“But we don’t even get channel three. Are you sure, Betty?”
Betty tried to concentrate on the question. What had the cowgirl asked? Suddenly her mind was blank. This was an interesting game to play, but her eyes kept falling shut.
“Come, Jayne.” The foreign actor stood up. “Would you wish us to come back later, Betty, after you have rested?”
Betty nodded. He was so nice. It was lucky the cowgirl with her in-between name had found him again.
It was almost one in the afternoon when Moira and Grace knocked on Hal’s door bearing a pitcher of orange juice and a large bottle of aspirin, just in case Hal didn’t have any. Moira knocked again, then used the key Hal had given them so they could keep an eye on things when he was out of town.
Silence greeted them, and the bed didn’t look as if it had been slept in. “He must be in his studio,” Moira said, leading the way. “He probably holed up in there.”
Grace blushed. “Yes, but what if he’s . . . I mean . . . what if he doesn’t have any clothes on?”
“That shouldn’t bother you, especially if he’s passed out cold. Come on. You’ll probably have to help me carry him back to bed.”
Grace found she was holding her breath as Moira opened Hal’s studio door.
“Hell!” Moira spun Grace around and pushed her through the doorway. “Go get a couple of the guys.”
“But I can help you,” Grace started to protest. “What’s wrong?”
“Move it, Grace! Get the hell out of here!”
Grace hurried to the elevator and frantically stabbed at the button. When it didn’t come right away, she ran up the stairs. Moira had said hell twice without even trying to think of a substitute, and that meant that something was terribly wrong.
They’d all gathered at Grace and Moira’s again, and it had been almost eleven at night before they’d split up to go home. Jayne had claimed they were like spooked cattle herding together, and she wasn’t far wrong. No one had wanted to be alone. Hal’s suicide on the heels of Vanessa’s awful accident had been just too much to handle.
Laureen frowned as Alan opened the door to their apartment and they stepped inside. “I can’t do it, Alan. I simply can’t survive another night in those lounge chairs.”
“I know what you mean.” Alan winced a little and rubbed his neck. “I guess we should have taken Jayne and Paul up on their offer after all.”
“No, you were right. They need their time alone right now. I thought about asking Ellen if we could sleep there, but I know Walker’s using her guest room. Maybe we should have stayed at Grace and Moira’s.”
“We can still do that,” Alan pointed out. “Moira told us to knock on the door if we couldn’t sleep.”
“But Grace could hardly keep her eyes open, Alan.”
“Then how about Marc’s place? He’s always up late, playing his pinball machines. He’d put us up in his guest room.”
Laureen shook her head. “Remember the last time you slept on a water bed?”
Alan grinned. They’d gone to one of those adult motels once, and the water bed had thrown his back out for a week. “It seemed to me it was worth it.”
Laureen giggled and her face turned slightly red. It had definitely been worth it.
Alan started to grin. “I know what we can do. We’ll go up and sleep at Hal’s. After all, we’re putting him up in our freezer.”
“Oh, Alan!” Laureen looked shocked. “How can you joke about a thing like that?”
“If I don’t, I get scared. I can handle it if I joke about it. Betty’s place is out. The nurse is using her guest room, but how about Johnny’s? His place is vacant.”
“Not Johnny’s. I know it’s ridiculous, but I can’t seem to shake the idea that we’ll open a closet and find his body.”
“Then the only place left is Clayton and Rachael’s. Would that bother you?”
Laureen took a moment to think, then she shook her head. “Rachael’s such a good housekeeper, she’s probably got the guest room all made up. You don’t think they’d mind, do you, Alan?”
“If they were here, they’d be the first to invite us. Come on, honey. Let’s get our things together and go.”
The Caretaker frowned as he watched them step inside. Alan was carrying a bag and Laureen had two pillows. Clayton’s apartment was a lousy choice, but perhaps it would be all right as long as they didn’t start snooping around.
Betty was still sleeping soundly, but her lips were moving. Perhaps she was trying to speak. He leaned over to listen and smiled as he made out the word. Friend. Poor Betty, with her confused mind and her love for everyone. For the first time, he almost felt sorry for her. What would she think if she knew that he was the one who’d supervised the hit on her boyfriend and come up with the plan that had turned her into a vegetable?
Naturally, the Old Man had objected, but he’d finally seen that there was no other way, not if he wanted to keep his darling daughter alive. The Caretaker had hired Margaret Woodard himself. No one knew that he’d recruited her more than ten years ago, the daughter of one of the Old Man’s soldiers who’d been killed in the line of duty. It had been a brilliant move, training her in a profession that might prove valuable.
Margaret was smart enough to know what would happen if she didn’t repay her debt. She hadn’t been happy about her assignment, but she’d done an excellent job so far. The only problem he could see was her sympathy for Betty, an occupational hazard in the nursing profession. Of course, it didn’t really matter. If she made any wrong moves, she was expendable.
He smiled as Alan turned down the covers, a typical domestic scene. There was no need to turn up the audio as long as they went straight to bed. Other people might enjoy being voyeurs, but not him, and Laureen and Alan’s sex life was bound to be dull.
Now Laureen was yawning. That was good. Once they were asleep, he could catch a snooze himself. He’d confiscated Johnny’s stash. By rights it was theirs anyway, since the rat was cutting into family territory, but he hated to use it on such a regular basis. There was no substitute for sleep. And now Alan and Laureen were sitting down on the bed and . . .
The Caretaker groaned as he saw Alan reach for his robe. Now both of them were up again and he used Jack’s fancy system to track them into the kitchen. A late-night snack. He might have known. Laureen took out one of Clayton’s frying pans while Alan assembled the ingredients. It was almost like watching one of her cooking shows. In less than ten minutes, Brie and prosciutto omelets with a dollop of sour cream were ready. Garnished with chives and ripe olive slices, they looked delicious.
Laureen handed the plates to Alan and picked up the napkins and silverware. No problem. But he swore softly under his breath as they bypassed the dining room and headed out to the rose garden.
“It’s nice out here, isn’t it, honey?” Laureen smiled at her husband. They’d finished their omelets and were enjoying a glass of Chablis from Clayton’s refrigerator.
Alan nodded. “Yes, but you can tell Clayton’s no gardener. The rosebushes need pruning.”
“And the gazebo needs a new coat of paint.” Laureen frowned. “I’m surprised at Rachael. She keeps the rest of the apartment in such good shape.”
Alan fumbled in the breast pocket of his robe for a cigarette, wishful thinking since they were still safely hidden in his father’s desk. He really wanted a smoke, but he never smoked a pipe right before bed. It took about forty-five minutes to smoke a bowl and there was no way he’d risk ruining a good pipe by knocking it out before it was finished. The moisture and oils from the tobacco would sour the pipe. He settled for a walk around the garden instead, examining the rosebushes.
“Look at this, Laureen,” he called out, pointing to a patch of ground. “Maybe Clayton’s hired a gardener.”