Читать книгу Doctor, Darling - Jo Leigh - Страница 11

Gillian had forgotten to defrost the chicken. She sighed as she stared at the inside of her fridge, waiting for some wonderful delicacy to leap out from behind the carton of nonfat milk. Instead, the little light in the back decided to burn out. Poof. It was dark, the surprise treat failed to materialize, and she had nothing for dinner.

She closed the fridge and leaned her head against the cool white door. A good mother would have remembered to take the chicken out. A good mother wouldn’t dream of taking her growing son out for fast food again. Even a halfway decent mother could probably find something in the pantry that was nutritious and tasty. But the truth was she wouldn’t be getting any awards for mothering tonight. Because it was going to be fast food or pizza. She’d love the convenience of having the pizza delivered, but Eli would want the golden arches. Who was she to argue?

She pushed herself away from the fridge and picked up her purse. “Eli!”

“What?” a little voice called from upstairs.

“Come down here.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“Okay.”

“Now.”

“Okay.”

Did she have cash? She opened her purse and found her wallet. In it, she found two credit cards, three twenty-cent stamps, a coupon for bug spray and a very crumpled twenty-dollar bill. Thank goodness she wouldn’t have to go to the bank, too. All she wanted was a nice, long bath. Scented with lavender. Candles flickering on the sink and around the tub. Soft music, Debussy maybe, playing in the background. It wasn’t that much to ask for, was it?

The sound of an elephant clomping down the stairs made her turn. How a four-and-a-half-year-old could make that much noise all by himself astounded her. She could see why he’d been upstairs—the call of his Game Boy had been too much for him. So, rather than just turn the electronic demon off, he’d brought it with him. She heard little pings and splats as he got to the bottom of the stairs.

“Well,” she said, “if you’re not interested in going to McDonald’s…”

His head jerked up, making his way-too-long hair fly wildly. “Really?”

She nodded.

He flung the expensive toy past her to the couch, where it ricocheted off the arm and landed on the carpet. But how could she scold him when he tackled her with a king-size hug. “Thanks, Mom.”

He sounded as if she’d just pardoned him from five years hard labor instead of providing him with a Happy Meal. “You’re welcome, Eli.”

She bent down and kissed his head, then he took her hand and pulled her to the front door and, after she’d locked up, to the car. The whole time he chanted the magic fast-food song. She wasn’t sure of all the words, but special sauce, lettuce, pickles and buns were all in there somewhere.

They headed out of their little subdivision, which really only consisted of four houses, toward Main Street. She hadn’t finished her lesson plan for tomorrow. Eli needed a bath. Then there was laundry, of course. And she had to remember to take the chicken out of the…

She slowed the car, her heartbeat accelerating as she finished the turn onto the major thoroughfare of the little town. A crowd had gathered outside the police station. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been arrested, let alone drawn a crowd. She saw her aunt Elizabeth in the middle of things. And there was Axel Johnson, Felicia, Carol from the bakery. What on earth could have happened?

“Hi, Aunt Elizabeth!”

Gillian saw that Eli had unbuckled his seat belt so he could lean out the window and shout. “Get down,” she said. “And buckle up.”

“But it’s a party!”

“It’s not a party.”

“Then why’s everybody there?”

“I don’t know. But I’m sure it has nothing to do with us.”

“Can’t we find out?”

“No, we can’t.” She drove past the police building slowly, determined not to get involved. Bradley Goodwin spotted her and pointed, but instead of waving her to a stop, the whole crowd surged inside the building, practically trampling one another in their haste. Before she got to the stop sign, the entire street had emptied.

“Where’d everybody go?” Eli asked.

“I have no idea,” she said. “That was certainly odd.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Can I get a large fries?”

She smiled. “Not a chance.”

Eli sighed. It was such a tough life. The poor kid. Deprivation at every turn.

She rounded the next corner, then pulled into the restaurant parking lot. Eli was out of the car and halfway to the door before she’d finished locking up. All that energy. All that enthusiasm. It made her feel 128 years old. She really must find the time to exercise.

Yeah, right.

CONNER COULDN’T believe it. He was actually in jail. For saying damn. A whole bunch of better curses had been swirling through his head, and it was everything he could do not to direct them at the sheriff. He figured it must be a scam, like a speed trap. Extortion. Plain, ugly extortion.

He had a phone call coming and he had an attorney who would have a thing or two to say about this. Conner didn’t care if they had to take it to the Supreme Court. He was going to fight this and win.

He heard a lot of people talking in the other room, but he was alone in his cell. Just him and two cots. And all those bars. He had a sudden urge to play the harmonica.

The noise from the other room increased, but no matter how he twisted and turned, he couldn’t see a damn thing. So he went to the cot on his left. Hmm. It was better than he’d expected. Firmer. A real bed, not straw matting.

He never should have come out here. He should have listened when his instincts told him to go home. But no. He had to stay for his precious antiques. Who the hell cared about antique medical equipment anyway?

The outside door opened and Conner leaped to his feet. It was the cop. The son of a—

“I brought you something to read,” he said.

“Something to read? What about my phone call? What about my rights?”

“Now don’t get yourself all worked up,” the sheriff said. “You’ll get your phone call soon enough. In the meantime, I figured you might want something to do.” He held up a small stack of paperback books.

Conner felt a headache coming on. A doozy. He put his hands to his temples and rubbed, but it was no use. “Can you give me some aspirin?” he asked.

“Got a headache, eh?” The cop slipped the books between the bars.

“Yes.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He left, closing the outside door after him. No phone call. No explanations. Just old Zane Grey Westerns and Stephen King horror novels. He could write his own horror novel. He’d call it Trapped in Miller’s Landing. It would scare the bejeezus out of city dwellers everywhere.

He went back to the cot and put the books next to him. He didn’t feel like reading. Even if he had, he’d want his own book. The one sitting on the front seat of his car. What he did feel like doing was committing real crimes. Crimes that made sense. Like strangling a certain small-town sheriff. He went back to rubbing his temples, but that proved useless after a while. There wasn’t enough room to do any real pacing, so he stretched out, putting his arm over his eyes. He’d never sleep, but at least he could rest.

“DOC. HEY, DOC.”

Conner awoke with a start. He didn’t know where he was for a moment, and then he remembered.

“Doc, you awake?”

As he sat up, he realized the headache had hit full force. The pain in his temples throbbed along with his pulse. “Yes, I’m awake.”

“I’ve brought you some aspirin,” the sheriff said. “And a phone.”

“It’s about time,” Conner said. The sheriff opened the door, and Conner got up. “What’s your name?”

“Tracy,” he said, handing Conner two pills and a glass of water.

Conner looked at the man as he swallowed. He’d taken off his cap, revealing an almost totally bald head. What hairs remained were mostly gray. He was a big man, with a big belly and broad flat hands. But for some reason, he wouldn’t look Conner in the eye. Guilt, probably. He knew this whole thing was a travesty.

“You wanna make that phone call now?”

Conner nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

“Follow me.”

Tracy led him out of the small back room to the front of the sheriff’s office. Two desks took up most of the space, with a wide counter separating the officers from the public. A fan whirred from the corner, and Wanted posters lined the far wall. On the right were file cabinets. Three of them. They each had one drawer open, and Conner could see they were stuffed to the gills. This scam of theirs must pay off nicely for them to have so many cases.

The sheriff nodded at one of the desks, and Conner sat down. He had to call Information to get Dan’s phone number. Luck was with him, though. Dan’s phone only rang twice before he picked up.

“Leoni.”

“Dan. It’s Conner.”

“Hey, how you doin’, buddy? Long time no see.”

“This isn’t a social call. I need your help.”

“Okay, shoot,” Dan said, his voice immediately calm and businesslike.

Conner explained the situation. He left out nothing, including the bulging file cabinets. “It’s got to be a fraud,” he said softly so the sheriff couldn’t hear. “No one can go to jail for saying damn.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Dan said.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Calm down. I don’t know. Some of our little towns have some peculiar laws still on the books. I’ll have to do some research. And I won’t be able to do much of that until morning.”

“Can they keep me here? Overnight, I mean?”

“Yeah, they can. But I’ll make sure you’re out of there first thing tomorrow.”

He’d hoped for better news. Much better news. “I don’t like this, Dan.”

“I don’t, either. Just hang tough. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

Conner hung up the phone, and as he stood to go back to his cell, he looked out the front window. They were lined up. Everyone. The woman in denim, the one from the bakery, the kid who’d bumped his chair at the diner. They all had their noses pressed up against the glass, staring at him as if he were a prize exhibit at the zoo. “Don’t you people get cable?” he asked.

“Come on along,” Tracy said.

As Conner turned to go back to his cell, he saw a nameplate on the sheriff’s desk. His first name was Richard. How about that? Conner had been arrested by Dick Tracy.

HE WOKE UP AT THE SOUND of jingling keys. It was almost 8:00 a.m., and he was going to have his day in court at nine. He still hadn’t heard from Dan, so Conner figured he’d ask for bail, then tell Dan to sic ’em.

“Morning, son,” Dick Tracy said as he slipped the key into his cell-door lock.

“Yeah,” Conner replied. He felt remarkably good, considering. The mattress had helped, and so had the aspirin. He’d ended up reading the Stephen King and it had kept him entertained. The biggest surprise had been the snack at ten last night. Homemade chocolate cake and ice-cold milk. It was kinda hard to stay mad at a sheriff who brought cake, but Conner had managed. No matter how nice, it was still jail.

“I went to the motel,” Tracy said. “Got some of your things. They’re in the bathroom.” He pointed down the hall. “Hurry, though. Breakfast will be here in about fifteen minutes.”

Conner didn’t thank him. He just stood up straighter as he walked down the hall. That would show him who’s who. He slammed the door shut, and it occurred to him that he was being a dope. Tracy wasn’t about to let him go because he’d refused to say thank-you. Or because he’d shut the door forcefully.

The next hour went by quickly. After he was dressed, he went back to his cell. Breakfast consisted of Belgian waffles, fresh strawberries, orange juice and excellent coffee.

Then, just five minutes before they had to leave, Dan called. Tracy took him to the phone up front.

“What did you find out?” he asked.

Dan cleared his throat. Not a good sign. “The law is real,” he said. “It’s over 125 years old, but it’s on the books. But that’s not the worst of it.”

Conner closed his eyes. “What?”

“They can give you jail time for this.”

“What?”

“Hold on. They can give you jail time, but they don’t have to. I can’t believe they will. I’m sure all you’ll get is a slap on the wrist and a hefty fine.”

“You’re joking, right? They can’t really do this. Not for saying dammit to hell. I hear that on television all the time. It doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s true. But it doesn’t have to make sense. It’s their town, and their laws.”

“Can’t we fight it?”

“Yes. We sure can. And we will. But for today, just be polite, act contrite, plead guilty and pay the fine. We’ll deal with the rest when you get home.”

Conner wanted to argue further, but what was the point? They had him, and there was nothing he could do about it. “Thanks, Dan.”

“Call me when you get home.”

Conner hung up, and Tracy walked him to the courthouse, which happened to be upstairs.

It didn’t surprise him to find every seat filled in the large room. Some folks even stood in the back. This was the weirdest place he’d ever been. The woman behind the bench didn’t give him anything. Not a smile, not a scowl. She was older although he couldn’t even guess her age. Reddish-blond hair, cut pretty short. A black judge’s robe.

He looked around as he was led to the front of the room. The crowd acted as if they’d never seen anyone like him before. As if he’d come from another planet. Or maybe they were so fascinated because they knew what was coming. He thought about the story, “The Lottery,” and he had a sudden image of himself being stoned to death. Nah, they wouldn’t. Would they?

He sat down, and the judge banged her gavel. The room grew instantly still.

“Conner Malloy, would you please approach the bench?” she said. No preamble at all.

He stood up again, and Tracy led him to his place in front of the judge. Her name was Elizabeth Larson. Up close, she looked pretty tough.

“Dr. Malloy, you’ve been charged with using foul language in front of women and children. How do you plead?”

“Guilty, Your Honor.”

“I see,” she said. “Cursing is an offense we take seriously here, make no mistake about that, especially when there are children involved.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” he said, trying to keep cool. Trying to remember that Dan would fix this soon enough.

“So seriously, in fact, that I usually give jail time to first offenders.”

Conner felt a chill run up his back. The crowd murmured. Tracy took a step back, distancing himself from the bench and the accused.

“However,” she said slowly, and the word sort of hung in the air, “there is a lesser sentence I can offer you.”

The murmur behind him got louder, and Conner heard someone laugh. The judge banged her gavel loudly three times, but Conner figured it was the look she gave the townfolk that really quieted them down.

“I’m prepared to give you community service instead of a fine and a jail sentence,” she said.

Community service? He’d have to stay here? In this town? With these crackpots? Dick Tracy, for heaven’s sake. People lurking in doorways. Maybe jail wouldn’t be so bad.

“The decision is yours to make,” the judge said. Then she reached for some papers on her desk. Turned a page over. Then another.

The tension in the room grew perceptibly. Conner felt beads of sweat break out on his brow. He urged her to say it. To end the suspense.

She looked at him again, and her right brow rose as she leaned forward. “You can go to jail, or you can escort a very nice young lady by the name of Gillian Bates to a dinner dance a week from Friday.”