Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures Read online

  Luis’s eyebrows lifted. “Me?” He pointed to his chest, crossed himself, mumbled something about Jesus. “Where did you get this idea, señora? Why are you asking me these things? I am all about love, señora. Only about love.”

  “So you didn’t hurt them?” I heard my question as if from far away. What right did I have to corner Luis? Where was all my anger coming from? And why was it aimed at him?

  “Hurt them? Are you crazy? I told you. I shared love with them. I made them happy, that’s all.” He started to walk away.

  “The same way you make Melanie happy?”

  He stopped. Frowned. “Who?”

  “Melanie. The woman you’ve been stalking.”

  “Stalking?” He took a step back, eyes narrowing. “What?”

  “I know you’ve been calling her and following her. I know you tried to break into her room.”

  He took a step back. “You’re crazy, señora. I don’t know anyone named Melanie. And besides, what’s it to you? Why are you asking me all these questions? You know what—Forget the drink. Stay away from me, señora.” He turned to go.

  “Wait.” I couldn’t stop myself. I tapped his shoulder, pointed to the bar. Melanie was finishing the Bloody Mary. “That’s Melanie. With the big sunglasses and the ponytail.”

  He squinted toward the bar. “The skinny one? In the red bikini?”

  “Why have you been bothering her?”

  He shook his head. “Señora, I haven’t bothered anyone. I don’t even know her.”

  He seemed sincere. But of course he would. Luis was a practiced liar, paid to profess adoration to women, to praise their beauty no matter what they looked like.

  “If you lie to me again, Luis,” I squinted at him, “I can involve your manager—”

  “Okay, wait. Looking closer, I recognize her from the activities. She plays basketball or volleyball with us. Maybe also salsa class. But I haven’t bothered with her. Why would I? She’s not a patient of the doctors, so they wouldn’t pay me, and she’s too young to tip well.”

  He was blatantly lying. “Luis, stop denying it. I know you threatened her and snuck into her suite. I know you stole her underwear.”

  “I what?” He recoiled. “You’re crazy.”

  “I was there, Luis. I saw her come out of your room with her fists full of panties.”

  He didn’t say anything. He just stood, staring at me, eyes burning. Then he stepped toward me. “Say that again?”

  I didn’t back away. I stood my ground, righteous and indignant. “I said I know for a fact that you had Melanie’s underwear in your room because I saw her take it out.”

  “You know about this, señora? You were there when someone broke into my room?”

  Oh. I hadn’t thought of it that way. Damn. I’d said too much.

  He leaned close to me, pointing a finger toward the bar. “Is that who did it? That woman—your friend, Melanie? And you were there, too?”

  I felt his breath on my face. The heat of his eyes. “No, I was outside.”

  “Really? You know what she did in there?”

  “Yes.” I met his eyes, trying not to be intimidated. But no. I had no idea. “She took back the things you stole.”

  “What things? I took nothing of hers. I don’t even know her. But someone—that persona loca destroyed my room. She ripped my clothing. And worse. Like an animal, she used my floor like a bathroom.”

  What?

  “I thought it was some vagabundo, so I did nothing, but now—” He stopped, ran a hand over his head, looked around, took deep breaths. Finally, he glared at me. “Señora, I don’t know you. You came up to me, a stranger, and asked me if I had something to do with two murders. And then you accused me of stalking someone who in fact has defiled my property. Tell me: What is this about? Why do you want to make trouble for me?”

  I had no answer, so said nothing. My surge of aggressiveness was fizzling out. I couldn’t stop thinking about Melanie peeing on his floor.

  His finger aimed at my chest. “Forget it. I have to go now. But, first, I am warning you, señora. Stay away from me. You and your amiga lunática. I mean it.” He stomped off.

  I stood still for a moment, replaying what he’d said. Trying to make sense of it. Melanie had ripped up his clothes? Had that been her “message”?

  Not possible. Luis had to be lying. He was twisting the facts, blaming the victim, making Melanie seem guilty. I wasn’t going to let him.

  “Luis,” I hurried after him, hooked my hand through his arm. “How’s this? If you stay away from Melanie, we’ll stay away from you. Otherwise, she’s going to the police.”

  He took my hand from his arm and squeezed it tight. “No, Bonita. No police.” His eyes drilled into mine as he crushed my fingers. “You know something? You’re a good-looking woman. Take some advice. Be careful who you mess with.” He smiled, leaned over and kissed me tenderly before releasing my strangled hand and rushing off toward the pool.

  I stayed there, cradling my fingers, watching Luis disappear among tourists in brightly colored wraps and bathing suits. What had I been thinking, cornering him that way? Revealing what I knew about him? The man was dangerous. My hand—the way he’d squeezed it? And kissed me at the same time that he hurt me? I shuddered. He’d enjoyed hurting me, had mocked my pain with his kiss. Why had I meddled with him? The problem had been Melanie’s—it hadn’t even involved me. Until I’d stepped into the middle of it. Damn.

  I looked around the pool, didn’t see him. I simmered. Thought of reporting him to management. But what was I thinking? He’d accuse me of helping Melanie break into his room and vandalizing his things. Oh God. Had he been telling the truth about Melanie? I pictured her ripping sleeves off his shirts, tossing his drawers. Squatting on the floor.

  Oh Lord. Yuck. But had that been her “message”? If so, the message hadn’t done much good; Luis hadn’t understood what it meant, let alone who’d sent it.

  Until I’d told him.

  “So, did you have a good time, Elle?” Melanie appeared out of nowhere. She smiled, stood so close that her body brushed my arm.

  I didn’t know what to say. “A good time?”

  “Just now. With Luis. I saw you together. I didn’t know you were friends.” Her voice was lilting, oddly cheerful. “But I saw how he parted from you. Such a sweet kiss.”

  What was she thinking? “I was just talking to him.” And telling him that you’d vandalized his room.

  “Of course, you were.” She rolled her eyes. “I understand—”

  “Oh, please, Melanie. It wasn’t like that.”

  She lost the smile. “Don’t even deny it, Elle. I saw you together. Look, I know how it is with Luis. He’s charming and sexy.”

  “Seriously? Come on, Melanie—”

  “Be careful, Elle. You have no idea what you’ve gotten into.”

  Oh God. I stood tall, matching her height, and I waited a beat before speaking. “Melanie. I haven’t gotten into anything—”

  “I thought I could trust you, Elle,” she interrupted, her hands on her bony hips, her voice angry and loud. A couple of retirees stared as they walked by, but she was unfazed. “How could you? After everything I’ve confided to you?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing happened. We talked.” Why was I defending myself?

  “Don’t lie to my face. I saw you.”

  “You saw me telling him to leave you alone.”

  “Really. That’s why you kissed him good-bye?”

  “I didn’t kiss him.”

  “How can you lie like that? I saw it.”

  Okay. Enough. I was done. I turned to walk away.

  Melanie kept after me. “Just explain it to me, Elle—”

  “No.” I spun around, fed up. “You explain, Melanie. Explain what you did to Luis’s room.”

  She stopped mid-sentence. Stood still. Licked her lips. “His room?” Her voice was sweet and cloying.

  “Luis told me.” I crossed my arms. Waited.
<
br />   She smirked. “Good. I made an impression. He got the message.”

  “I doubt it. He said he didn’t even know you.”

  For a moment, I thought she’d cry. Instead, she laughed. “And you believed him? Like he’s going to admit being obsessed with me? Stalking me? Sneaking into my room? Threatening me? Of course he denied it.”

  Music pounded from the pool area. We had to shout to hear each other.

  “You should both just stay away from each other.”

  Melanie smiled. “You know what, Elle? I don’t need your advice about Luis. Forget I ever said anything.” She turned and sashayed back toward the pool, hips swaying in rhythm to the music.

  Chichi was on the platform, demonstrating lunges for a water exercise class. I looked around, but didn’t see Luis.

  I walked along the fence near the pool, angry with myself for getting involved with Melanie’s problems. How could she for one minute think that I’d be interested in—let alone involved—with Luis? Especially when I knew about his stalking and threats? Then again, she didn’t know me very well, couldn’t know my taste in men. And I didn’t know her either. I remembered her climbing into Luis’s window. Pictured her enraged, ransacking his drawers. Heard the ripping of cloth, felt the splitting of fabric. Imagined her repeating the act again and again, shirt by shirt, seam by seam.

  Like Greta’s face, being sliced one ribbon at a time.

  I held onto the fence, trying to comprehend so much rage. Had I ever been that angry? I thought back, remembering a drained trust fund, cheating, lies, secrets, betrayals. But, even at my most incensed moments, had I ever been angry enough to rip Charlie’s shirts to tatters? To use his floor as a toilet?

  Honestly? I’d been angry enough to consider doing far worse. I’d fantasized a hundred ways to exact revenge. Maxing out his credit cards. Reporting him to the IRS. Poisoning him. Slowly.

  But Charlie had been my husband. And, though I’d fantasized plenty, I hadn’t actually done any of those things. Luis, on the other hand had, at most, had a brief fling with Melanie and harassed her for a few days. Why had her reaction been so over the top?

  I scanned the people lying around the pool. Found Melanie as she finished covering her arms and legs with sunblock. Watched as she adjusted the back of the lounge chair and reclined, her oversized sunglasses concealing her gaze. Was she looking at me? No, more likely, for Luis. Posing poolside to taunt him. Daring him to mess with her again.

  In the water, people of all shapes and ages stretched and crunched to the beat of the music. Becky sat on the end of the platform, eyes on Chichi as he flexed and extended, his oiled muscles glistening in the sun. The music pulsed, explosive.

  I needed to get away from this place and all its angry melodrama and murder. I looked at the ocean, saw it shine. Went to the supply hut, grabbed a boogie board, and headed out.

  I floated, resting on the board. Rotating, bobbing. I paddled out far enough to find peace. From where I was, the pool and the people on shore seemed tiny and far away. I was in a different world than they were, buoyed by swelling water. A smattering of people hung onto boards nearby, waiting for the right wave to rush up and grab them.

  I waited, too, but not for the ocean to grab me. I waited for peace. I rested on the surface, rolling with the water, letting its coolness soothe my still tender shoulders. Feeling the vastness of the ocean, the fact of my own smallness. I clung to my boogie board, comforted by the moment, the motion, the combined bath of hot sunlight and cool saltwater, and I closed my eyes, rocking, paddling, relaxing, letting myself drift farther from the shore.

  Which is when that perfect wave came. I wasn’t watching for it, wasn’t prepared to ride it. It reached down under my board and lifted me up, tossed me high onto its crest, swirled over around under me, and cast me forward, flinging me off the board into water that was deeper than I expected. Something smacked my head as I went down. Water swirled around me as I tried to surface, but I was disoriented, not sure which way was up. The wave must have stirred up the bottom; the water was murky, sandy, dark, and it grabbed me, tugging me down. Or up? I didn’t know, couldn’t tell. I needed to breathe. I thrashed with my arms and kicked with my legs. Wouldn’t the water naturally lift me up? I thought it should. Unless there was an undertow. Was that what it was called? An undertow? A current towing you under? But wait—water currents didn’t grab your legs, did they? So what was grabbing mine? Was something there? Yanking me?

  I pictured a shark. Damn. Was I being eaten? My chest burned, needed air. I needed to rise to the surface, but couldn’t get free. Maybe it wasn’t a shark. Maybe someone else had been knocked off their board and was panicking, grabbing onto me. Damn. He’d drown us both. I twirled, shoved at the water, saw a shadow. Was it a human form? I couldn’t tell. The water was too cloudy. My lungs screamed for air. I kicked randomly. Reached my arms out, searching the water. A clump of seaweed entangled my head, covered my eyes. I swatted at it, yanking it off as my raging lungs threatened to explode, and I saw a long, dark blob surrounded by tangled seaweed tufts—a shark? Some kind of sea monster? I tried to push my way past it, but it floated away, beyond my reach, then surged back at me. I waited for its jaws to open and its teeth to rip me apart. But Madam Therese whispered, “It’s not a creature of the sea, Elle. It’s a vengeful spirit. One of the dead.”

  Never mind. It didn’t matter what it was; whatever it was had me by my legs again. I felt its teeth on my flesh. I tried to kick but couldn’t free myself. Couldn’t move. My lungs gave way, bursting, and water rushed into my nose, my throat. Flooded my chest. Unable to escape, I saw darkness and bubbles—or not bubbles. Eyes. Big, round ones, staring at me. And dark appendages that shoved me down. Finally, I understood: I would never breathe air again. I was drowning. Trapped underwater by a sea monster or a vengeful spirit. Either way, my arms were too heavy to resist, my legs too exhausted to flail. The shadowy blob held onto me and, as I faded in dark water, I saw its bubble eyes, half hidden by clumps of seaweed. Or maybe by tresses of long hair.

  Charlie wore tennis whites and his arms reached out for me. He smiled. Light poured onto his shoulders. Onto his face. It surrounded him. I didn’t have to walk. I simply moved toward him effortlessly, as if just thinking about being in his arms put me there. And then I was there, with Charlie. Leaning into his chest. Except wait—this wasn’t right. I tried to remember why. Shards of memories sprinkled my mind—Charlie in the shower with a woman, surprised. I looked at him, pushed him away.

  We’re not together anymore. I didn’t need to speak. Thoughts came out on their own.

  We’re soul mates, Elf. We’ll always be together. He drew me close again, and his embrace felt safe and familiar. Have you missed me?

  More than you can know. I didn’t intend to admit it. Again, the words simply appeared. I wasn’t sorry, though. I was relieved to admit it. Glad that he knew.

  Good. Lean on me, Elf. And rest.

  I did. I let go of every feeling except love, and I rested in his arms.

  But something still nagged at me. Something wasn’t right. I needed to ask him a question. Was it about the beach? About seeing him there with a woman? I tried to remember, but another image interrupted, distracting me: Charlie’s face, cheeks dabbled with rouge, eyes shut, and perfectly still. I stiffened, tried think clearly, couldn’t fit fragments together.

  Charlie—wait. Aren’t you dead?

  A kiss brushed my forehead. I’m here with you now, Elf.

  Elf. His pet name for me. I stopped trying to figure things out. Whatever he’d done to make me angry was in the past. Charlie had come back to me. We were together again. Besides, I was tired. Could sleep in Charlie’s arms. I closed my eyes and lay down beside him, smelling his faint Old Spice, accepting that everything was okay. We wouldn’t need to get divorced. We were starting over. Light poured onto us. I nuzzled against him, having forgotten—no, having tried to forget—how snugly our bodies fit together. Charlie kissed my neck, my lip
s. He whispered something I couldn’t hear, and then he drifted away.

  Where are you going?

  Nowhere. I’m right here beside you.

  But he wasn’t. I reached out but couldn’t touch him. Could barely see him.

  Charlie!

  Be careful, Elf.

  “Charlie—” I coughed. Opened my eyes. Saw a double chin above me. Turned to see a hairy belly. A red bikini top, breasts spilling out. Where was Charlie?

  “Charlie—” I tried to say again. Coughed again. Tasted saltwater and something else. Blood?

  People surrounded me. “She’s breathing!” someone shouted.

  Breathing? Who was breathing? I looked around. A ring of faces stared down at me. Luis was there. Oh God. Why was Luis there? Where was I? I was lying down. On sand. Oh, wait, did they mean me? Was I the one who was breathing? I thought back. Felt the soreness of my lungs. Tasted salt. Remembered water flooding my chest—Charlie?

  I tried to sit up. Had to find Charlie. But the man with the hairy belly clutched my leg. Pressed down on it. “Wait, darlin’.” He had a Southern accent. “Don’t you move.” The sun made a halo around his head.

  “But my husband—” A fit of coughing interrupted me. I tried to sit up and look for him.

  A chorus erupted. “She shouldn’t talk.” “Tell her to lie back down.” “Don’t try to talk, darlin’.” “Keep pressure on her leg.”

  My leg?

  I squinted to block out the sun. My chest felt scraped, raw. Breathing was ragged and painful, and I was shivering. Someone draped towels over me. Said I must be in shock. But I knew better. I was shivering because Charlie had gone; his body had been warming me.

  I turned my head, saw Luis. Our eyes met. He turned, walked away.

  Men came with a stretcher. They wore bright, gleaming white, asked questions. Messed with me, touching and poking.

  “Who found her?” one of them asked.

  “I did.”

  The voice was beside my head. I turned toward it. Saw skinny legs and thighs. A red bikini. Melanie?

  Melanie had saved me? My mind must not have been working. I heard fragments. “—unconscious—cut her leg—some guy’s board slammed her head—saw her empty boogie board—swam down—pulled her out—”