Читать книгу Deadly Deception - Brenda Gunn - Страница 13
ОглавлениеBrenda checked her watch; it was 8:45. She climbed out of her car and pulled a roll of quarters out of her pocket. She fed quarters into the parking meter in front of the Crown Center and surveyed the structure. It was a classic mixture of grayish brick and glass. Just then, an old couple walked past her. The old man was hunched over, holding the old woman’s arm. Brenda noticed she had an obvious limp and used a cane.
“You must watch out for that crack,” the old man warned his wife.
“Oh, Harry,” she said, “I’m not a child.”
“But I still want to protect you,” he said. They were walking toward a place in the sidewalk where the cement had a two-inch rise. Brenda watched the old woman stop as her husband tightened his arm supportively and helped the woman place her foot up along the crack, feeling until her footing was steady on the other side. Then she stepped over.
Brenda smiled. They’re so sweet together. Glen and I will be like that some day.
Brenda took a small black suitcase on wheels out of her trunk and hurried toward the building.
Once inside the marble foyer, she made it into a waiting elevator, punched twenty-three and waited for the door to close. When she reached the twenty-third floor, the bell dinged and she stepped off. The offices were extravagantly decorated with expensive oriental furnishings. Brenda didn’t normally like oriental stuff, but these were superb.
The receptionist sat at a crescent-shaped desk that had a gorgeous dragon carved on the face of it. The phone rang and she answered, “Morgan Enterprises.” She took down a message and hung up. There was an inlaid mother-of-pearl altar against one wall with an ancient dragon-shaped ship sitting atop it. It was made of elaborately carved ivory. On the opposite wall was thick frosted glass with an etching of a Japanese geisha. She was standing on a cliff; the wind was blowing her kimono and swirling her hair. It was beautiful.
“May I help you?” the young Asian woman behind the desk asked. She had straight, gleaming black hair and the most beautiful complexion Brenda had ever seen.
“Yes. I’m Brenda Brumbaugh from Associated Mutual. I have a nine o’clock appointment with Mr. Morgan,” Brenda said.
“I’ll let him know you’re here,” the receptionist said and with a smile motioned for Brenda to take a seat.
Brenda sniffed a bud vase on the reception desk containing white cymbidium orchids. They were beautiful, but the smell wasn’t very strong or pleasing. Brenda sank into a soft leather sofa. She heard the young woman punch in the numbers on her switchboard and speak into her headset, “Your nine o’clock is here.”
The receptionist walked over. “Mr. Morgan will see you now. I’ll show you the way.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Brenda peered at the young woman. Odd, she looks like she should have those little, silver dangling things in her hair like the geisha dolls have, not a microphone headset. She was lovely, but she’d obviously had plastic surgery on her eyes to make them look more Caucasian. What a shame that she felt it was necessary to change her looks to “fit in,” or to fit someone else’s idea of “beautiful.”
Brenda stood up and began dragging her medical case behind her, but had trouble pulling the wheeled case on the thick carpet. Finally, exasperated with the effort, she picked it up and carried it the rest of the way. She followed the receptionist down a hall making a right turn at the end. Then the receptionist pointed and said, “Continue down this corridor. It’s the third door on your left.” Brenda thanked her and continued on her own to Mr. Morgan’s office. Entering the room, she looked around.
His office was the complete opposite of the elegant outer office. It looked like it had been decorated by Andy Warhol. Everything was in primary colors. A red sofa in the shape of lips was framed by a canary yellow wall. The carpet throughout the room was royal blue. Brenda felt she’d been thrown back into a time warp of the seventies. From the ceiling, a giant Calder mobile twirled slowly, propelled only by the flow coming out of the air-conditioning vent.
“Mr. Morgan?” Brenda called. “I’m Brenda Brumbaugh from Associated Mutual. I’m here to do the medical exam for your new policy.”
“Be right with you,” said a male voice, coming from behind a cracked door. “Fix yourself a drink, if you want.”
Brenda was startled by the offer—it was only nine in the morning. She snooped around a mirrored mini-bar. Suspended above the crystal decanters was a bright-yellow plastic cat holding a real fiddle and a cow jumping over a moon. The moon was lit up, of course.
This guy’s got some weird art. I bet he paid a fortune for this stuff.
Brenda heard him clear his throat and she turned. Mr. Morgan stood there in nothing but his silk boxer shorts, holding a jar filled with urine. He was fiddling with his watch, mumbling something about Kuala Lumpur having an eleven-hour time difference. Brenda was glad there was a lid on it so he couldn’t spill the specimen.
Mr. Morgan was fiftyish, tall, super skinny and surprisingly stylish. His black hair was slicked back and he had a good looking but oily quality about him. His sideburns were gray and his nose, she noticed, had the ruptured vessels frequently indicative of alcoholism. Not a great bet to recommend for insurance.
Brenda was a bit taken back by the sight of him. She’d never had anyone meet her in his underwear before. She told herself it was all part of her job, gritted her teeth and marched up to him.
He smiled at her. “Russell Morgan, at your service.”
“I’ll take that,” she said, reaching for the urine sample. She unscrewed the lid and plopped a thermometer in it.
“Why’d you do that?” he asked.
“We register the temperature to make sure it’s fresh from the body. Drug addicts like to try to fool us by giving us somebody else’s urine.”
“Was I supposed to be in the buff?” Mr. Morgan asked, smiling.
She shook her head, “No, you didn’t even have to strip down to your underwear, but let’s get started. I have a parking meter ticking away downstairs.”
She unpacked the blood pressure cuff from her medical case and wrapped it around his arm. She squeezed the pump and noticed that with each squeeze he moaned.
“This isn’t hurting is it?” she asked.
“No,” he said, his voice strange.
Is he getting off on this? Brenda wondered as she wrote his blood pressure on the chart. She checked the temperature of the urine, wrote it on the chart, sealed the specimen jar and placed it in her medical kit. She took a measuring tape from her pocket and began measuring his chest.
Brenda started her regular spiel. “The insurance company pays me for the exam. You don’t have to worry about getting a bill. They just want to make sure you’re healthy before they issue the policy. Do you have any questions, Mr. Morgan?”
Mr. Morgan watched her measure his chest, “Yes. What’re you doing that for?”
“It’s just part of the exam,” Brenda said frowning as she scribbled his measurement on the chart.
“That’s not the part of me you ought to be measuring,” he said. Brenda grimaced and turned away. She hated those kinds of comments. She punched the start button on her portable EKG machine.
“You’re really cute,” he said.
Oh damn, he’s going to hit on me. She turned back to face him and took a deep breath. “Mr. Morgan, I’ll need to draw some blood.”
“Mine is sapphire blue just like my Jaguar, which is, by the way, right out front in case you’d like to join me for lunch.”
Brenda shook her head, jabbed a needle in his arm and started drawing a blood sample. All the while, Morgan was staring at her. “Looks red to me, Mr. Mor—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” he admonished, wagging his finger at her. “You can call me Russ.”
She quickly labeled the vials of blood and stuck them in her medical case.
“You like sushi?” he asked.
“Can’t say that I do, Mr. Morgan,” she said, quietly. Brenda put away her tools and peeked over at the EKG printout of the peaking chart.
“I love it. I missed it bad in prison. They don’t serve inmates sushi. It’s such a shame. My favorite is eel. O-o-ow e-e-e-e! It’s as good as sex and I’m extra hungry. But maybe not as good as you.” Morgan smiled and reached for her. But she was quick and slipped away. Oh great, not only is he a pervert, he’s an ex-con pervert. Well, I’ll fix him good.
“Please put your hand up here and close your eyes,” Brenda told him.
He obeyed her every command. Brenda switched the EKG machine to CODE BLUE. She lightly touched one of the paddles and Mr. Morgan’s hand at the same time. The machine sent an electrical charge through her and into him. He jerked around, as if he were having a seizure. Brenda pressed the STOP button on the machine and removed her finger from the paddle. Mr. Morgan stood there.
“O-o-ow e-e-e-e-! That’s pretty potent!” he said and collapsed onto the sofa. Grabbing a cigarette from the end table, he lit it and inhaled deeply. Without another word, Brenda finished packing her equipment, walked out and slammed the door.
When she strode out of the building, she saw a blue Jaguar parked in the loading zone and figured it had to be Morgan’s. “Well, at least he was right about the color,” she murmured. She walked around to the back to get the license plate number. “Oh, that’ll be easy to remember,” she laughed under her breath. The vanity plate read MORGAN.
She felt unnerved when she came home later that evening and told Glen about her unusual patient. His response was immediate. The vein in his temple began throbbing, and a diamond shaped patch on his brow turned white. She had never seen him so angry before. The rest of his face was bright red, except for the patch. “I think I’ll go over there and teach that guy some manners right now,” he said.
“Thank you for wanting to protect me, but it’s alright, darling. I shouldn’t be surprised by anything. Not everyone I deal with behaves professionally, but this guy was a bit of a nut.” She winced. “Anyway, I make a lot of money even if some problems come with the territory.”
His eyes had narrowed. “I don’t like some jerk hitting on my wife.”
“I don’t like it either,” she said, “but I have this house to pay off and all the rest of the stuff. Look, I’m sure you’ll be getting a great position very soon and then maybe I can pick and choose my clients.” She put her arms around him. “Let’s forget my day and concentrate on us.” He nodded and they walked arm and arm toward the bedroom.
But the next morning when she got into her car to drive to work, she didn’t like what she saw in her rearview mirror. It was Mr. Morgan’s Jaguar. He grinned and waved as he drove past. Brenda ignored him. It’s best not to react in any way to this sort of thing. If I act scared or angry it gives him power over me and will probably encourage him. If I ignore him, he might just go away. He’s probably just infatuated with me. I think he’ll give up pretty soon if I don’t encourage him.
When she saw Morgan’s car had rounded the corner and was out of sight, she began to slowly back out of the driveway. She thought of going back to tell Glen, but he had reacted so badly the night before she didn’t want to upset him again. Anyway, I’ve handled other guys who’ve tried to put the moves on me. I can handle this one.
The rest of her workweek inched by. Late on Friday afternoon, she went to see her favorite client, Almeira Punchak, who had been in Florida with her cousin. She’d missed her. Brenda stared sadly at Mrs. P.’s green bedroom door. She knew her client was dying of cancer. They both knew it, but Brenda had grown to love the old lady over the past years. She couldn’t bring herself to call her Mrs. Punchak anymore. It seemed too formal.
When they’d first met, Mrs. P. had been a strong, dynamic, single woman buying insurance. Though there’d been a huge age difference between them, they had bonded and become friends. Brenda had watched her weaken in the last year. She had given away most of her valuable jewelry, paintings, antique furniture and oriental carpets. Brenda had even called an attorney to come to Mrs. P.’s bedside to write her Last Will and Testament and she’d helped Mrs. P. make the arrangements for her funeral. Looking at her now, Brenda saw that she’d worsened. All that was left for Brenda to do was to make her friend comfortable, help her keep what dignity she had left and bring some human warmth to her otherwise drab days.
Brenda sucked in her breath. The place smelled of disinfectant and Brenda made a mental note to bring Mrs. P. some perfume. She prepared herself for what awaited her on the other side of the door and entered in a swirl of gaiety.
“Good morning, Mrs. P. How was your night? Close your eyes,” Brenda said. She threw back the wooden shutters and shafts of light streamed into the room.
As was her routine, she flipped on the coffeepot and radio, which were kept on the bedside table so Mrs. P. could easily reach them. Soft classical music spilled into the farthest corners of the bedroom. Brenda turned to face her patient. She took Mrs. P.’s bony wrist in her hand and began to take her pulse.
Mrs. P. was in her late seventies, although, when asked, Mrs. P. said she was sixty-nine and three-quarters. It was her way of letting people know it was none of their business. Of course, she’d been sixty-nine and three-quarters for almost a decade now.
Brenda looked at her friend today. Even though it was a familiar site, she was still a bit horrified. The woman had skin cancer, which had attacked her nose. The doctors had cut away as much of the disease as they could and sent her home. They’d mentioned getting a prosthesis, but Mrs. P. figured it was a useless expense if she was going to die soon anyway.
Brenda peered into the old lady’s soft-brown eyes and smiled, “How are you feelin’ today?”
Mrs. P. mustered a weak, “Okay.”
It was a lie and Brenda knew it by looking at the dark circles under the old woman’s eyes. She suspected Mrs. P. probably had gotten almost no sleep. The coffee maker began dripping. The smell was making Brenda hungry and her stomach growled.
“Skip lunch again?” Mrs. P. asked.
Brenda nodded and let her eyes travel down to the woman’s wounded nose. The entire right nostril was gone. A bloody membrane outlined the groove that used to be covered by the outer nose. Yellowish mucous clogged the nasal passage where it went into the head and when the old lady exhaled, the mucous formed a gooey bubble. Then when she breathed in, it retracted. Brenda snatched a tissue from the bedside table and wiped the mucous away.
“Did you take your antibiotics last night?” Brenda asked.
Mrs. P. nodded that she had.
“You sure are quiet today.”
“Got nothing new to say,” Mrs. P. mumbled.
“Well, I’ve got good news. The Doctor’s coming to visit around dinnertime.”
“On a weekday?”
“Yep.”
“Does he have bad news?” Mrs. P. asked. Brenda could tell she was trying to keep the worry out of her voice.
“Nope,” Brenda laughed. “He told me he was taking the week off but wanted to see you first,” Brenda said.
“Y’all know something I don’t?”
“Don’t ask me. Doc’s the expert,” Brenda teased.
As Brenda washed Mrs. P.’s face, she thought about the pictures she’d found in the old china cabinet in the dining room. One was of a string of girls dressed in old-fashioned pantaloon type swimsuits. Mrs. P. was in the center holding roses. The gold caption underneath read, Miss Missouri 1939. Mrs. P. had been a real beauty in her day, with strawberry blond hair and a full but lovely figure. Now, the old woman was almost bald from the chemotherapy and so thin Brenda could see all the veins and arteries through the tissue paper she called skin.
“We’re going to fix you up real pretty today,” Brenda said, as she dabbed at Mrs. P.’s nose with betadine solution and began applying makeup to her sunken cheeks. Brenda always tried to keep Mrs. P. in touch with the outside world. She knew Mrs. P. especially liked hearing the town gossip. Brenda covered the old woman’s liver spots with foundation as she talked.
“You hear the latest gossip yet?”
Mrs. P.’s eyes filled with mischief. “Is it more about Charlie Carson and that stripper?”
“No. It’s better. Guess who rumor says is having an affair!”
“All I know is it isn’t me,” Mrs. P. teased.
“Judge Carson and the new female deputy. I heard it from Jane.”
“I guess if it’s true, that will put a stop to the rumor that she and the judge don’t get along,” Mrs. P. said.
“Yep. You’re a pistol,” Brenda laughed.
“Geez-Louise, who knows what to believe?” Mrs. P. went on, lifting her neck for Brenda to smooth on makeup. “Have you seen her yet?”
“No, but Jane has. Jane says she’s attractive, fortiesh and redheaded. Apparently she says she’s a feminist and wants to run for sheriff in the next election.”
“She’s got my vote. Any woman who’s got the gall to stand up in these parts and say something like that—”
Brenda nodded her agreement and Mrs. P. continued. “A feminist! Can you believe it? That’s as bold as admitting you’re the one who left your panties hanging on the bull’s horn on top of the Holden Meat Plant.”
“You’re too much,” Brenda said and they laughed hysterically. Brenda wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes and Mrs. P. was holding her ribs.
When Brenda finally got control of herself, she said, “She plans to come down hard on wife beaters, too.”
“That’s might-near every man in the county,” Mrs. P. frowned. “Say, isn’t she the daughter of that woman Congressman?”
Brenda nodded. She took a step back and looked at her handiwork. “Mrs. P., you’re lookin’ good.”
The coffee was ready and Brenda poured them both a cup. Brenda sniffed her own, as she handed Mrs. P. hers. It was a special blend that had a vanilla smell to it. “You want anything in that?”
“I’d love some Irish Cream,” Mrs. P. said, sweetly.
“I meant cream or sugar.” Brenda acted as if she was surprised by the request. She removed the bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream from under the bed. Mrs. P. held out the steaming cup and Brenda poured a little liquor in it.
“Why don’t you pour yourself a little nip?” Mrs. P. suggested.
“You know I’m on duty,” Brenda said, as she replaced the lid and slid the bottle back under the bed.
Mrs. P. covered the exposed nostril with one hand and used the other one to lift her coffee cup.
“Does it still hurt when the steam rises on your nose?”
“Like the dickens,” Mrs. P. said, then took a sip of coffee.
“Let’s put a bandage on. That’ll help,” Brenda said and made a bandage out of beige athletic tape. She attached it to Mrs. P.’s face and covered it with makeup. When she was done, the bandage was barely noticeable. Then Brenda reached into her handbag and pulled out a handful of nail polish bottles. “Which one do you like?”
Mrs. P. was fingering them all, turning them and shaking them to see their true colors. She seemed to get such enjoyment out of the decision making process. Brenda thought it was funny that such a small thing could bring her so much pleasure. Finally, a pretty pink having been chosen, she began to trim Mrs. P.’s toenails.
Brenda brushed the half-moon toenail clippings off the sheet and into the trashcan then carefully applied the polish. Now, with her toes all pretty pink, Mrs. P.’s feet were neat and tidy looking. Brenda untied the apron from around her waist and folded it carefully.
Then she told Mrs. P. her own news.
“Mrs. P., I want you to know I’ve gotten married.” Brenda pulled the clean sheet over Mrs. P.’s feet. It arced like a parachute and filled the air with the lemon scent of the fabric softener. “The ceremony was when you were in Florida, otherwise I would have invited you,” Brenda said graciously.
Mrs. P. smiled. “That’s wonderful, but, I guess you won’t have time for me now.” The old woman had a wistful look on her face.
“I’ll always have time for you, Mrs. P.”
Brenda told her all about Glen and the wedding.
“Brenda, you deserve happiness. But I know how hard you work, maybe too hard,” Mrs. P. said. “Why don’t you go home early today?”
“That’s really nice of you.” Brenda smiled, knowing her friend was giving her the ultimate gift, the little time Mrs P. still had left for companionship. “I believe I will.”
At home, Brenda found Glen in the laundry room washing the clothes. He’d turned half their white socks, underwear and T-shirts pink and Brenda figured it was time to rescue him.
“You want to wash my uniform?” she asked.
“May as well,” he said pouring soap into the washer.
She began to undress and handed him her clothes. The dryer had tennis shoes inside and they went ker-plunk, ker-plunk, ker-plunk…Brenda had on her new bra and panties.
“I read in Cosmo that lots of women achieve orgasm by sitting on a warm, hard…dryer,” he said in a sexy voice. “Wanna try it?”
Blushing, she nodded. He helped her climb onto the dryer and began to kiss her neck and breasts. She thought it’d be more comfortable in the bed and started to hop down from the dryer.
“Stay there. I want to see if Cosmo’s right.”
“If you desire it I’m sure you’ll make it come true,” she smiled.
He laughed, scooted a step stool over and stepped up. It made him just the right height. He unfastened his pants and let them drop to the floor. Brenda felt the heat of the dryer on her butt and crotch. Ker-plunk…ker-plunk…ker-plunk… ker-plunk…The rhythmic vibration of the drying shoes sent ripples through her body. She wanted him and she could tell he wanted her. Ker-plunk…ker-plunk…ker-plunk…She was moist and ready and he was full and firm. Ker-plunk…ker-plunk…ker-plunk…They kept time to the rhythmic ker-plunk of the shoes and discovered that women really could reach orgasm on a dryer.
The only problem with sex on a dryer was there was nowhere for afterglowing. So they wound up on the floor on top of the dirty laundry, snuggling.
“That was wonderful,” Brenda said. “I’m going to have those tennis shoes bronzed as a memento.”
He laughed. “Think I should write Cosmo a thank-you letter?”
“I would,” she laughed. “Whatever you want.”
“I’m glad you said that. You need to lighten up and have some fun. There’s someplace I want to take you,” he said.
