See Jane Die (10 page)

Wednesday, October 22, 2003
11:55 a.m
.

I
an had chosen the Uptown area of Dallas for the location of his plastic surgery clinic. Uptown was home to upscale shops and bistros, art galleries and antique shops—most housed in old Victorian and Cape Cod cottages. Charming, without the frenetic quality of some of the city's other trendy areas, Uptown sat squarely on the McKinney Avenue trolley line.

Breaking off from the clinic he had been a partner in had been a big decision. That partnership had included six highly regarded surgeons as well as an entire skin-care department with estheticians who performed all forms of skin smoothing and rejuvenating techniques, from chemical peels to micro-dermabrasion.

Business had been brisk, the money incredibly good. But the work had not been fulfilling. Not only had Ian been the low man on the totem pole, but the other partners had discouraged his desire to follow his first love, reconstructive surgery. A noble endeavor, they'd argued. But not very profitable. The big money lay in implants, eye lifts and tummy tucks. Not in rebuilding the face of some poor kid who had been burned or beaten—or run over by a powerboat.

Why stay in work that wasn't fulfilling, especially when she had the means to back him? Jane had argued. The means and the desire? She loved her work—she wanted him to love his as well.

Finally, he had agreed. They had become partners in Westbrook Plastic Surgery; she provided the financial backing, he the talent.

Starting from ground zero had been expensive. They'd found the perfect Victorian, then renovated it to fit his needs. They'd had to furnish it not only with general office supplies, but with the equipment specific to plastic surgery, some of it outlandishly expensive. One examining chair cost nearly seven thousand dollars, a table, five thousand. Then there'd been the VascuLight laser, the UltraPulse Encore and IPL Quantum DL lasers—to name only a few.

He'd had to add staff. Pay salaries and insurance premiums. Marsha Tanner, the assistant office manager from the Dallas Center for Cosmetic Surgery had come with him as well as one of the estheticians. The best esthetician, as far as Jane was concerned. He had lured them both away with handsome offers that included expensive perks.

Using her inheritance had made Ian nervous. Uncomfortable. The bank, he'd insisted, would have loaned him the money. But, she had countered, at what interest rate? She hadn't wanted him to be tied to a big debt, hadn't wanted the work he did dictated by that debt. As far as she was concerned, not only had the money been a drop in the bucket, it had been well spent. If he was able to help one person who couldn't afford reconstruction otherwise, it had been worth it.

How could she feel otherwise? She had been there. She knew the emotional pain of living with a visible deformity.

And the miracle a talented surgeon could make in one's life.

Jane pulled to a stop in front of the blue-and-white Victorian and smiled. She loved how it had turned out. She loved how happy it made Ian.

Funny how she had ended up married to a physician.
She'd had so many surgeries that when her face had been declared “fixed” she'd sworn to never darken a surgeon's office again.

And here she had helped build one.

Jane collected her handbag and climbed out of her Jeep. She hit the auto-lock and hurried up the flower-lined walk. The phone was ringing as she stepped inside. A woman sat in the waiting room, flipping through a magazine. The reception desk was empty.

Ian stuck his head out of his office. He looked stressed. “Hey, you,” he said. “I thought you might be the temp. Marsha's out sick.”

“You want me to get that?” She pointed toward the still ringing phone.

“You're a gem.”

He disappeared back into his office. Jane answered the call, took a message and turned toward the waiting room. And found the woman staring at her.

She looked as if she had been in a terrible accident, the left side of her face crisscrossed with scars.

“Hello,” Jane said, smiling.

The woman held up the magazine she had been reading.
Texas Monthly
, Jane saw. Her image gazed out at her from the cover.

“This is you, isn't it?” the woman said.

“Yes.”

The woman looked down at the glossy, then back up at her. “You're so beautiful now,” she said, her voice a trembling combination of wistfulness and yearning. “Was Dr. Westbrook…did he fix your face?”

“No,” Jane said softly. “Dr. Westbrook is my husband. But he's very talented. I know he'll be able to help you.”

The woman struggled to speak. “I…hope so. I…Thank you.”

“It shouldn't be long. Could I get you something to drink?”

The woman said no and Jane set about straightening the reception area, which looked as if a small bomb had gone off.

Ian appeared with a woman carrying a young toddler. The girl, Jane saw, suffered from a cleft palate. She clutched a raggedy stuffed bunny.

“Call my office tomorrow,” Ian told the woman. “My office manager should be back in then. She'll schedule preop and go over everything you'll need to do beforehand.” He smiled at the youngster. “See you next time, Karlee. And don't forget to bring Mr. Rabbit.”

The youngster smiled shyly, then pressed her face to her mother's shoulder. Jane watched the exchange, a lump in her throat. Ian would be a wonderful father.

After thanking him profusely, the mother herded her daughter out the door. Jane crossed to Ian, stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “You look frazzled.”

“It's been crazy,” he said. “Marsha just didn't show. No call, nothing.”

“Where's Elise?” she asked, referring to the esthetician who not only assisted him when needed but also did the peels and dermabrasions.

“With a client. She had a full book today.”

“Did you try Marsha at home?”

“Several times. So did Elise. No answer.”

Jane frowned. That wasn't like the woman. Not at all. She told him so.

“No kidding. And coming on the heels of yesterday afternoon—” He cut his gaze toward the woman in the waiting room. “It's got me, well, spooked.”

Before she could reply, he changed the subject. “What are you doing out and about today? I expected you to be chained to your studio.”

“I had a planning session at the museum. I swung by in the hopes we could go to lunch. I see that's not going to happen.”

“Sorry. How'd the meeting go?”

“Great. We agreed on how the pieces would be grouped and on placement of the individual subjects.” She saw his gaze dart toward the waiting room again. “You're busy. I'll tell you more about it tonight.”

He looked relieved. “I'll walk you out.” He accompanied her to the door. “Rain check?” he asked.

“Of course, silly.” She started through the door, then stopped. “Marsha's neighborhood's not too far out of the way. Why don't I swing by and check on her?”

He looked confused. “How do you know where she lives?”

“We were talking about it one day. She's in the M Streets. On Magnolia. About a half dozen blocks from Stacy.”

The M Streets were one of Dallas's most desirable yet still affordable neighborhoods—at least by Dallas's inflated standards. Not only did the neighborhood boast wide shady streets, big yards and charming cottages, many of them rehabbed, it was within walking distance of the Greenville Street restaurants, shops and clubs.

“I hate to have you do that, you have a full day.”

“It's no bother. I—”

“Really, Jane,” he said, tone sharp. “Don't. She's probably sick as a dog and sleeping. Just let it go.”

She took a step back, hurt. “I was just trying to help.”

His expression went soft with regret. “I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry.” He let out a frustrated-sounding breath. “I'm not myself. This whole thing with Elle and the police…Marsha out today was the shit frosting on the cake of my day.”

She reached up and stroked his cheek. “It's going to get better, Ian. I promise.”

His mouth lifted in a small smile. “No wonder I love you.”

The temp arrived then and Jane hurried to her car. When she reached it, she glanced back. Ian had already disappeared into his office.

She drew her eyebrows together, worried. About Ian, the repercussions of the police focusing attention on him. If word got out, what would it do to his reputation? What woman would trust a surgeon under investigation for the murder of a patient? Who would want to work for him?

Could Marsha be the first fatality? she wondered, climbing into her car. She fastened her safety belt, inserted the key in the ignition and started the vehicle. What had Ian
said? That she had acted guilty after the police left. As if she had betrayed their friendship.

Jane pulled away from the curb, heading toward McKinney Avenue. What an awful way to feel. What a strain that would put on the work environment.

Jane reached the light at McKinney and stopped; the trolley rumbled past.

She couldn't imagine a woman as professional as Marsha Tanner just up and quitting without word or notice, but stranger things had happened.

Anger toward the police rose up in her. They didn't care about an innocent man's reputation. They were unconcerned with the long-term ramifications of their smear campaign and the stress it put on relationships, personal and professional.

The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. And the more convinced that Marsha wasn't ill, simply uncomfortable. Or intimidated.

The driver behind her blasted his horn and she realized the light had changed to green. She started off, but instead of taking a left to head back toward Deep Ellum, she took a right to take her to the M Streets.

Wednesday, October 22, 2003
1:15 p.m
.

M
arsha lived on Magnolia Avenue. Jane wasn't certain of the number, but knew it was near the corner of Matilda, a white bungalow with blue shutters.

She had seen a picture of it just after the woman had bought the place. If Marsha had changed the color of those shutters, she would be sunk.

Jane reached Morningside and turned onto it. As she neared the cross street, she slowed the car and began scanning both sides of the avenue, looking for those shutters.

In the end, Jane found Marsha's house by her distinctive canary yellow VW Beetle, parked in the driveway.

Jane pulled in behind the VW. She climbed out and crossed to the shady front porch. From around back came the sound of high-pitched barking. Tiny, Marsha's Pomeranian. The dog was Marsha's baby. She had no less than a half dozen photos of the dog in her office. The woman had joked about it before. About how she even dressed the canine in a reindeer costume every year for a photo with Santa.

Jane climbed the steps and crossed to the door. There, she hesitated, the sense that something wasn't right stealing
over her. Marsha would never leave Tiny outside, especially not on a day as cool as this one.

Maybe the poor woman really was ill. So ill, she needed medical attention. Attention she couldn't get for herself. It would explain both her failing to have called in sick and not answering Ian's calls.

Jane rang the bell, waited a few moments, then rang again. When Marsha didn't appear, Jane peeked through the front windows. Nothing appeared out of order, but still, something didn't seem right.

With a growing sense of urgency, she tried the door.

And found it unlocked.

The door slid silently open. “Marsha?” she called out, poking her head inside. “Jane Westbrook. Just checking to make certain you're okay.”

Still no reply. Jane entered the small foyer, wrinkling her nose at the smell. The hint of something foul in the air.

She glanced left at the dining room, bringing a hand to her roiling stomach, then right to the small living room. Butter-cream walls, periwinkle-blue couch and bright throw pillows. A woman's room, Jane thought. Welcoming and warm.

It didn't feel warm now. Or welcoming.

It felt wrong.

“Marsha?” she called again, this time softly. She was in bed, Jane told herself. Asleep. Too ill to call out. The smell the result of stomach flu.

Heart thundering, Jane crossed the foyer. To her left lay a hallway that led most probably to the bedrooms. Straight ahead, closed swinging doors. To the kitchen, she guessed.

She headed for the doors, feeling as if she was being drawn to them. The smell grew stronger. She reached a hand out, laid it against the door and pushed.

The door eased open. She opened her mouth to call to the woman again; the words died on her lips.

Replaced by a sound of horror.

Marsha couldn't answer her. She would never answer anyone again.

The woman had been bound to a kitchen chair. She was naked save for a pair of black underpants. Something black had been stuffed in her mouth. Some sort of a cord had been wrapped tightly around her neck.

On the floor, in a heap, lay a white terry-cloth robe.

The room spun. Jane stumbled backward. She grasped the door frame, steadying herself.

She suddenly became aware of the dog pawing frantically at the back entrance, the purple color of the woman's face, the smothering smell of death.

Hand to her mouth, Jane turned and ran. Through the swinging doors, past the pretty living room, out the front door, to the edge of the porch. There, she bent over the bushes and violently retched.

She lifted her head. She realized she was sobbing. A woman across the street stopped watering her flowers to stare.

“Help,” she whispered.

She took a step toward the stairs, legs rubbery. Stars danced in front of her eyes. She clasped the railing, made the first stair. “Help,” she called again, louder this time. “Please, someone…the police—”

A mother pushing a baby carriage paused, expression alarmed. “Miss? Are you all—”

Jane took another stair. “Hel—” The blood rushed from her head; her legs gave. Her world went black.