Dead Over Heels (17 page)

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Authors: Charlaine Harris

BOOK: Dead Over Heels
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W
e had to get there early to meet and greet, but we found time to stop by the hospital. Shelby expected to be discharged the next day, and Martin promised to help, after he had a good look at Angel. She was obviously uncomfortable and exhausted after sleeping on the lumpy roll-away the hospital had provided. Shelby told us with more than a hint of exasperation that he’d urged her repeatedly to sleep at home.
Jimmy Henske had been by that day to question him again, but Shelby said he’d had to tell Jimmy that he still could not recall why he’d been roaming around the yard on a black rainy night, what he might have seen, who might have hit him.
Shelby’s room was pleasantly cluttered with offerings from the men he worked with; paperbacks, sports magazines, a basket of fruit, and some get-well cards jostled each other for space on the broad windowsill.
As Martin and I made our unnecessarily complicated way out of the hospital (I wondered if the architect had just read a book on English mazes before he began on the hospital plans) and into the overcrowded parking lot, I noticed I was again experiencing the unease I’d had earlier, the chill of loss, as though the Youngbloods, bound to us by employment and friendship, were moving away from us for good.
I was in no party mood when we pulled into the parking lot of the community center. Martin cut off the motor and we sat looking at the concrete-and-glass building, the fresh-painted parking lot with its rudimentary trees in the medians. We heaved simultaneous sighs.
“We’ll get through it,” Martin said bracingly.
“I know.” But I heard the complaint in my voice and said, “At least we get to look marvelous for the evening! And I’m looking forward to seeing so many of the people I only get to see at Pan-Am Agra things.”
Martin hated being part of a receiving line, so we just happened to be close to the entrance; anyone who felt like it could shake Martin’s hand or hug my neck, or give us both stiff bobs of the head. I resigned myself to being called “Mrs. Bartell” all evening, since the constant correction “Ms. Teagarden” would have been tedious.
For this annual occasion, Pan-Am Agra had rented the newly built community center, which boasted a huge room that could be adapted to many purposes. This evening it looked festive, with giant Easter eggs and streamers and balloons combating the general institutional atmosphere. A potted bare artificial tree stood in the middle of the room with large plastic eggs hanging from it, each containing a slip of paper describing a door prize. I’d already been informed I was the designated distributor, and I watched with resignation as the glass bowl by the entrance filled with more and more slips with names scrawled on them, as more and more Pan-Am Agra employees slapped on their hand-lettered name stickers and moved into the room.
This was supposed to be a dressy occasion; but as always, nowadays, there were people who came in blue jeans or stretch pants. My mother would have shuddered. I felt grateful I’d dressed down in a rather plain cocktail dress in cream and gold. I was wearing heels, which I hated with a passion, and every time my feet throbbed I told myself this was my sacrifice for Martin, a return for all the times he took it for granted I would go my own way and do whatever made me hap piest.
I caught glimpses of my husband surrounded by men in suits who were laughing, holding glasses of nonalcoholic punch (Pan-Am Agra could not support drinking and driving), and from time to time glancing over to the tables where their wives were already seated. Martin was at ease, dealing with the conversation with good humor and a natural facility.
I wasn’t faring as well. I was getting a bit tired of so many women telling me in so many words that I was lucky to have such a handsome husband. If Martin and I had been the same age, they wouldn’t have commented; I couldn’t quite work out why the age difference apparently gave them license to speak frankly. I was willing to bet none of the men were complimenting Martin on my big boobs.
Every now and then, I’d get to talk to someone I really liked, like Martin’s secretary, Mrs. Sands, a tall, thin forty-five with luridly dyed black hair and a broad sense of humor. Tonight, I could only view Mrs. Sands with awe. She was decked out in a red-and-gold se quined sweater, red slacks, and gold sandals with three-inch heels that made her even loftier. My own modest heels looked sedate in comparison. Mrs. Sands, Marnie to her friends (but not to me), gave me the dignified greeting one potentate accorded another of slightly greater stature. Though I was the sultan’s wife, her manner implied, she was the Grand Vizier, the one who held true power.
Actually, she was right in many ways. I didn’t mind giving her credit; Martin said she was a great secretary, gauging perfectly when to allow plant personnel to have access to him, when to leave him undisturbed, and how to locate him at any moment.
“Honey,” said Mrs. Sands, “I need to talk to you.” She glanced around; we were a little apart at the moment. I looked up at her, surprised and interested; usually we just exchanged compliments and small talk.
“Fire away,” I said.
“Now, I know Mr. Bartell is a man who can handle any situation, that’s one of the reasons I like working for him, but you’re his wife and there’s something building up out there I think you ought to know about.”
Mrs. Sands cocked her head and her teased black hair leaned a little, like a loose helmet. She was deeply tanned and the wrinkles around her dark brown eyes looked as though they’d been incised with a chisel.
“Tell me,” I said invitingly.
“You know Bettina Anderson?”
“Yes. We had supper at Bettina and Bill’s house one time. Oh, and she left a couple of messages on my answering machine I haven’t had a chance to return,” I recalled guiltily. As a matter of fact, the dinner at the Andersons’ had been the first one Martin and I had attended as a married couple; and it had been the first evening I’d realized that the future held many such unwanted but obligatory invitations.
Bill Anderson, the plant safety manager, had been wished on Martin by his superiors. The Andersons had been in Lawrenceton about three years. Bettina, a stout copper-haired woman of about forty, was the most self-effacing wife I’d ever encountered. “I haven’t seen either of the Andersons in a few months, I guess,” I said lamely, aware that Mrs. Sands was waiting for me to say something more.
“Well, I think she’s going through some kind of thing about Mr. Bartell. I can’t
believe
she’s tried to call you!”
My mouth fell open.
“Bettina Anderson, who’s married to Bill, head of the Safety Division,” I said, just a little question in my voice, because I simply couldn’t believe my ears.
“That’s right, I can’t believe it either,” Mrs. Sands said, responding to my tone and my statement at the same time.
I looked down at my shoes, off-white leather with a gold cap over the toes. I bit my lip to keep from giggling.
“Mr. Bartell usually handles situations like this himself, he sure don’t need help with that,” Mrs. Sands continued, and I abruptly lost any tendency to laugh. I wondered how many other “situations” Martin had handled without my knowledge. I could see how it would be hard for him to say casually, “Fended off another admirer, honey.”
“But this time, this woman is acting so weird, and so’s her husband,” Mrs. Sands said, disgust in her stance. “Weird” was one of the worst epithets Mrs. Sands ever used, and she did not use it lightly.
“Weird in what way?” I asked, returning my gaze to my shoes. This conversation was embarrassing, but fascinating.
“Well, Bill shows up at times when he doesn’t really need to see Mr. Bartell.” My husband was the only “Mister” at the Pan-Am Agra plant, to Mrs. Sands. “He just hangs around until Mr. Bartell gets rid of him—you know how quick he can do that.”
I nodded. I did indeed.
“And Bettina?” I prompted.
“Honey, that woman calls on the phone, and she’s come to the office! Course, I told her he was out of town.”
“Oh, dear,” I said inadequately.
“Now that you know, I feel better,” Mrs. Sands told me. “I’ll be seeing you, Ms. Teagarden.” Mrs. Sands always gave me the correct name, but accompanied it by a sharp look. Keeping my name had cost me many points with Mrs. Sands, but she was trying to forgive me, since I seemed like a proper wife for Mr. Bartell. She gave my shoulder a squeeze and strode off to join a group of her cronies, who’d been glancing our way.
Before I had a chance to recover from this remarkable conversation, before I could even wiggle my eyebrows at Martin to indicate I wanted to talk to him, the Andersons came in the door. Bill was wearing a suit, of course, and Bettina was wearing a very pretty green dress. When she shyly eased in front of me, I was able to give her an honest compliment. Bettina smiled back uncertainly. I noticed her hands were twisting the strap of her purse.
I emitted some more social chitchat, which Bettina interrupted abruptly. “Could we talk tonight? It won’t take long. I’m sorry I have to talk to you here, but you didn’t return my calls. Of course,” and she held up a hand to ward off my speaking, “I understand, because you’ve had a lot of things to think about lately. But I have to talk to you tonight.” She had spoken in a low urgent voice, with a glance toward our husbands that certainly must have clued any onlooker that she was up to something surreptitious. Of course in such a throng some people were sure to be looking at us, and I tried to make my face as blank as possible.
“Sure, Bettina,” I said, as soothingly as I could without sounding patronizing. “What about right now?”
“Oh no, people are looking, and it’s just about time to sit down.” So she was having that watched feeling, too.
“This is awfully crowded,” I said. “Why don’t we have lunch Monday?” If I could get through this evening, I could surely endure a public lunch with Bettina Anderson.
“That’s too late, I can’t wait that long,” Bettina told me. There was an edge of desperation in her voice that I couldn’t ignore.
“All right. When the dinner is breaking up, come to our table and we’ll find a quiet place.”
And then I had to put on my social smile, because here came (to my dismay) Deena Somebody-who-worked-in-the-shipping-department. Deena had deemed skin-tight jeans appropriate for this occasion, and I had to admit she filled them beautifully, but I had doubts that she would be able to bend at her knee and hip joints to sit in one of the folding chairs. I would have been interested in a video of the process of Deena getting into those jeans. Deena shrieked, “Hello, Roe!” as if she were a close friend of mine, and hauled her date out to show me she had one. To my amazement, the man she had in tow was quiet Paul Allison.
“Hi, Roe,” said Paul in his calm way. “I’m sure you know Deena Cotton.” I must have been fascinated by Deena’s bottom half for too long—she was eyeing me nervously.
“Deena, how’s shipping these days?” I murmured, proving I recognized her and knew where she worked.
“Just fine, always busy. Thank goodness!” And Deena gave a high-pitched giggle that made me wonder just how far Paul was willing to go in reaction to Sally, who would never in her life have made a sound like that. He was willing to go pretty far, as it turned out, for he put his hand firmly on her butt while we talked, and she seemed pleased rather than annoyed. I tried to imagine getting out of clothes that tight in the heat of passion; just as I had decided Paul would have to stand at the end of the bed and pull on the legs as she held on to the headboard, I became aware that Deena had turned red and Paul was staring at me fixedly, waiting for me to speak.
“Hope you enjoy yourselves tonight,” I said briskly.
I looked down rather than show my irritation, pushed my wire-rims up with one finger to give myself an excuse for glancing away. “Perry,” I said over Paul’s shoulder, “Good to see you.” To my surprise, Paul’s former stepson had come in right behind him with a woman who must be the remarkable Jenny Tankersley. Paul and Deena were moving away, and I tried not to even glance at the rear view.
“Jenny’s airstrip is where the Pan-Am Agra plane lands when the president flies down,” Perry was explaining. “This is the second year Jenny’s been invited to the banquet.”
I didn’t remember her from the year before, but perhaps she just hadn’t come up to meet me. I was sure I would have had no trouble recognizing her if I’d been introduced. Jenny, who was the same height as Perry, had gleaming beautiful white teeth, which she frequently bared in a predatory smile. Her hair was cut very short, with bangs, and it was a glossy brown that contrasted well with her heavy gold jewelry and orange dress. I had heard many stories about this woman, and I was interested in talking to her, but now was not the time to get to know her better.
I said a few polite words, to which Jenny responded instead of Perry, and then the younger couple drifted off to sit with Paul and Deena Cotton. I noted that Deena had somehow managed to sit, but she was bolt upright.
I assessed the incomings—down to a trickle—and the seated employees—a great majority—and knew it was time for the banquet to officially begin. Martin met my eye, with his usual good timing, and together we glanced around for seats, which would be simply the first two side-by-side we saw. At the annual banquet, Martin and I were supposed to be just part of the gang, with the result that some plant workers were in for a very tense evening sitting with the boss.

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