Under the Skin (16 page)

Thursday, May 17

T
here I was, threatening Phillip with a dead fish and feeling as though the Wicked Witch of the West was in possession of my body and speaking through my mouth, about to cackle
I’ll get you, my pretty!

What was I
saying?
What was I
thinking
, for god’s sake? Did I really believe that Phillip was fooling around with Gloria? Or was this some strange reaction I was having to the lust I had felt in my own heart (thank you, Jimmy Carter) a few hours earlier.

Even as the words left my lips, I knew I’d made a mistake. The man I love was standing there, staring at me in utter amazement.

“Who
are
you?” he asked, after a few uncomfortably silent moments had ticked by. “And what have you done with Lizabeth?”

Covering the distance between us in two steps, he grabbed me by the shoulders, not roughly, but not particularly gently either. He ignored my gasp of surprise and brought his face close to mine, looking into my eyes as if searching for something. Stunned into speechlessness, I closed my eyes to escape that penetrating gaze. Then, without a word, he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me so close that I could feel his breath in my hair and the beating of his heart against my body.

Held tight in his embrace, I felt all the righteous anger—anger that I had knowingly stoked to flame by my imagination—flicker, sputter, and go out, leaving behind just the black ash of regret. The fish in my hand slipped to the floor and I put my arms around his neck. We stood there swaying slightly.

“Hey, Lizabeth,” he whispered in my ear, “you want to hear a funny story?”

“So there I was, shrinking back in that chair like a frightened virgin—hell, I did everything but cross my legs …”

We were on the sofa, our feet up on the cedar chest, completely happy and completely relaxed. I had retrieved the fish from the floor and put it in the fridge to await cooking while Phillip had gone to the basement for one of the bottles of emergency champagne that I keep in the second refrigerator down there.

Yes, emergency champagne—well, okay, sparkling wine—usually a Spanish Cava. Because you never know when there may be something to celebrate. Our family has always been big on celebrations—a needed rain, the first daffodil, the first snow, a bird-watching trifecta (i.e., spotting a male goldfinch, a male cardinal, and a male indigo bunting all at the feeder at the same time)—any of these served as an excuse to break out the cheap champagne.

A narrowly avoided disaster is another good reason and it seemed to me that this was such an occasion. Besides, if Phillip was going to drink champagne with Gloria in the afternoon, it seemed only fair he drink it with me in the evening.

The story, as he told it, was hilarious—from his driving my sister “disguised as a giant bug” to Hot Springs to his reaction when the innkeeper called Gloria “Mrs. Hawkins.” By the time he got to the part where he was
sure she was about to make an assault on his virtue, I was helpless with laughter and the Wicked Witch had melted away—forever, I hoped.

“There’s the Lizabeth I know and love.” He planted a kiss on the top of my head. “You want another glass of bubbly or do you want to save it to have with dinner?”

“Dinner—now, there’s a thought.” I untangled myself from him and stood up, a little woozy with the champagne and the emotional roller-coaster ride I’d been on all afternoon.

“That nice-looking trout you were waving at me—is that on the menu?” He trailed me into the kitchen and stuck the open bottle in the refrigerator.

“Was I waving it? Well, at least I didn’t throw it at you. Would you get them out? They’re in a plastic bag right there on the top shelf. I thought I’d grill two and freeze the rest.”

He brought out the pair I’d saved back for tonight and studied them with a professional eye.

“These didn’t come from the grocery. I’d bet another bottle of that champagne they were swimming around this morning.” He leaned down and sniffed at them. “Maybe as late as midday—Where’d you get them?”

Deep breath. What
had
I been thinking? Harice Tyler’s bedroom eyes flickered at the edge of my memory and disappeared.

“There’s a trout farm up on Bear Tree Creek. You know where it is—just before that Devil’s Fork place, remember?”

“I’d rather not.” Phillip grinned. “That was another time you caught me in a hard-to-explain situation. Thank god, we’re okay now … aren’t we?”

Not waiting for my answer, he went on. “I don’t remember you ever getting trout there before, but I think it’s a great idea. Did you fish for them or …?”

“Or,” I admitted. “The guy in charge threw in a little food and netted them for me. And killed and cleaned—”

“Oh yeah, old man Tyler—I was out there one time last year. He’d called the department about someone getting into his ginseng patch. Quite a character but he’d talk your ear off. You want me to go light the grill?”

While Phillip was tending the trout on the grill, I defrosted some of last year’s roasted cherry tomatoes, steamed some asparagus, and sizzled sliced almonds in butter to top the fish. A big salad of red and green lettuce with baby beets and carrots, chopped green onion, vinaigrette, and we were good to go. And the rest of the champagne, of course.

As we took our places at the table, outside the dining room window a gentle rain began to fall and I felt blessed in all things.
God’s in His Heaven; Gloria’s in Hot Springs; all’s right with the world
.

“Phillip, I’ve been such a bitch—” I began, but he stopped me by lifting his glass.

“To us,” he said.

“To us,” I agreed.

We sat in the rocking chairs on the porch, savoring the lingering twilight and the refreshment of the rain—the welcome coolness, the clean smell, the calming patter on the metal roof. Molly and Ursa came hurrying up the steps, back from an early evening adventure, shook off the droplets that trembled on their fur, and settled at our feet. James, of course, was already ensconed on a pillow on one of the rockers.

I listened to the rain and the chirping of the frogs down in the little fishpond and thought about the past few weeks … the letter from Dodie … was it having Gloria around and the poisoned effect of her doubts about her husband that had caused me to take seriously
the scattered ramblings of a very sweet but sometimes rather loopy old woman? God knows, Gloria’s visit had revealed an unpleasant, snippy, arrogant aspect of my personality—why shouldn’t it be paranoid as well?

Something clicked in my wandering thoughts. I turned to look at Phillip, who was rocking, eyes closed, completely relaxed and utterly at peace. Poor guy, I thought, he’s got to be exhausted after being out in the woods all last night. He couldn’t have gotten much of a nap.

By unspoken mutual consent, we had avoided talking about Gloria during dinner. And it would probably have suited both of us to stay off the subject at least till the morning.

But still, I had to ask.

“Do you think she’ll be okay over there?”

He didn’t open his eyes but yawned and nodded. “I don’t see why not.”

“But this Eyebrow character … what if he—”

Phillip’s eyes came open and he gave me a sharp, police detective look. “This morning—was it just this morning? Geez, seems like a week ago. But this morning you said that Gloria might have set up the whole Barbie doll thing.”

I blushed, remembering my selfish annoyance at the whole affair.

“I know, I did say that. But what if I was wrong? What if there really
is
someone after her? Is she safe over there?”

He reached for my hand. “Sweetheart, I didn’t want to make a big deal of it but when I was looking around outside Gloria’s room, I found a man’s footprint on the little porch. I know Ben comes that way sometimes, but he always wears boots with cleated bottoms. This was a smooth sole—like a man’s dress shoe.”

I thought about this. “Okay. I’m not saying I doubt
you but … a footprint? This is the first rain we’ve had in over a week and the ground is—was hard and bone dry. How’d he manage to leave a footprint?”

Phillip raised my hand to his lips and kissed it, then gently nudged at the sleeping Ursa with his toe. “Remember how Gloria was complaining the other day about the girls pooping right outside her door …”

While I was still giggling, Phillip hastened to assure me that he had alerted the Hot Springs police force—such as it was—to be on the lookout for a black Hummer with Florida plates and had explained that the driver might be a stalker.

“I told them that it was my future sister-in-law that was his target and that she had registered as Mrs. Hawkins in an attempt to throw this guy off. Nah, she should be fine—in a place as small as Hot Springs, this Eyebrow fellow’s bound to be pretty damn conspicuous. I gave them a description of him too.”

“Stinky shoe and all,” I muttered. “Could they arrest him?”

“Afraid not—he hasn’t actually done anything that we could prove,” Phillip explained. “Can you imagine going into court with my strongest evidence a shoe with traces of dog poop on it? I asked Gloria if she wanted to get a restraining order but when I found out she doesn’t even know the guy’s name … besides, I’m not convinced that this Eyebrow fella is the whole story. From some of the things your sister said when she finally started talking, I’m guessing Jerry’s not the only one with a motive for doing her in.”

He stood and tugged on my hand. “Let’s go inside. I’d like to stretch out while I question my next witness. Gloria told me a good bit about her various marriages—why don’t you give me your take on these different husbands?”

As we arranged ourselves on the sofa, me at one end
with his head in my lap, I had my doubts as to how long he would stay awake. But he stretched luxuriously, closed his eyes, and said, “Let’s start with number one—the Latin lover who got annulled. What can you tell me?”

I leaned back and tried to assemble my thoughts … to remember. This whole episode was hardly real to me—all my information was second- or thirdhand, and not from particularly reliable sources.

“Let’s see … When Gloria was … I guess she would have been nineteen … she ran off with a foreign student she’d met at college. I’m pretty sure his name was Arturo but I don’t think I ever knew his last name. You see, Sam and I were married by then and he was out of the Navy and in college. We weren’t living in Tampa so I really didn’t know much about what was happening with Glory beyond some late night phone calls from my mother who seemed to think Glory’s elopement was somehow
my
fault because Sam and I hadn’t had a big fancy wedding.

“The next thing we knew, my mother had managed to get the marriage annulled and Glory back in school. By the time Sam and I returned to Tampa, no one was talking about the elopement; Arturo, or whatever his name was, had moved back to Colombia; and Glory was engaged to Ben’s father.”

Phillip nodded. “Yeah, you told me about him before. Skip him and tell me about the rich husband—Harold. Or not so much Harold but his kids. They’d be Gloria’s stepchildren, right?”

“I guess—but there was never any kind of family feeling between them. They were all grown and off with their trust funds and she rarely saw them. None of them were happy about Gloria marrying their dad—particularly since she was more or less their age. I think they were afraid of her presenting them with some half
brothers or sisters who would get cut in on the eventual inheritance. I mean, there was so much money—it could have been split a hundred ways and everyone would have still been rich. But the Holst kids acted like a bunch of kindergarteners squabbling over toys.”

The memory of the brief visit Sam and I had made to the Holst estate for the wedding, and the drunken toast the younger son had given at the wedding breakfast, made me shiver. It had been obvious that relations between the newlyweds and the Holst younger generation would never be good. Still …

“Except for Harold, the Holst family was the most unpleasant group of people I think I’ve ever met. But after one incident, Harold made sure they were polite when they were visiting—”

“Hang on, what incident would that be?” He was wide awake and alert now—full-tilt cop mode.

“It was, actually, at the wedding. Nothing you could prove, but Gloria was convinced that one of the Holst gang had made sure that her serving of lobster thermidor was slightly off. She ended up that afternoon at the emergency room having her stomach pumped. But, like I said, there was no way of proving anything and she didn’t want to start off a marriage accusing her husband’s only daughter of attempted murder.”

“Food poisoning …” Phillip murmured. “Probably not a murder attempt—more of a malicious mischief kind of thing.” He yawned. “So then what?”

“Nothing. The real tackiness didn’t start till Harold dropped dead one day on the golf course. Then his children contested the will and started all kinds of unpleasant rumors about Gloria. Harold had fixed things so that she came in for a good chunk of his estate—but only in trust for her lifetime. It’ll revert to the Holst family eventually. She does very well on the interest though.”

Phillip considered this information briefly then looked up at me. “Any other men in her life? Before she married Lombardo?”

“Hmmm. Let me think …”

I thought about it. Gloria had never wanted for an escort to the major events that defined old Tampa society, especially all the Gasparilla carrying-on—Tampa’s version of Mardi Gras. But had any of those “dates” been more than that?

A memory stirred. Dr. Brice Sterrings.
“We met cute, Lizzy,”
she had told me in a phone call years ago.
“I was in his office to see if it was time to have some work done—he’s a cosmetic surgeon—and he told me that I was perfect just as I was and invited me out that weekend. Anyhoo, things are getting pretty serious and I just thought I’d let you know …”

“There’s a guy—a Dr. Sterrings. I know they went to Aruba together and then on some cruise. Gloria seemed to think that it was just a matter of time before … Then the next thing I knew she’d married Jerry. I don’t know what happened but I’m pretty sure I heard her talking to him on her cell the other night. Very flirty conversation.”