Everybody Loves Evie. Beth Ciotta
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whiskey?”
“Echi-something.” Her eyes closed. Her limp hand pointed. “Purse.”
Milo found a black purse under her soaked suit jacket. He rooted through the contents, marveled at how much junk a woman could cram into a small space. He palmed her ringing cell, glanced at the caller ID. Nic. Man? Woman? Friend? Family? Someone who’d be aware of Evie’s medical history? He allowed the call to roll over to voice mail, dug deeper and nabbed a small plastic bottle. Echinacea. An herbal remedy for colds.
Milo uncapped the bottle, tapped out a few capsules and read the inscription. “Hell.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“MIDOL?” NICOLE, MY chain-smoking, designer-chic friend, spread a coverlet on top of my duvet—as if I wasn’t warm enough—and settled on the end of my bed.
“Yup,” I croaked, feeling as foolish now as I had several hours earlier when Beckett had informed me of the mix-up. “It’s Coco’s fault,” I said for the second time today. “My neighbor’s poodle. A while back I agreed to dog-sit, not knowing Coco was cuckoo. He chewed up two paperback novels and destroyed the cardboard box containing the pain relievers. Needing a container, I swapped out the herbal capsules to salvage the Midol. At the time, the cramp stuff was more important than the cold stuff. Only I forgot about the swap.”
“Only you,” Nic said with a grin.
Beckett had said the same thing.
I’d have to commit the mortifying scene to my diary. Someday it would strike me as funny. Maybe.
Doped up on Robitussin, Midol and whiskey, I’d suffered slurred speech, noodly limbs and severe fatigue. But I didn’t pass out. Partly because I was too stubborn and embarrassed. Partly because Beckett had plied me with hot tea and questions. He must’ve been desperate to keep me alert and talking. Surely he wasn’t that interested in my entertainment background. After a couple of hours, the storm had subsided and he finally agreed to drive me home. But only if I called someone to check in on me. Like I couldn’t take care of myself. Okay, I screwed up my medication, but that was a freak accident. Swear. “That’s what I get for not looking at what I put in my mouth.”
“I could comment on that,” Nic said. “But I won’t.”
Jayne’s angelic face heated to a shade that nearly matched her fiery ringlets. “Madame Helene warned me that a loved one was at risk.”
“Madame Helene’s a nut,” Nic said, not for the first time.
Ah, yes. My two best friends: Yin and Yang. Where Nic was the realist, Jayne was the spiritualist. A bit flighty and a lot gullible. Nic and I loved the Bohemian whack-a-doodle but questioned her faith in a certain bangle-wearing whack job. The notorious Madame Helene.
“Loved ones are always at risk,” I pointed out calmly. “Everyone’s at risk. Every day. Not just physically but emotionally. Intellectually.”
“Deep,” Nic teased.
I blew my nose into a tissue. “Just saying there are people out there who will take advantage.”
“Cynical,” Jayne said.
“Educated,” I said, thinking about Arch and his sucker-born-every-minute mentality.
My fuzzy brain worked double-time trying to determine how much I could tell my friends about the Chameleon Club and the players I’d met thus far. I hated lying to them, but I didn’t want to divulge any secrets that would get me kicked off the team. As it was, I’d been benched. “Did you say you brought chicken soup?”
“Along with crackers and ginger ale,” Nic said. “When you called to say you were sick, we figured we should pass on the chips and margaritas.”
Jayne scrambled off the bed. “I’ll heat up the soup. We can drag in a couple of TV trays, have supper together and, if you’re feeling up to it, Evie, you can tell us about the cruise and jolly old England.”
Nic smiled and squeezed my toes through the covers. “Mostly we want to hear about Arch.”
The mention of the man who’d yet to return my call filled me with equal parts anger, sadness and anxiety. Had he been arrested by Scotland Yard? Run down by a double-decker bus? Or was he simply ignoring me?
“You all right?” Nic asked as she rose.
“Peachy,” I croaked, then blew my nose. “Maybe you guys should go. I’m probably contagious.”
“We haven’t seen you in almost three weeks. We’re not going anywhere.” She squeezed my toes again, which was pretty affectionate for Nic. “I’ll help Jayne with the sick-people supper. Call if you need us. Or maybe you should just bang on the wall. You haven’t got much of a voice left.” She smiled. “Good thing you don’t have to sing tonight.”
“Yeah. Good thing.”
As soon as she left the room, I pushed myself into a sitting position and nabbed my cell off the nightstand. Three voice messages. Heart pounding, I connected and listened.
The first message was from my mom, mentioning the upcoming theater benefit. “Connie Grable still asks after you, Evelyn,” she said. “I know you’re busy, but the least you could do is attend her special night.” Then she hung up. Huh. Although they were teaching colleagues, it’s not as if Mom and Mrs. Grable were best buds. Plus, Mom had never encouraged my artistic interests. I clearly recall her trying to talk me out of joining the drama club in the first place, thinking my time would be better spent boning up on algebra. Like any amount of studying was going to help me to understand quadratic equations. I’m lucky I can balance my checkbook.
I replayed her message, considered. Did she need me to help her to square things with Dad? Nope. That couldn’t be it. She blamed me for the failure of my own marriage. I’m the last person she’d ask for matrimonial advice. What then? Did she miss me? The possibility made me all warm and fuzzy. Or maybe it was my chenille sweats and thick socks.
I saved the message and moved on to the next one.
Dad. Sweat beaded on my forehead as I listened to his succinct message. “I’m thinking it’s time we discussed your moving home, little one. Don’t call me back on your dime, I’ll call again tomorrow. ‘Bye, now.”
Okay, something was definitely up. Did he want me to move in with my mom so she wouldn’t be alone? Did he plan on making their separation permanent? Or, knowing I no longer had a husband to lean on, did he worry I’d fall flat on my face? I wasn’t fond of any of those possibilities.
I skipped to the next message fully expecting to hear my brother’s businesslike drone.
“Hey, Sunshine.”
Oh, boy. Oh, boy. Not a John Boy twang but a Highlander lilt. Arch’s voice flowed through me like heady dark ale.
“Got your message. Glad you’re home safe. Dinnae let Beckett work you too hard, yeah? Take care, lass. Cheers.”
“That’s it?” I couldn’t believe it. No invitation to call him back. No clue as to when he’d be returning to the States. Could his message be any more impersonal? Friends, just friends, I told myself and tried not to feel depressed that Arch was honoring my wishes. A modicum of resistance would’ve been nice.
I tossed the phone into the nightstand drawer and slammed it shut.
Nic peeked in. “You rang?”
“No. I … no. Sorry.”
“You look ticked.” She carried in two TV trays and set them germ distance away on either side of the bed.
“I’m just bummed about this cold.”
“I’m thinking you’re bummed because you’re here and Arch isn’t.”
“We’re