Indelible Beats: An Abishag's Second Mystery (Abishag Mysteries Book 2) Page 3

  “Who are you?” Kat advanced on the man, the cheese spreader pointed at his throat. He stood a head taller than her, but fell back a step.

  “I’m Harvey Kassem, Mister Ippel’s housekeeper and grounds man. Are you the new wife?” Looking dismayed, he spoke hoarsely.

  “I’m the wife—Leslie Greene.” I waved the spoon. “Soup’s lovely. Stand down, Kat.”

  She growled as if disappointed at not disemboweling someone. Instead she planted her feet and crossed her arms, the cheese spreader twitching in her fingers, and gave him the gimlet eye.

  “Why are you out here, Kassem?” she demanded. “A little late to be gardening, don’t you think?”

  “Cutting a few sprigs of this and that for the breakfast porridge. Do you all like porridge?”

  I raised my voice to drown out Kat’s “not with sprigs in it.” “I’m mad about porridge, Mister Kassem. When you’re finished there, would you join us in the dining room? Shall I leave the light on for you?”

  He shook his head. “Waste of electricity. I’ll be along soon.” He made a wide berth around Kat and disappeared into the shrubs surrounding what I’d decided probably was the studio after all. It looked less creepy than it had from the driveway.

  I doused the light after Dog and Kat shut the slider. “He seems odd,” Kat said. “Don’t you think he seems suspiciously odd?”

  “I thought he acted as normally as anyone could with a wild woman waving cutlery in his face.” Dog sounded disapproving, but a smile flickered on his face.

  “Wild woman, eh?” Kat seemed to like the description. “What do you think, Les?”

  “Yes, I think you’re a wild woman. I also think we should behave. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, and Jordan probably won’t last past Christmas Day. He should spend his last hours in comfort and peace, not with yelling and brandishing knives.”

  “Brandishing. I like that too.” Kat patted the cheese spreader and took a hefty bite of baguette.

  “Incorrigible,” Dog said affectionately of Kat and then to me, “Don’t worry, Les. Mister Ippel will have his peace.”

  Enjoying the baguette with the sweet taste of red grapes and the comfort of the creamy tomato soup, Dog and I talked about patient care while Kat kept an eagle eye on the slider. We heard Aaron’s heavy steps descending the stairs as we pushed aside the dinner plates and contemplated the fruitcake.

  “Did you get enough to eat?” His thoughts must have been elsewhere as he paid no attention to our chorus of thanks.

  “The doctor would like to talk to Leslie and Douglas now.” I’d forgotten that I’d introduced Dog with his formal name—Douglas Kovic, and he confused me for a moment.

  While Aaron’s lips worked soundlessly, I noticed his red-rimmed eyes. My heart squeezed. Jordan Ippel couldn’t be all bad if his friend grieved so.

  He accompanied Dog and I up the stairs, leaving Kat at the table, watching the back door alertly. Like the sidewalk outside, these stairs were narrow and pitched high. I wondered how an aging man could use these stairs daily, but Aaron huffed less than I did climbing them. He’d probably been up and down them often in recent weeks. Jordan’s drug overdose had occurred five weeks earlier, and he’d been declared brain dead almost immediately.

  Why had Aaron waited so long to engage an Abishag wife? Had he hoped for a miracle?

  Aaron’s shoulders sagged as he stood near the first door at the top of the stairs. Hesitantly I stepped past him into a large bedroom, hearing the familiar clicks and beeps of medical equipment. Avoiding the figure on the large, four-poster bed, I instead noticed the tall maple bureau and the large porthole surrounded by oversized bolts overlooking the kitchen garden, jacaranda tree, and studio. A smaller porthole by the bed was a stained glass window of a pelican soaring above a rough sea. Amber jars of dried lavender stood on the bureau and nightstand, sweetening the room, blending pleasantly with the smell of rubbing alcohol. No paintings hung on the salmon-pink walls, which surprised me. No mirrors either.

  I squashed the thought that vampires avoided mirrors.

  Dog circled around me and approached the doctor, who stood by the larger porthole. I felt the doctor’s gaze as I moved toward the bed.

  I’d seen my first husband before I married him. I’d chosen him because dying seemed to have shrunk him to the size of a child. His small, still form made me feel protective rather than terrified.

  Jordan Ippel could not have been more different. As I’d seen in his photo, he was tall and angular, skin taut against his bones, black, almost shoulder-length hair framed a sallow face, sunken eyelids shadowed, deep, fretful lines etched around dry, narrow lips. A thin blanket partially covered him. My heart squeezed to see that someone had dressed him in plum-colored satin pajamas with black piping.

  For his wedding night.

  Aaron slipped his arm around me. “Bob Millerand has been Ip’s doc for more than twenty years.”

  “Thirty-two,” he said.

  “Doctor.” I extended a hand. “I’m Leslie Greene.”

  He took my hand for the briefest moment. “Miss Greene.” Although he’d been studying me since I’d stepped into the room, he ignored me now, moving toward the monitors stationed under the pelican window.

  “Joss here?” the doctor asked. For a second, I thought he spoke to me.

  “Tomorrow,” Aaron said with heavy censure. “Said something came up.”

  “He knew Jordan could pass…”

  “He knew,” Aaron interrupted with ugly finality.

  Joss Royce was Jordan’s business partner, which didn’t explain the rage in Aaron’s voice. Hoping Jordan hadn’t sensed it, I moved to the bed, gently touching my husband’s hand, looking for signs of dissipation.

  One of our housemates had a brother, an addict, always arriving at the house at odd hours, looking for Brittany, angling for money. Not even twenty-five, desperation lined David’s face, sleeves covered a network of needle marks.

  Aaron saw me staring at Jordan’s unblemished arms, and an amused smile touched his lips.

  “Ip had a morbid fear of drugs of any kind. Wouldn’t even take aspirin. Reports of his addictions were all lies.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “But he died of a drug overdose,” Dog said.

  Too shocked by Aaron’s revelation, I only stared at Jordan’s lawyer.

  “He did.” Aaron’s expressive face turned somber. “We don’t know how. We don’t know why.”

  “He was murdered?” I’d meant to sound surprised, but the words came out resigned. Expecting murder while an Abishag was a shade better than marrying a vampire.

  “Murder?” The doctor stared at me with shock. “Why would you say that?”

  I enumerated the two axioms that led to my conclusion. “If you don’t know why and found no evidence of how, then you wouldn’t be thinking attempted suicide.”

  The doctor and Aaron exchanged looks. “She’s smarter than she looks,” Doctor Millerand said.

  Gee, thanks.

  “It could still be attempted suicide,” Aaron said. “We don’t know who would kill Ip. He’s a national treasure, never hurt anyone, shy, generous with his few friends.”

  I know my eyes went wide, and I caught Dog’s frown. “We’d heard differently,” Dog said.

  Aaron shrugged. “Publicity garbage. Actors, artists, they all do it—make themselves larger, more sleazy than they really are. For the press. Some even enjoy it. Ip hated it.”

  I opened my mouth, wanting to ask about angry ex-wives and girlfriends, but Aaron shook himself like a large mastiff shedding water.

  “Enough of that. It’s your wedding night and could well be Ip’s last night after Bob turns off the life support.” His lips trembling, Aaron looked between Dog and me. “We wanted Leslie to know that Jordan Ippel was an upstanding guy, that he’d be grateful for you comforting him in his final hours.” Then he wept again.

  “Pull yourself together, Cochrane.” Harsh words, but the doctor’s voice softened. �
�You wish to stay, Miss Greene, while we prepare him?”

  I shook my head. “I need to change. Besides, I expect you both want a few minutes to say goodbye.”

  Aaron’s jaw worked.

  “I’ll brief Douglas too,” the doctor continued. Again, it took me a minute to realize he spoke of Dog. “Harvey’s prepared two guest rooms for you three, and I expect he’s brought the luggage upstairs by now. It’s a small house with only the master bathroom next to Jordan’s room, a small bathroom between the other two bedrooms, and a powder room downstairs off the living room.”

  “No problem,” I said hastily. “We’ll sort things out. Don’t worry about us.”

  “Harvey will take care of you.” He wasn’t looking at me anymore but at Aaron, who wiped his eyes with an oversized handkerchief.

  “I hope you’ll stay as long as you like.” I said. “Have some fruitcake before you leave. I think Jordan would want that.”

  I don’t know what made me say that. Abishags are supposed to focus on their husbands and fade into the background when family is around, but I couldn’t ignore all the grief.

  Doctor Millerand didn’t exactly fall in love with me right then, but his smile warmed. “Thank you, Miss Greene. We may do that. I think Harvey saved a few dinner scraps for us as well. You freshen up. Jordan will be ready when you return.”

  Aaron composed himself to touch my shoulder as I turned. “I’ll drop by in the morning to see if you need anything.”

  I smiled gamely. “That would be lovely, Aaron. Thank you.”

  Dog winked as I left. He knew me well, expecting I’d have an attack of nerves as soon as I walked out the door. He wasn’t wrong.

  My luggage leaned against Kat’s duffel bag in front of one bedroom, and Dog’s backpack leaned against the other door. Harvey must work like the elves—I hadn’t heard him on the stairs or outside Jordan’s bedroom.

  I smiled at Kat’s duffel. She’d lent me the same bag when I married Thomas Crowder, but now I had luggage of my own. His daughter had given me a set for my birthday.

  Another Abishag had assured me that the family forgets us as soon as we’re gone. Like we’re a shameful necessity, an expensive end-of-life therapy never to be mentioned again. It hadn’t been like that with Tina, Thomas’s daughter. She called me twice since the funeral and remembered my birthday. Thomas’s retired housekeeper, Mrs. Timmons, sent me cookies or muffins every few weeks along with short notes about her family doings. I hadn’t heard from Tina’s youngest son, Sebastian. He was supposed to be enrolled at UCLA, and I thought I might see him on campus but hadn’t.

  What made me think of Sebastian? I had a boyfriend. Scratch that. I was an Abishag with a husband who needed her, at least for a day or two. I grabbed my suitcase and dragged it into a tiny bedroom crammed with two single beds, a small captain’s desk, and a rocking chair in the corner.

  Like the master bedroom, nothing hung on the walls. I wondered if seeing his art in galleries and museums made Jordan allergic to paintings in his home. The bedroom had a small porthole window surveying the crazy rock garden in the front yard. Between two houses across the street—one with a single lamp lit downstairs and the other decorated with blue icicle lights and electric candles at every window—I could see a sliver of ocean.

  I emptied the suitcase on the bed closest to the window and extracted a nightgown. I’d considered something more in keeping with a notorious artist’s wife but after hearing what Aaron had said about Jordan being innocent of those reports, I was glad I hadn’t. Instead I’d bought something to please me: a long, pale blue nightgown printed with sleighs and reindeer.

  I took a quick shower, slipped on the nightgown and lathered on bergamot lotion from the Abishag Agency gift basket on the counter. Usually the agency contacted the family for the husband’s favorite scent. I wondered if they’d asked Aaron. For Thomas, I’d worn his first wife’s favorite lavender cream.

  I realized I’d left my robe in the bedroom. Since the gown clung, I peeked out the bathroom door. Seeing no one in the hall, I sprinted to my room. After Jordan’s people left and if Jordan survived to a second night, I’d move my bed-warming things to the master bathroom.

  Kat lay on the bed closer to the door, playing moodily with a switchblade. “I’m not sleeping here,” she said. “I put Dog’s and my things in the other room.”

  “Are those walls blank too?”

  “What?” She frowned at me. “Never mind. I’ve got something to tell you. Jordan Ippel was murdered, and I think Harvey Kassem did it.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I glared at her. “You can’t tell me something like that when I’m trying to focus on peace and joy.” She knew I needed to compose myself. In a few minutes, I’d be comforting Jordan in his final hours. How could I do that while thinking about murder?

  “Peace and joy? What are you, a Christmas angel? Let’s give him peace by finding out who killed him.”

  “Kat.” We both looked up to see Dog in the doorway, shooting her a warning look.

  “What?” she growled. “If he was murdered, the trail grows colder the longer we wait.”

  He ignored her. “You ready, Les?”

  I nodded, wrapping myself in my terrycloth robe and stepping into matching slippers.

  Kat must have felt guilty. “No worries about tonight, Les. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” I said, not looking at her. “G’night.”

  Before we reached Jordan’s room, I tugged Dog to a stop. “Can you tell? Was he murdered?”

  He rolled his eyes. “What Kat said—we’ll talk about it tomorrow. No worries now, okay?”

  No lawyer and no doctor lingered in Jordan’s room. The feeding and trach tubes had been disconnected. Still tethered to the monitoring leads, I could hear the ping of Jordan’s heartbeats and his shallow breaths.

  “Doctor Millerand said he might last the night,” Dog said. “Maybe through tomorrow and even Christmas day. He’ll be calling for regular reports but not till morning. He didn’t want you disturbed.”

  Thomas hadn’t died while I was in bed with him. Thankfully. He’d passed while his daughter and her two sons sat with him. It’d seemed a good way to go.

  I didn’t know what Jordan had been through before I arrived and hadn’t liked what I’d heard so far. He’d have no family surrounding him as he passed. He had only me.

  “You want me to stay for a while?”

  Still concentrating on Jordan, I shook my head. Dog was being kind, but he knew that an Abishag’s night with her husband was sacred and for us alone.

  As Dog headed for the door, I whirled. Even though this wasn’t my first wedding night with a comatose husband, I suddenly panicked. “If he should…”

  “Come get me. I’m down the hall.” He spoke gently, as if to a frightened child. “Don’t worry, Les. I know he looks scary, but Doctor Millerand said Ippel was a good guy. He supported things like homeless shelters, cancer research, bird reserves. Gave speeches and donated artwork. Millerand said he looked after all of his wives. In his own way, he’s looking after you too.”

  He nodded once, encouragingly, and closed the door. Alone with Jordan, my heart beat fast.

  As he’d done with Thomas, Dog had arranged Jordan on his right side. Even with his legs bent, his head brushed the headboard. His black hair had been combed off his face and lay like crow feathers against the pillow.

  His eyelids fluttered in his gaunt, sallow face. Sometimes his lips twitched as if he were about to speak, but the rest of his skeletal form lay as still as carved alabaster draped in satin.

  Shedding the robe, I took a deep breath and carefully crept into the bed, pulling the light duvet over us. Although the room was warm, my hands felt like frosted glass. I blew on them, rubbed them, then wound my left arm around Jordan and slipped my hand into his. Leaning my forehead against his back, I tuned out the monitor beeps and listened to Jordan’s heart which felt and sounded different than Thomas’s. I’m not s
ure how to describe it—not different in rate or strength or in harmony with my own.

  I thought about Jordan’s most famous painting Indelible Beats. Through 21 nights, I’d listened to Thomas’s heartbeats, and they’d made an indelible impression on me. However long or short my nights with Jordan, I wondered if his heartbeats would become indelible too.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I suppose it’s the nightmare of every Abishag wife to fall asleep while lying with her comatose husband. In our training, Florence Harcourt stressed that our entire duty was expressed in how we watched over our husbands’ nights. She’d likened us to sentinels standing (or, in our case, lying) as guardians of the lord. 47 of the 89 rules in the Abishag wife’s handbook were about our nightly duties.

  Over dinner one night, the friend who’d introduced me to the agency told me in a half-joking way that, in addition to the credit the family garnered by engaging an Abishag wife for a brain-dead loved one, we were totally a bargain for the family both financially and emotionally. Not only did we work through the night, but we also relieved nurses, aides and family members during the day. Jordan was only my second comatose husband, but Jen was on her sixth, so she knew.

  Because my first night with Jordan slipped into the early morning hours of Christmas Eve, I softly sang Christmas songs till I was hoarse. Since I didn’t know if Jordan had been religious or what kind of religious, I also sang the dreidel song every fifteen minutes.

  I don’t know about Jordan, but by the time Dog walked into the room at 6 a.m., I was over the holidays but good.

  I slipped from the bed and donned the robe I’d dropped on the floor earlier.

  Picking up Jordan’s chart, Dog cocked his head at me. “You okay?”

  I stifled a yawn. “Yeah. Why are you looking at me like that?”

  He squinted, a puzzled look on his face. “You had a softer look on your face with Thomas Crowder. You seem more on edge with Ippel. Regret taking him on?”

  Dog said it like I’d adopted a puppy from the shelter and found him chewing my favorite shoes. “No regrets.” I tried fixing a soft expression on my face but covered another yawn instead. “I gotta sleep for a couple of hours.”