Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures Read online

  “You have a few minutes?” I needed to talk to him. “Can we get some coffee?”

  Before he could answer, I took his arm, escorting him through the suite. Jen’s television was on, blaring happily in Spanish. Susan had apparently served Jen’s breakfast and was pacing the living room with her phone against her ear, looking trapped and exasperated.

  I told her we were going for coffee and I’d be back soon. I looked for Becky, didn’t see her. Heard the shower running. Well, never mind. Becky had plans with Chichi, wouldn’t care where I’d gone. I led Alain out the door, down a corridor draped with crime tape, past Greta’s open door. Her suite still bustled with police. Alain picked up his pace, walking briskly to the elevators. A housekeeping cart partially blocked our way, but we shoved it aside. The maid using it was nowhere to be seen.

  We sat under an umbrella outside the Starbucks down the street. A man with two big dogs sat to our left; two women dressed for the beach to our right.

  Alain bought my tall soy milk latte. Sipped his double espresso. Held his hands out. Stretched his elegant, sun-darkened fingers.

  “I never tremble.” He watched his hands. They didn’t shake. “No matter what. I can be upset or frightened half to death. My emotional state has no effect on them.”

  Was he frightened half to death?

  “Two of my patients are dead, Elle. Two women I cared about. One of them was brutally murdered. Not just murdered. Greta—her face was shredded like old bank statements.” He looked at me as if I would have something to say.

  I looked away. At the dogs. At the street. At my cup. Unlike Alain’s, my hands were shaking. I gripped my latte with both, afraid I’d spill if I lifted it with just one. I took a careful sip.

  “I go over it again and again. What happened? Who did this? Was Claudia’s death also a murder? Was it the same killer? Why did he single out these two particular women?”

  I saw Claudia’s hand reach out for mine, tried not to wobble.

  “I’m sorry.” Alain put his cup down, put a hand on my arm. “I’m being selfish. You must be upset, too. How are you doing, Elle?”

  I wasn’t sure.

  “Sergeant Perez said that you were one of the last people to see Greta.”

  “Well, mostly, I heard her.”

  He raised an eyebrow. Leaned closer. “You heard her?”

  “From my balcony.”

  “You were on your balcony?” He hesitated. “What did you hear?”

  I faced him directly, waited a beat. “I think you know.”

  His eyes saddened, and he removed his hand from my arm, leaned back in his chair. Let out a breath. Flared his nostrils. Bit his lip. Leaned forward again. We were about the same height. His eyes were level with mine.

  “So. I suppose that you heard me there.”

  He watched me for confirmation. I gave none. Said nothing.

  “Elle, this woman was my patient. I was checking on her.”

  I didn’t move.

  “Why do I have to explain myself to you?” Again he leaned back and let out a breath, raising his hands as if conceding defeat. “Never mind. The fact is that I want to explain myself. Because even in this short time, you matter to me. I want you to understand.”

  The women at the next table stopped talking. I felt them eyeing us.

  “Look,” Alain must have also noticed them. He leaned toward me yet again and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “I told you about Greta at dinner. I just didn’t mention her name. She’d been my patient for years, a surgery addict. We did liposuction. Breast reduction. Neck lift. Eyelids. Cheekbones. A little off here, a little on there. She was never happy. No matter how beautiful I made her—no matter how I molded and sculpted and carefully shaped her features, she still thought she was ugly.”

  I remembered the condition—what had he called it? “She had that disorder?”

  “Body dysmorphic disorder. Yes. No matter what procedure she had done, she still had a distorted image of herself. She didn’t see her own beauty. In fact, her body repulsed her. I kept trying to help her, until after some years and several surgeries, she finally let me know how severe her problem was.” He paused, his body tensed.

  I clutched my latte and braced myself, not knowing why.

  “About a year ago, she told me what she really wanted. To take off her leg.”

  Okay, I knew why.

  “Greta’s procedures didn’t satisfy her. In fact, they couldn’t. Because her underlying condition was apotemnophilia. I explained it to you at dinner. She thought her legs were abominations. Especially the left one. She believed that she was deformed, sexually repulsive, and that she could only be her true, whole, real, perfect self by getting rid of them.”

  I shook my head, didn’t get it.

  “It’s a rare condition, but not rare enough. Over the years, I’ve treated a few patients who’ve wanted me to remove body parts. Generally, I refuse and refer them for psychological help. But Greta wouldn’t accept my refusal. She kept insisting that I help her, threatening that, if I wouldn’t, she’d do it herself. Apparently, a couple of months ago, she tried. She passed out and nearly bled to death, trying to cut her leg off.”

  What?

  “She showed me the wounds yesterday. They weren’t entirely healed. I told this to the police. They’d already noticed the damage above the knee.”

  I recalled Greta’s moaning and the rustling of fabric. Would she have moaned while Alain examined her leg? “So you were there to talk about her condition?”

  He watched me. Wondering how much I’d heard? How honest to be? He took a sip of coffee, gazed at the dogs. “I think that one’s a Samoyed,” he nodded at the big fluffy one.

  Good. He knew his breeds. Clearly, he was trying to change the subject. Avoiding the truth.

  “Look, Alain, you don’t have to explain. I didn’t tell the police that you were there.”

  “Elle, I have nothing to hide from the police.”

  The women sat stiffly, leaning our way, poised to listen.

  This time I whispered. “Alain. I heard you with Greta. Don’t pretend you were there about her leg.”

  “But I was.” His steady fingers enclosed my wrist. His eyes hung onto mine. “Here’s the truth, Elle—”

  I watched him, saw Charlie. Heard Charlie’s excuses and explanations. But that wasn’t fair. Just because Charlie lied to me didn’t mean Alain would, too. I made myself listen.

  “—hope you’ll not judge me. At one point, Greta and I were—involved. I’d worked on her eyelids, nose, and lips, but suddenly, after I reshaped her jaw, she became beautiful. Truly exquisite. I was captivated. It was wrong, based on superficial physical attraction, but I had an ethical slip. And then, when I realized how needy she was—how really emotionally ill—I ended it. Last night, I was there solely for professional reasons. I went to tell her I couldn’t help her.”

  I looked away, saw Charlie in the shower, soaping a woman’s butt. “You didn’t have to go to her hotel room to tell her that.” My tone was sharp, intended for Charlie.

  Alain reddened. “No. I suppose I didn’t. In hindsight, that seems clear. But I thought it would be kinder to tell her in person. We had a history. And she’d come all this way.”

  My face got hot. Why was I making him explain himself? Alain and I weren’t in a relationship. What he had done or hadn’t done in Greta’s suite wasn’t my business.

  Unless he’d killed her.

  “I want to be open with you, Elle. I did have an affair with Greta Mosley. But not last night. Not for a year. Last night, I turned her down. And not just for the operation.”

  He pried my fingers off my latte cup, took my hand.

  “I turned her down because of her mental condition and because I’d been ethically wrong by being with her. But those weren’t the only reasons. The fact is I couldn’t consider being intimate with her because someone else was on my mind. And she has been since I first met her.” His hands were solid and warm. A
nd graceful enough to be a woman’s except for the ginger hairs on their backs. I looked up; his eyes sparkled.

  Charlie didn’t notice me. He was still engrossed in lathering the woman’s backside, and I watched him from the doorway even as I heard Greta telephoning someone in the night, telling him to come to her room. Some time must have passed because when I looked around, I noticed that the ladies at the next table had resumed their conversation, and the guy with the dogs was gone.

  But Alain still sat there, watching me, holding my hand.

  My face began to feel awkward. Alain was watching it closely, a man who’d sculpted perfect lips, shaped flawless noses. What did he see when he looked at me? A to-do list? Was he imagining how I’d look with a little plumping here, a little straightening there? I turned away, self-conscious.

  “I’ve scared you.” He didn’t let go of my hand.

  Scared wasn’t quite the right word. But it wasn’t quite wrong.

  “I don’t mean to. I mean to be honest, that’s all. I find myself drawn to you, Elle. Under the circumstances, what’s the point of hiding that?”

  Which circumstances did he mean? The circumstance that I’d be in town for just a short time? That I’d overheard him with a woman just before she’d been killed? That he was a player in need of a new conquest?

  I removed my hand. “You’re a married man.”

  “I am.” He looked away, his jaw muscles rippling.

  For an uncomfortable time, neither of us spoke.

  “We should get going—” I began, just as he said, “Please try to understand.”

  What was there to understand?

  “My wife is—has been in no condition to be intimate. Or even to be a companion. I hinted at this at dinner. But the situation is that I am married in name only. Divorce isn’t an option, though, because she depends on me.”

  “Look, Alain, your marriage is really not my business. I’m here on vacation, for a week.”

  “Plans can change.”

  What was he saying? “We really don’t know each other.”

  “That can change, too. I want to get to know you.”

  “Why?”

  Again, he met my eyes. His were steady. Kind of sad. Their color had changed, taking on a golden tone that matched his yellow shirt.

  “Because I’m lonely. And looking to change my circumstances.” He said it that simply. “You interest me. Not many people do.”

  Silence. Birds swooped onto the concrete floor, pecking up crumbs under the tables. People strolled by. He leaned back in his chair, but still watched me. My face began to itch.

  “What happened to your wife?”

  The question must have surprised him. He abruptly turned away. “An accident. She never recovered.”

  “A car accident?”

  He winced.

  “You were driving?”

  He shifted in his chair. Played with a coffee stirrer. “It was my fault. Her condition is all because of me.”

  Oh. I had no response.

  A bus stopped at the corner. Alain watched people get off, climb on. The bus pulled away.

  “She was always a delicate woman. The accident shattered her life. And our marriage. And, in some ways, me.” His eyes were pained, gazing inward. Was he seeing his memories? His sorrow?

  I looked at Alain, saw my own loss. Charlie, in the coffin I’d picked out, wearing the pinstripe I’d selected. Charlie in my den, my kitchen knife in his back. Charlie charming me over the years, offering me a glass of Shiraz, melting me with a wink even when I knew what a scoundrel he was. “You’re the love of my life, Elf,” I heard his low whisper, felt the familiar ache.

  Oh yes, I knew what it was to lose a spouse. I knew about being lonely.

  Alain bit his upper lip. Lord. Who was this dashingly handsome, sun-tanned man? What was I doing with him at a Starbucks in Mexico, discussing his invalid wife, his guilt, his loneliness, his pain?

  And why was I taking his hand, assuring him that life would get better? That, for the next few days, I’d try to prove that to him?

  Whatever the answers, by the time we headed back to the hotel, I’d convinced myself that there was nothing wrong with having a few dinners with Alain. It wasn’t as if I’d agreed to an affair. I wouldn’t be in town long enough to get involved. And, given the murders of women who’d been staying in the suite next door, it would be good to have a man around. I had a list of respectable rationalizations.

  But when we said good-bye, Alain pulled me behind a palm tree. His arms wrapped around me as he leaned forward and gave me a kiss like soft butter. As I watched him walk off, I lifted my hand to my lips, not sure of his sincerity. Not sure that I could move.

  The maid was in my bedroom, so I grabbed my bathing suit and went to Jen and Susan’s to change.

  “He’s calling back any minute.” Susan’s hands were on her hips. “You’re going to have to talk to him sooner or later—”

  “WTF, Susad. You doh I ca’t. Everythigg fuckigg hurts. Where’s Dr. fuckigg Du Bois? I’ve called his office eleved tibes—” Jen saw me at the door, began screeching at me. “There you are. Where’ve you bid? Susad said you were off with by doctor. Is that why he could’t take by calls? What are you doigg, screwigg by fucking doctor?”

  “Calm down, Jen,” Susan rolled her eyes. She stood beside the bed, holding Jen’s cell phone.

  “Are you kiddigg? How can I calb down? Why don’t you understad, Susad? I’b sick. I’b in pain. I ca’t boove without it killigg be.” The packing in her nose made her anger sound almost comical. “I probably have a blood idfectiod—and by dab doctor ca’t be bothered because he’s too busy fuckigg my fred—”

  “Cut it out, Jen.” I tried to be patient. She was in pain. And loopy on meds. “We went for coffee because Alain was upset.”

  “Alaid?” Jen shouted. “Alaid? You’re od a fuckigg first dabe basis with hib?”

  “What difference does it make?” Susan scolded. “Norm is going to call back. Jen, your husband is worried to death about you. He’s already called three times today. I can’t keep putting him off. You have to decide what you’re going to tell him.”

  “Uh-uh. I ca’t deal with Dorb.”

  “Well, I’m not making excuses for you anymore. I have work to do.” Susan put the phone on Jen’s bed.

  Jen pouted, held up her phone. “Elle, please. Call Dr. Du Bois for be? Obviously, he’ll take your calls—”

  “Can I help you?” Susan faced the door.

  The maid was standing just outside the bedroom, facing away. Listening? “Señoras. I finished those rooms. I come back for this one later, okay?”

  Yes, of course. No problem. Susan thanked her and headed into the living room for her computer.

  I peeled off my clothes, pulled on my bathing suit.

  Jen sulked. “I’b serious, Elle. Call hib? I’b biserable.”

  I thought of Alain’s kiss. Didn’t want to call him. But Jen was suffering. I could call on her behalf, leave another message. I picked up her phone, but before I could punch in a number, it rang.

  Jen stiffened. As I handed it to her, I saw that the screen said, “Norm.”

  “I ca’t take it.” Jen shimmied into her pillows.

  “Are you going to let it ring?”

  “Doh, you adswer it.”

  I held it out.

  She snarled at me.

  It kept ringing.

  She stopped snarling and stared at the phone, her eyes wide. She looked terrified.

  I took pity and answered. “Hi, Norm,” I said cheerily, and handed the phone to Jen.

  I slathered myself with sunblock, especially my burned shoulders. Did sunblock work if the skin was already burned? Was skin like burned meat, just getting more and more charred? I pictured myself as a steak on the grill, turning black and drying out, becoming hard like coal. Never mind. The air was gentle, and the water rolled steadily up and back, slapping the sand. I lay back, felt the sun’s caress.

  W
hen I’d left the suite, Jen had been telling Norm that her nose was stuffed because she’d come down with a terrible cold. That she’d been sleeping when he’d called, that Susan hadn’t wanted to wake her because she’d been up with a fever all night. I wondered what Norm would say when he found out the truth. Pictured him gaping, stunned, unable to grasp what Jen had done. But Norm wasn’t my problem. Jen would handle him on her own.

  I’d headed out. Found my spot near the edge of the property, away from the other tourists. Stretched out on a lounge. Closed my eyes. Saw warm red light.

  And the shredded face of a dead woman.

  I opened my eyes. Vendors wandered the sand with their wares. Pelicans rode air pockets above the palms. My hands were shaking again.

  Susan had noticed. “You all right?” She’d looked up from her work, stopping me as I’d gone out.

  I’d shrugged. “You?”

  She’d shaken her head. “Not the vacation I’d had in mind.”

  I’d agreed, sighed. Asked about her work, but she’d ignored the question. “Don’t put on an act, Elle. These deaths—I know you’re upset.”

  No point pretending otherwise. I’d nodded.

  “You want to talk?”

  I’d thanked her. Said that, for now, I just wanted to sit by the ocean.

  She’d sighed. “I should be done with this filing today. After that, maybe we can get away from here. There’s a big celebration in Puerto Vallarta. It’s twelve-days long in honor of the Virgin of Guadalupe. People come from all over the country. We should go one day. If you’re up for it.”

  “Yes,” I’d agreed. “We should.”

  But I couldn’t imagine going to a big celebration. Were there carnival rides? Sideshows? Fortune-tellers like Madam Therese?

  I lay back, plopped my hat over my face to block out the sun’s red light. Concentrated on relaxing, beginning with my toes, moving up to my ankles, my shins, my knees. Pushing tension out with every breath, inhaling freshness and strength. Trying to be at one with the water, the breeze. I was up to my shoulders, letting their tightness ease, clearing my mind when someone grabbed my arm.