“Hey, we girls have to stick together, you know. Keep the men from getting out of line.” She gives me a warm smile, her eyes twinkling. “Though if this new look of yours is any indication, I’d say you’re doing just fine.”
“Thanks.” My neck is starting to ache beneath the massive weight of my head.
“Don’t mention it. And listen, if you ever want to talk, or just go out to lunch or something, don’t hesitate to call me. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” A subtle shift of her gaze to the left gives me a second’s warning before yet another hand clamps down on my shoulder.
“Well, if it isn’t Mattie Winston!”
I turn and smile at Mick Dunn and his wife, Marjorie.
“Hello, Mick, Marjorie,” Gina says, her voice noticeably cooler than it was a moment ago. She turns back to me. “Remember what I said, Mattie. Call anytime.” With that, she slides away into the crowd, leaving me with Mick and Marjorie.
“It’s good to see the both of you,” I tell them, watching Marjorie glare after Gina. “How’s the bone business, Mick?”
“The usual. A break here, a break there. Just steady enough that I never get a break.” He laughs at his own joke and I manage a chuckle, even though I’ve heard that same line from him dozens of times before. “You really look great, Mattie! Ditching David seems to suit you,” he says with a wink.
Marjorie’s glare quickly shifts from Gina to me. Mick is a notorious flirt, a trait that has landed him in the beds of at least three other women I know about and who-knows-how-many that I don’t. He has oodles of charm and is strikingly handsome with his sparkling blue eyes and cinnamon-colored hair. Because of his shameless womanizing, I want to dislike him. But I can’t. He has a self-deprecating style that is not only irresistibly charming, it has the bonus effect of irritating the crap out of his wife, Marjorie, someone I’ve discovered I can dislike with ease.
Marjorie Dunn is one of the coldest, most snobbish women I’ve ever met. Her platinum-blond hair and steely blue eyes work to accentuate that icy impression. I have to give her one thing though; she looks pretty good for a woman of fifty-three. That is due in part to some help from Cary Snyder’s scalpel. Marjorie has had a boob job, the tummy and thigh-sucker routine, and a nose job, presumably to make it easier for her to look down it at everyone else. Those are the surgeries I know about, and I suspect some other procedures have been done in Cary’s office, because Marjorie’s face has that tight, drawn look to it, giving her an expression of perpetual surprise. Her skin is stretched so taut over her cheekbones, she looks as if one good sneeze will split her face wide open.
I wonder if it is Mick’s infidelities that drive Marjorie to surgically improve herself, or if it is simple vanity. Most of what I know about her leads me to believe she is far more interested in Mick’s social position and earning capacity than his fidelity—or lack thereof. I figure that is why she stays with him even though she has to know about his many dalliances. What I don’t understand is why Mick, who has a warm personality and an obvious zest for life, stays with a frigid little killjoy like Marjorie.
She finally acknowledges my greeting with a nod and the slightest hint of tedium in her voice. “Mattie. How nice to see you.” I am instantly dismissed as she turns to Mick. “Darling,” she says, her tone robbing the word of any hint of endearment, “you really should take advantage of the evening to talk with Ms. Molinaro about the nursing problems you mentioned. It’s the perfect time, you know. What with the liquor flowing freely and the good PR this event will bring for the hospital, I’d wager her mood will be better than usual.”
“You’re right, of course,” Mick says, his eyes roaming the room. Judging from the expression of anticipation I see on his face, I don’t think it’s Molinaro he’s looking for.
“Let’s try to find her before the dinner,” Marjorie suggests, deftly steering Mick away and leaving me standing alone.
I watch them go and consider tagging along, thinking this could lead to some of the evening’s best entertainment. Marjorie is a manipulative woman who hates to lose and Molinaro is as stubborn and mean as they come. I figure the two of them for even odds in a bitch-slap session but in the end I chicken out, fearful they might combine their considerable talents and use them on me.
Chapter 18
I flag Izzy down and meet him in a corner, where we compare notes.
“Find out anything?” I ask him.
“A little. Seems everyone is pretty shocked by the fact that Karen was killed, although so far not too many people seem to know about the fake identity thing.”
I’m surprised by that. Normally, anything that newsworthy would move through the hospital grapevine like shit through a colon after a lower GI prep.
“I have no idea if anyone else was sleeping with the woman,” Izzy continues. “I haven’t quite figured out how to ask that question without being offensive. But Garrett did mention something about a medical supply company that Karen had some connection to and an ownership scheme that would allow the docs to refer to the place, share in the profits, and not get knocked for a conflict of interest.”
“Sidney mentioned something about a medical supply company, too,” I tell him. “Though he said he doesn’t know much about it because he wasn’t involved.” And then a light-bulb goes on in my brain. “And there’s something else. Something I forgot about.” I tell him about my visit to David’s office and the business card I found inside the tobacco pouch. “Maybe I should check the place out,” I suggest. “Poke around and see what turns up.”
“Can’t hurt,” Izzy says.
A waiter comes by carrying a plate of hors d’oeuvres—little weenies wrapped in phyllo dough. That damned Stewart woman is everywhere these days, but while I harbor some philosophical differences with the woman, it isn’t enough to overcome my incessant appetite. I grab a cocktail napkin and pile several of the hors d’oeuvres on top of it. As I pop one in my mouth, several others roll off my napkin onto the floor.
Izzy clucks his disapproval. “You are such a klutz.”
“I am not.”
“You are too. You’re always dropping stuff, bumping into things, and stumbling about.”
“I only stumble when I have to wear heels because I’m not used to them,” I snap back. “And for your information, I didn’t drop those wieners by accident. I was tossing them down so that bottom feeders like you won’t go hungry.”
“Very funny,” Izzy says. “Short humor. Now I know I struck a nerve.”
I bend down to pick up the wieners and feel something shift along my backside. Thinking it’s the waistband of my panty hose slipping down the last few inches and that they will be pooled around my ankles soon if I don’t act, I abandon the wiener grab, wrap the ones I already have in my napkin and shove them at Izzy. “I need to hit the ladies’ room,” I tell him. “Be right back.”
Several steps later I hear Izzy call to me in a hoarse whisper. I ignore him, wanting to get to the ladies’ room before my panty hose turn into knee-highs, but he calls again, louder this time. Irritated, I turn to look back at him and realize that most of the other heads in the room are doing the same. Then, as Izzy gestures for me to stop and wait, the heads all turn toward me.
I don’t know what Izzy is up to but I’m not about to be deterred from my mission. I wave at him and continue toward the rest room. Seconds later I hear the first snigger and some sixth sense, some internal antenna, tells me I am the cause. Paranoid, I glance over my shoulder and see Izzy waving frantically now, moving toward me as fast as his stubby legs can carry him. Along the periphery of my vision I sense several people watching me with bemused expressions on their faces, but when I turn to look at them, they quickly turn away.