Syph is on duty and after one sympathetic look from her, I burst into tears. She hauls me, sobbing and stuttering, into the ENT room, one of the few areas of the ER where you can get privacy behind a real door as opposed to a giant shower curtain.
She has me lie down and preps my wound while I try to tell her what happened. Lucky for me, the doc on duty is Walter Copeland, who has a delicate touch and a talented hand when it comes to suturing. While I’m not that vain, the idea of having a big scar running across my face doesn’t exactly appeal to me. It’s hard enough on my ego that I’ve been compared to Bigfoot in the past, simply because my shoes are large enough to carry a small family downriver. I don’t need to add Frankenstein comparisons to my repertoire.
By the time Walter places the first stitch, I have calmed considerably and am happily numb. That’s when Syph says, “Boy, that whole thing with Karen Owenby is so weird, isn’t it? I mean, it’s bad enough she was killed, but then to find out she was some kind of impostor.”
“You heard about that?” I say. I’m surprised, remembering Izzy’s earlier claim that no one seemed to know yet. I figure Molinaro is doing her best to keep the whole thing a secret for as long as possible.
“Celia,” Syph says, and if not for the fact that I am lying under a needle and thread, I would have given myself a duh slap on the side of the head. “I can’t believe no one suspected anything,” Syph goes on. “Though I think her roommate knew something wasn’t right. She kept saying she knew it was all going to fall apart sooner or later.”
I almost sit bolt upright on the stretcher. “That’s right!” I say excitedly. “I forgot that the cops brought her in here that night. Susan something, right?”
“McNally.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Larry said she was shocky.”
“Not really. Mostly she was just nervous as hell. You can hardly blame her. It isn’t every day you come home and find your roommate shot to death in the middle of the living room floor. We got her calmed down pretty quick, though. A little vitamin V and twenty minutes later she was floating.”
“I’ll bet she was.” The one and only time I had Vitamin V, our code word for either Valium or another fun mind-bending relaxant known as Versed, was right before I was wheeled into surgery with a case of acute appendicitis. I not only felt really, really good, I was convinced I could do the surgery by myself. On myself.
“Did Susan say anything else about Karen?” I ask. “Anything that might shed some light on who killed her?”
“Not to me,” Syph says. “Though I did hear her say something to one of the cops who was with her. Something about pushing things too far and how she knew it was all going to blow up in her face.”
“Any idea what she meant by that?”
“Not a clue.”
Walter finishes my stitches—three all together—and I sit up on the stretcher to make sure my dizziness has passed. I have Syph look up Susan McNally’s ER record to see who she listed as next of kin. I figure the woman might not want to go back to the house she and Karen shared, assuming she even can since I’m guessing the cops have it locked up tighter than a drum at this point. So I want to know if she has any relatives living nearby she might stay with. Sure enough, there is a sister listed who lives in the nearby village of Parsons. I jot down the address and then go looking for Hurley.
The receptionist thrusts some forms at me and asks me to sign them—permission to treat even though it’s already been done, and a statement of responsibility that essentially promises my first-born child, most of my organs, and all my earthly possessions to the hospital in the event that my insurance doesn’t pay. When I ask for my driver’s license back, she tells me Hurley has it. The only problem is, no one seems to know where Hurley is. I’m frowning—not an easy task considering that most of my forehead is numb—and debating what to do next, when a uniformed policewoman comes up to me and says, “Are you Mattie Winston?”
“I am.”
“I’m supposed to drive you back to your place,” she says. “Whenever you’re ready to go, just holler.”
“Where is Hurley?”
She shrugs. “I have no idea. He said he couldn’t stay here and wait on you and asked me to drive you home. Are you ready?”
I am crushed. Here I’d imagined Hurley sitting in the waiting area—actually I had him pacing—worried about whether or not I’d be all right. Instead, he has flown the coop and pawned me off on to someone else. And to think I was willing to faint into his arms just an hour before.
“Know what?” I say to the officer. “I’ll just call my sister. There’s no need for you to wait around or take me home. She can do it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Thank you anyway.”
“Well, if something happens and you can’t get a ride, just call the station and tell them to contact me. Name’s Brenda Joiner.”
“Thanks, Brenda.”
One phone call and ten minutes later, Desiree arrives with my niece and nephew in tow. No one would ever guess that Desi and I are sisters, though technically we’re only half sisters since she has a different father. Desi’s hair is raven colored, her brown eyes are so dark they look black, and she has an olive complexion and a short, wiry build. Erika inherited her mother’s looks and coloring whereas Ethan, with his reddish-brown hair, fair skin, and freckles, favors Lucien.
“I didn’t mean for you to make a family outing of this,” I say as they all come trooping through the door. “Sorry to drag you out in this weather.”
“Not a problem,” Desi says, smiling. “The storm has abated for the most part anyway. Just some lingering drizzle now. And the kids wanted to come along. They haven’t seen their aunt in ages and they haven’t seen your new digs at all.”
While I believe Ethan’s motivation to tag along might be that he simply wanted to see me, I suspect it is something else altogether for Erika. As soon as she enters the ER, she scans the waiting room eagerly, no doubt hoping to see a severed limb or someone with an ax in their head. When the pickings prove to be utterly mundane, she tries hovering by the automatic doors that lead to the treatment area, peeking in when they open in hopes of catching a glimpse of something gory. When that fails to produce anything, she settles sullenly into a chair, gazing out the window with a wistful expression on her face.
Erika loves gore. She loves medical shows, horror movies, televised surgeries, and those medical forensic shows—the bloodier the better. Her fascination with blood and guts occasionally gives her mother pause, but it doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I think my niece has all the makings of a first-class trauma surgeon—as long as the patients don’t mind having a doctor who looks like the Grim Reaper’s kid sister.
Erika’s current style of dress is a cross between Goth and Grunge. Tonight’s outfit is typicaclass="underline" black leggings, black sweatshirt, and, beneath that, a man’s black shirt with the tail hanging nearly to her knees. Her feet are encased in high-top black boots, and I have no doubt that beneath those is a pair of black socks. Desi recently gave Erika permission to wear makeup and her choices are kohl-black eyeliner, pale foundation, and black lipstick. Topping off this ensemble is her hair—jet black and poker straight—which hangs nearly to her waist.
Ethan is a stark contrast to his sister in more than just looks. He is oblivious to his surroundings. He follows his mother like a little robot, his eyes glued to the electronic game he has in his hands. He mutters the obligatory greeting but never once looks at me. In fact, he never looks at anything other than his game, apparently using some form of internal kid radar to keep from running into things. Not surprisingly, when I manage to sneak a peek at his game, I see some sort of multilegged bug thing racing around the screen.