that Annabelle was some kind of a sociopath,” Paul said, “at least when it came to lying, and to men.”

“So much for perfection,” I replied.

“It seems she probably made up the diary entries because in her mind, nobody could reject her. It was a coping mechanism. Then she took her revenge by framing me for dealing drugs and then trying to get Sweet Lou, here, blamed.”

“Good thing
you
didn’t get involved with the good doctor,” Paul said to me. “Or else maybe it was just that her dance card was filled.”

“Believe me, it was more a matter of our not being in the right place at the right time. Top to bottom, she was the stuff of dreams.”

“How really sad.”

“So, what now?”

“It may be time to speak to the police about Victoria’s obsessive jealous streak. It seems quite possible that she snapped and killed Annabelle in a moment of rage, although, as I said, I don’t know how she physically could have done it. I wouldn’t even reject the notion that the two of them were lovers. Maybe we should suggest that Victoria submit to a DNA test.”

“I gave mine yesterday,” Lou said.

“I’m sure they’ll get one on her as soon as they know she had a motive to kill.”

“Maybe we should wait another day or so and see what the police come up with. Meanwhile, we can keep researching Medtransit.”

“I checked it out on Hoovers,” I said.

“Hooters?” Lou said.

“Hoovers, you child, not Hooters. It’s a directory of companies, industries, and people. They have a Web site.”

“It seems like everybody has a Web site these days,” Paul said.

“If you ask me, I think it’s a fad,” Lou said. “Mark my words, when the millennium rolls around in four years, Web sites are already going to be a thing of the past—a fad like pet rocks.”

“Well,” I said, “pet rock or not, Hoovers had some pretty interesting information about Medtransit.”