Hotter than Helen (The "Bobby's Diner" Series) (9 page)

But then she wondered if maybe someone else had left a message about her cat.

She dialed her voice mail, pressed in her password and listened.

Hawthorne’s begging voice pissed her off immediately and she deleted all four of his entreaties without listening all the way to their end.

Helen’s messages disturbed her the most, making Georgette feel betrayed all over again.

“Georgette,” her voice sounded urgent. Not what Georgette would have expected so she listened further. “Georgette. Look. It’s important you call me. I need your help. Oh. No…” A muffling through the mouthpiece was undetectable, then the phone went dead.

Georgette deleted it. Just like Helen. Weak, pitiful, deceitful, conniving, untrustworthy, no-good Helen.

It was Helen’s second message she decided to keep. “Hello, Georgette. Don’t worry about me. Like I said in my note, I’ve decided to go back to Seattle. I’m leaving Thursday morning on an early bus.”

The complete reversal seemed odd. Her voice didn’t sound the same. The urgency had been replaced by something different, something sounding like surrender.

She didn’t say goodbye when the phone went dead.

This time she called Roberta asking for her to help in order to find Gangster.

Georgette went to the cupboard and grabbed a can of cat food. She unzipped its lid, a final sure-fire way to get her cat to come to her, hoping the familiar sound, the ensuing call of Zummy! would bring Gangster back.

19

“Yes. Helen Wellen’s room, I believe she’s staying at your hotel, thank you.”

Music intermixed with hotel ads looped in Georgette’s ear for so long she switched the phone from to the other ear. The hotel operator came back on the line saying no one was answering.

“Yes, please. A voice message will be fine. Thank you.” Georgette agreed.

The robot recorder announced Helen as the guest and instructed Georgette to speak after the brief tone. A bell droned and Georgette began.

“Helen, it’s Georgette Carlisle. Look, I’m leaving Sunnydale for a while. I’m calling for two things—first, you’re not getting any part of my diner. Roberta has decided to buy in, so looks like you’re out. Don’t even think about contacting a lawyer. I’ll fight it until I have to sell the diner to some drifter if that’s what it takes to keep you out. And, second, you can have all of Hawthorne Biggs. Goodbye, Helen. I hope we never see each other again.”

She hung up hard, hoping it would sound that way at the end of the message.

***

Nearly six hours passed and Gangster still hadn’t returned when she finally went to bed at midnight. Georgette’s anxiety made her wake up during the night, rising every hour, looking around the house for him, going outside, calling his name, shining the flashlight, searching the desert around her house.

Then she wondered if her mind playing tricks on her? She thought she heard him. That slight muffled mewl of him calling in desperation. But the windy night sucked sound away so fast it nearly laughed at her, letting her know her know how powerless she really was.

Giving up each time, she returned to bed feeling somehow that Gangster knew she was looking for him but kept missing him. She couldn’t help but feel she was letting him down. She refused to think the unthinkable.

Her eyes hung heavy with exhaustion when the doorbell chimed.

She climbed out of bed. It was late the following morning and she still had to get to the diner. They could serve a leftover and call it the day’s special and serve it with extras for a dollar cheaper than yesterday’s dinner.

The disappearance of her cat had consumed her now. That and the dismantling of her future with Hawthorne.

Peering through the spy hole in the door, Georgette saw Roberta looking around outside, waiting for her.

“Hey, Rob. I can’t believe this.” She said as she opened the door for her.

“When did you see him last?”

“Yesterday morning before work. I’m going nuts.”

Roberta walked in and seeing no coffee had yet been made, went over to the pot and helped herself. She cranked open the water, filled the glass pot and poured it into the maker. Then she opened a cupboard and pulled out a can of Folgers. Something she always kidded Georgette about, but today she didn’t comment. Today Georgette wouldn’t take kidding kindly.

“Well, maybe if you take one side of the property and I take the other, we might flush him out.”

“I don’t know, Rob. It’s like, well, I’ve looked all over out there. He never goes off too far and even if he did, it’s not like we couldn’t spot him a mile away. It’s barren, just a couple of mesquite. It’s not like he can hide.”

“No. You’re right. Gosh, George, what could’ve happened to him?” She paused and then spoke the thing Georgette had feared the most. “Do you think he got hit by a car?”

“Oh, Rob, please. I thought I left him inside yesterday. I don’t remember though. Everything’s been so topsy-turvy in my life. Poor Gangster. It’s not his fault.”

“Well, don’t worry yet.”

“But, Rob. I neglected him because of Hawthorne and now look what happened.”

“Georgette, now. Listen. Did you feed him?” She nodded fast.

“Give him water?”

Nodding again, she answered. “Yes, of course. He’s like my own child. He’s my family. I did everything to keep him alive, but, I guess I must’ve forgotten about him needing me lately. I’ve been so wrapped up with everything about Hawthorne these days.” Georgette’s face tightened. Her jaw quivered under the stress of trying not to cry but tears welled in her eyes anyway. “It’s been over twenty-four hours, Roberta.” She blurted out.

“Okay. Well, let’s start searching. I mean we can talk about it all day long but that won’t help. I’ll take the outside.”

“All right. Thanks, Rob.”

“I’m going to take a cup of that Folgers there with me though.”

Georgette ignored Roberta’s attempt at lightening the mood and walked back into her bedroom to change. The sheets on the bed lay in a mangled heap. Four pillows had been tossed helter-skelter, two up where she put her head and the others trailing toward the foot of the bed. She hadn’t put her shoes away for a week. Her dresser had accumulated a mess of things from her pockets—her change, a tube of lipstick, notes from work, Helen’s note, a wad of Kleenex, her car keys and her engagement ring. Discarded things she should deal with—but later. Later, when she had the energy. The mess lay about not only cluttering the room but cluttering her mind to the point she allowed her anger for Helen cloud her responsibility of Gangster, to the point she misplaced him. Was her cat also something she’d discarded? She didn’t want to think she was that irresponsible.

A sharp pain swelled in her throat. She swallowed what felt like a stone, a hot stone.

At that moment, she resolved to make things right again, to turn her life around.

Her first priority? To find her cat.

At her dresser, she pulled open her underwear drawer and pulled out a pair of socks and a pair of panties and tossed them onto the bed. She shimmied off her pajama bottoms and, sitting on the bed, she let them drop to the floor. She picked up her undies and slipped them on over her feet. She hadn’t looked once at the each article of clothing as she dressed but, instead, she stared at the mess covering her dresser.

She lifted each  sock  and  slipped  them  on—one foot at a time. Rising again, she shuffled back to the dresser. Her eyes staying riveted to Helen’s note. She pulled open her tee shirt drawer and looked in. She loved grey tee shirts, she guessed, because she loved cloudy skies. She chose one that read “I Survived 110° in Sunnydale” and tossed it behind her over and onto the crumpled bed. She opened her jeans drawer and lifted a pair of thin blue denims out, shaking them once to loosen their creases and, like the tee shirt, she flung them behind her over on the bed.

When she pulled off her thin floral nightshirt, it broke her stare from the items on her dresser and she turned with the gown fully over her face. Heading to the bed,  she pulled her night clothes completely off and dropped her arms letting the shirt fall to the floor.

“Want some coffee, George?” Roberta yelled from the kitchen.

“I’ll get it. Thanks, hon!” she screamed back.

She heard the front door close and knew Roberta had set off in search of Gangster.

“Oh my heavens, Gangster.” The words groaned out of her. “Where are you, kitty?” She began to cry and sat on the bed to finish dressing. She could hear Roberta’s muted calls for the cat outside.

Regaining composure, Georgette wiped her eyes with her fingers, but her nose began to run.

She slunk off the bed, reaching for her tissue, knocking Helen’s note down in the process and fell back into place on the edge of her bed, wiping her nose and looking at the piece of paper now lying on the floor.

“Crap.” She didn’t want to deal with it. Not yet.

Georgette aimed and threw the wadded tissue into the waste can by the dresser. It hit the edge and bounced off the rim.

“Crap, crap, crap.” Now, she really had to get up, not only to pick up Helen’s note but to throw the tissue in the waste basket. She passed the note to get the wadded tissue and tossed the wad in the garbage.

Then, looking at the note, she stepped over it, avoiding it still and decided to make the bed first. It was a dance of sorts, Helen’s note calling to Georgette and Georgette refusing the call. The excuse not to read it? A messy bed.

Pulling the sheets up tight, she fluffed the pillows into place, walked around the end of the bed, ignoring Helen’s note, she walked toward the headboard and pulled the sheets taut again on the other side, fluffing the pillows and evening the comforter.

She sat at the end of the bed again and stared at the note on the floor.

“Okay, Helen. What do you have to say this time?”

Finally, bending over she picked up the crumpled not, she found a corner and, unfolding it once, opened it up to its full size.

She began reading.

A trite apology came first, of course. Georgette rolled her eyes in disgust and read further. Helen had some things in the garage, in the empty cupboard. At the end of the note, she’d scribbled four numbers, 2 8 1 4. It must’ve been a piece of scrap paper she’d found and written on. Helen added that she would pick everything up before leaving town, which would be tomorrow per her phone message.

Georgette decided she would leave a note for her, on the kitchen door, telling Helen to help herself into the garage and to make sure she closed the garage door when she was done, to take her crap and just get the hell out. Things would finally be settled and maybe she might start moving forward with her life again.

Georgette told herself she wouldn’t answer her own door until she was sure Helen and her things were gone.

“Slut.” She cursed under her breath and tossed the paper into the waste can, this time sinking the basket.

Then, she looked under the bed, again, just in case—just in case he had been hiding for some reason and she just hadn’t noticed.

When she saw her cat wasn’t there, Georgette retraced her steps again for, what felt like, the one-millionth time—into the bathroom, in linen closets, in the bathroom, inside the hall closets, searching Helen’s room, reminding herself that she had to quit thinking of it as Helen’s room. Helen, who, by the way, had left the room in a disarray of paperwork, long legal-looking business papers. She was surprised she hadn’t noticed them on Bobby’s desk in the days before when she stripped the bed of its soiled sheets. She shuddered at the thought.

After bending down, again, to view under the bed in that room, again,she got up, looked inside the closet, in the guest bathroom, through the living room and, moving the coffee table away, she searched once more under the couch—

“Georgette.” Roberta had come back inside and Georgette was once again on her knees at the base of the couch.

“Yeah. In here.”

“Hey.” Roberta appeared with two cups in her hands. “You have any yet?”

“No. Not yet. Thanks.”

“Sure.” She set Georgette’s cup on the coffee table. Georgette stayed seated on the floor next to her cup.

“I looked everywhere outside, but didn’t find him.”

Looking up at the window, Georgette noticed the clouds had filtered out the sun. “Son of a biscuit!” She picked up the cup and sipped without really tasting anything. “Wonder where he went.” She shook her head as she sipped and then set the cup back on the table. Georgette pushed off of the ground and reseated herself on the couch. Roberta sat down next to her.

“I have to get to the diner. Everybody will be showing up for work within an hour. I’ve gotten nothing done since yesterday.”

“Look. Nothing’s happening at my office.” Roberta went on, “Don’t know what ever kept Pyle so busy while he was mayor but I’m so bored there I could…” Roberta took a gulp of her coffee and set her cup next to Georgette’s. “Look, I can go in to the diner. You get there as soon as you can but I know what to do for lunch.”

“Oh, would you, Rob? I’ll pay you back. I promise.”

“Yeah? Will you be the mayor for a day? Please?” She smiled at her friend. “Of course I can handle lunch. Just make sure you’re there to prep for dinner.”