Rancor: Sinister Attachments, Book 1 Page 8

  He brought his face closer to hers and whispered, “I’d like you come over and visit me. I’d like to get to know you better . . . A lot better.”

  Then the table shook; Debbie had kicked it. “What’s going on here?”

  Bruce stood and walked to Debbie. He put his arms around her and whispered something to her. Something that Maggie could not hear. Then he left the room.

  Debbie looked at Maggie with an expression close to a sneer. “Stay away from Bruce, he’s mine. Got it?”

  Once again, Maggie got it, but she did not know exactly what she had.

  NINETEEN

  Maggie took a break from writing and brewed herself some coffee. Even though Nora wanted a draft of the manuscript within the next two days, she needed to rest her tired eyes for a little while. She focused on a distant sailboat rather than on the computer screen.

  She looked out the kitchen window, toward the horizon where dark clouds billowed and were heading her way. A late afternoon thunderstorm was forming. She decided she had time to take a cup of coffee onto the porch and recharge so that she could get back to typing before the storm struck.

  When the coffee stopped dripping, she took a cup of it outside and stood in front of her living room windows, leaning on the railing toward Lake Michigan. A cool breeze was picking up and felt refreshing. She smelled the moisture in the air and heard distant rumbles of thunder.

  “Some night, huh?” Debbie said, walking up next to her. She leaned against the railing and looked out toward the lake.

  Maggie looked at her. “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t remember?” Debbie turned and faced Maggie, blinking her fake eyelashes. “You don’t remember acting like a whore and physically abusing Susie? You even tried to tie her to the bed so that you and Bruce could get it on.”

  “That’s not true.” Maggie protested the absurd remarks. “Are you joking? If you are, it’s not funny.”

  “No, I’m not joking. You were crocked. After the wine was finished, you got into Bruce’s stash of whiskey.” Debbie smiled. “You don’t remember?”

  Maggie could not believe what Debbie was saying. “After you told me to stay away from Bruce, I left. I went to my apartment and went to sleep.”

  Debbie looked back toward the storm. “Well, you must have had a blackout then because you did do all that. I had to get Susie out of Bruce’s place before you hurt her.”

  “No way,” Maggie said, staring at the side of Debbie’s powdered face. “You’re making it up.”

  “If I’m making it up, why did I find your underpants in Bruce’s bedroom?” Debbie turned back to Maggie. “If you don’t believe me, ask Bruce; he’ll tell you.”

  This moment was not recharging Maggie’s batteries so that she could get back to writing, but rather overcharging them and causing them to spark. “I’m going to do that right now.” Maggie started walking toward the French doors.

  “He’s not there,” Debbie shouted behind her. “And I thought you should know that I reported you to child protective services.”

  Maggie stopped dead in her tracks. “What? You’re crazy.” Her heart was pounding; she could not believe what was happening.

  “I’m not crazy, you are.” Debbie kept leaning on the railing, staring at the black thunderhead puffing up before them, smiling.

  Maggie could tell Debbie was obtaining pleasure from the moment. So much so, she thought Debbie would do a victory dance. “Why are you doing this? You know I didn’t do any of that.”

  Debbie turned her head toward Maggie, who was standing in front of the doors. “I know you did and I can prove it.”

  “By a pair of underpants you found in Bruce’s apartment? They’re not mine. They’re probably yours.”

  “Not only because of your underpants but by the bruises on Susie’s wrists and ankles when you tied her to the bed. You probably did the same thing when you babysat her.”

  “Why are you doing this? You know I didn’t do any of that.” Maggie was feeling overwhelmed.

  “I’m not doing it to you, Maggie.” Debbie’s smile turned sour. “You’re doing it to yourself. You’re jealous of me and Bruce . . . And you’re losing it.”

  Maggie could not listen to any more of Debbie’s false accusations. Why was she doing this? Debbie was the one that was jealous, not her. Maggie pulled open the stubborn French doors and walked immediately to Bruce’s apartment door. She knocked. No answer. She knocked some more. Again, no answer.

  “Like I said, he’s not there,” Debbie said, walking past Maggie to her apartment.

  Maggie knocked one more time before giving up. She turned and walked to her door, then stopped. There, at the foot of her apartment door, was a pair of underpants. They looked like hers. She walked up to them and nudged them with her foot; yes, they were hers. She picked them up. That Debbie had to of left them there, but she could not have gotten them from Bruce’s apartment, she had to have come into her apartment. Of course, she probably had a skeleton key just like Maggie, and she was the one going inside her apartment.

  Maggie picked up the underpants and went into her apartment, tossing them into the new laundry basket she had bought. Wind gushed through her open windows as the storm approached the bluff. Maggie closed the windows and sat on the couch. Lightning flashed, and thunder cracked, causing her to jump. The storm blotted out any light left in the sky, leaving her apartment dark and cold.

  She began to weep. She could not believe what was happening. How could she prove she did not do any of the things Debbie was accusing her of doing? Especially if Bruce backed up Debbie’s story.

  The building shook from the thunderous vibrations. She had to sleep. If she slept, she would not have to think about what was happening. She lay down and closed her eyes.

  TWENTY

  Maggie held the master key in her hand and watched Deborah as she pranced down the stairway to her clandestine meeting with Dr. Bruce. She was alone on the psychiatric floor. Her white nursing shoes squeaked as she walked out of the nurses’ station and into the hallway. The layout was almost like the second floor of Sandpiper Bluff. The apartments had to be rooms for patients, violent patients according to Ethel.

  What was she to do? This was a dream, after all. But it did not feel like a dream. The sky through the double doors flashed with light from the storm outside. She could feel the cold metal of the key and the heavy dampness in the air.

  She crossed her arms and turned around in a circle to look at her surroundings. The plaster walls had cracks, but they were not as prominent as they were now. Now? Oddly, the dream felt like now but it was not the now she was living in. Where she was in the hospital could not be real because her memories were of Sandpiper Bluff Apartments and not of this. Not of this time. She had no idea what she was supposed to do. Yes, she was a nurse, and she knew what nurses did, but not here, not now.

  Maggie almost jumped, almost dropping the key when she heard a scream come from her apartment, or rather, from the locked patients’ room. The person in the room screamed again, then the nurse call light lit above the door, and a bell began ringing.

  What was she supposed to do? When was Deborah getting back on the floor? Maggie walked up to the door and slid the skeleton key into the lock. She turned it, opened the door, and stood there. She could not believe what she was seeing. Her apartment had three hospital beds in it; the kitchen and two small bedrooms were nonexistent.

  The first hospital bed had a patient curled up in the fetal position. The second bed had a patient sitting up, clutching her hospital gown while pointing to the patient in bed three. Maggie looked and saw a young girl, lying face down on the bed and secured with five-point restraints. The girl’s wrists, ankles, and chest were tied to the bed so that she could not move. Indeed, she was not moving.

  “She’s dead,” the second patient said, shaking from fright. “I called for help. I called for help.”

  Maggie walked up to the girl
and nudged her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  The girl did not move.

  “Here name is Susan,” the second patient said. “Call her Susan, please.”

  Susan? This dream is out of control. Maggie palpated for a carotid pulse and listened for breathing, there was none. She took Susan out of the restraints and turned her onto her back. Susan was dead.

  “Help, Deborah, help me,” Maggie yelled as she began chest compressions. Moments later Deborah and Dr. Bruce ran into the room.

  “What did you do?” Deborah said, watching Maggie perform CPR.

  Dr. Bruce took the stethoscope from his lab coat pocket. “Stop compressions while I listen.” He listened to her heart and then said, “She has expired. For the record, it’s three in the morning.”

  They three of them stood there staring at Susan.

  Maggie could not believe what she was looking at. Susan was dead. Her ratty hair and urine soaked gown made her look pathetic. She felt sorry for Susan and her poor care.

  “You killed her,” Deborah said, sneering. She looked at Maggie and waited for her reaction.

  “I did not kill her; I was helping her.” Maggie could not believe Deborah was casting such an accusation at her. “I answered the call light and found her like this. I took her out of the restraints to perform CPR. She probably died from asphyxiation from being face down on the blanket and pillow.”

  “You were in charge and you were the only person on the unit when she died,” Deborah said, not taking her eyes off Maggie. “You are responsible.”

  “I didn’t put her in five-point restraints on her belly. I found her like this.” From Deborah’s facial expression, Maggie could tell she was thinking of a comeback.

  Dr. Bruce put the stethoscope back into his pocket. “It appears she died from asphyxiation; an autopsy will need to be done.”

  Deborah and Dr. Bruce walked out of the room. Maggie pushed Susan’s hair away from her sad little face and then looked at the patient who had called for help. “You saw what happened, didn’t you?”

  The patient put her face into her hands and shook her head. She kept repeating, “I see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. I see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.”

  Maggie walked out of the room and to the nurses’ station where Deborah and Dr. Bruce were talking. They stopped when Maggie walked to the desk. “Where’s Susan’s chart?” Even though this was a dream, she still wanted to chart the facts of the incident.

  “I have it,” Deborah said, holding the blue chart in her hands. “I need to call the coroner and the authorities.”

  Maggie took a blank sheet of nurse’s notes from a wall pocket and began charting. She knew Deborah would not tell the truth, and she needed to protect herself.

  Deborah stood and rubbed against Dr. Bruce seductively. “Your notes won’t matter, we know what happened. You were negligent, and now a patient is dead. That is what the record will reflect.”

  Maggie looked at Dr. Bruce. “You know that’s not true, right?”

  Dr. Bruce did not say anything while Deborah whispered into his ear. “I concur with Deborah and will chart it as such.”

  “You’re kidding?” They were setting her up to take the fall for a death that happened while they were off the floor having sex. It was coming down to either them or her. Someone was going to be accused of negligence, lose their job, and defend themselves in court. And they were winning.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Maggie sat straight up on the couch, having been startled awake. She had slept from the time she laid down on the couch all the way until Thursday morning. She looked around her apartment; there were no hospital beds or patients. The dream was so real.

  “I’m moving out,” she said to herself. She walked to the kitchen, picked up her cell phone from the table, and called Mr. Zimmerman. As usual, the phone rang and rang, not even an answering machine picked up. “Maybe he’s in his office.”

  Still depressed from the conversation with Debbie, she did not even bother to comb her hair or brush her teeth. When she walked past the underpants in the basket, it occurred to her that she could defend herself by setting up a hidden camera in her apartment. And the next time Debbie came in—Debbie had to be sneaking into her apartment—she would have video proof that Debbie was making her look crazy. They had a video camera at the house, and it was able to detect motion and begin recording. She would pick it up after she went to Mr. Zimmerman’s office.

  She put her phone in her purse and walked out of the apartment, locking the door behind her. She looked at Bruce’s door. Should she see if he was home and clear this mess up? Not now, she decided.

  When she reached the lobby, she could see through the windowed enclosure that Mr. Zimmerman was not in his office. Where was he, on vacation? She walked to the room and looked in; maybe there was a note on the door or his desk indicating there had been a family emergency, and he had to leave, but he would be back. There was no note.

  She looked through the glass and noticed a framed black-and-white photograph of a fishing charter boat with the name Castaway painted on the stern. The watercraft reminded her of the S.S. Minnow from Gilligan’s Island.

  Noticing there was a person at the helm, she decided to get a closer look. Was it the Carl Zimmerman she knew or was it his father? She tried the door; it was unlocked. She walked up to the picture and examined it. The man did indeed resemble Mr. Zimmerman; however he was tall and trim, not stubby and potbellied. She could tell the photograph had been taken a long time ago by the way it was faded and yellowed around the edges. Based on what Claudia ranted about at the grocery store last week, it had to be Mr. Zimmerman’s father. She must have meant it was him that was drunk and killed a man out on the water in front of this horrid place.

  “Maggie, what are you doing in Mr. Zimmerman’s office?” Ethel asked, through the open door.

  Maggie turned around. “I was just looking at this picture. Is that—”

  “It’s not good to be inside this office,” Ethel said, interrupting Maggie’s question. She motioned for Maggie to leave.

  “Of course, I’m sorry.” Maggie walked out and closed the door.

  Ethel began walking to the vestibule. “I’d like to stay and chat, Maggie, but I need to get to the store and get some items I need. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Maggie watched as Ethel rushed out the door and down the porch steps. I wonder what her hurry is, she thought as she walked to her, still empty, mailbox.

  The drive to her house distracted her from Debbie’s lies—at least for the moment—as her car hummed along the rain-soaked roads from the storm during the night. Now, however, the rising sun cast warm, bright light over the road and into the car. She pulled down the sun visor as she drove into Black Water. She got a cup of coffee and continued her journey, feeling much better as she got further away from the crazies.

  The coffee was gone when she drove into her driveway. Between the trauma of Cory’s death and Debbie’s false accusations, she was becoming numb to the emotional pain. She got out of the car and went into the house, forcing herself to look into the dining room. Only a slight flush of agony rushed through her. Her mind was blocking out the misery, making her desensitized to the pain. She was changing her mind about selling the house; maybe she should move back in. It made the most sense, after all. First, she had to catch Debbie in the act of framing her so that she had more than her words to fight the lies.

  Maggie walked into the office and to the drawer containing the camcorder. She took it out, along with the charger, and stuffed it inside her purse. Then she looked around the room and the file cabinet next to her. She remembered the INCIDENTS folder. Out of curiosity, she slid open the file cabinet drawer and pulled out the folder, then sat at the desk and opened it.

  Records of on-the-job injuries by employees were inside. She thumbed through them and stopped when she reached the last sheet of paper, it had Jess’s name written on it. It had
her listed as an associate accountant. Jess was not an accountant; she was a waitress at Flashers, a bar not far from their house. Moreover, Jess was not taking any accounting classes, so why did Cory hire her and why had not Jess said anything to her?

  She pulled the sheet of paper out for closer inspection. If he had hired her as an associate accountant, something must have happened for him to add her to the INCIDENTS folder. There was no mention of an actual incident, other than next to the date February 14, it said, “Met after work for drinks, Chalet, blackmail.” Maggie did not have to think too hard to conclude that Cory was having an affair with Jess and that she was blackmailing him. No way, it has to mean something else, she thought. Then she remembered she was out of town at a book signing that night. Not hard to forget since it was Saint Valentine’s Day.

  Maggie closed the folder. Cory did not act as if he was with Jess; but, of course, when someone is having an affair, learning to cover it up would be the top priority. But what about the mention of blackmail? Was it possible that Jess was blackmailing Cory? Was Jess demanding money from him in exchange for not telling her about their relationship? Maggie’s emotions exploded as sadness overtook her. What else could happen?

  She went back to the file cabinet and pulled out the folder with the bank statements for his business. Even though Cory had these records on his computer, he always printed them out so that he had another copy. Maggie went immediately to the February statement, looking for anything out of the ordinary. There were expenditures for equipment, supplies, employee wages, and an ATM withdrawal of five-hundred dollars. Then she could not believe what she saw on the next line, a debit for Swiss Chalet. Oh my god, I think that is a motel, she said.

  Maggie turned on Cory’s computer and did a search for Swiss Chalet. It was just as she expected. The next town over had it listed as a short-stay motel, in other words, a no-tell motel. Tears streamed from Maggie’s eyes as she went through the statements looking for any other mysterious withdrawals. There was none.