LeGarde Mysteries Box Set, page 32
part #1 of LeGarde Mystery Series
A boyish sense of excitement shot through me and I laughed out loud.
I really want to impress her.
In minutes, a mound of beans filled the basket beside the tomatoes. Next, I gathered cucumbers, dill, and aromatic cilantro leaves. Taking one last look, I picked up the heavy basket and headed for the car.
On the way back to the driveway, I thought about Camille’s avoidance of the hospital. I sympathized and shared her sentiment. Having practically lived at the hospital during Elsbeth’s depressive crises and my father’s unsuccessful battle with cancer, I was loathe to set foot there again. Dr. Mattson understood this and had been a port in many a storm for us.
I hefted the overflowing basket of produce into the passenger seat of my Outback, and checked over the remaining groceries I’d hastily packed into a brown paper bag. Satisfied, I got in and started the engine.
I started to worry about Monday night—our next rehearsal. Would she be up to it? I snorted and chuckled at my ridiculous thought. Even if she were trussed in traction, Camille would find a way.
I reached her driveway in three minutes. Ginger jumped down from a red bud tree and trotted toward the car. I slowly pulled up close to the garage and opened the door. Before I was able to swing my legs around, The hefty orange tabby plopped into my lap.
“Well, hello there, kitty.” I laughed and stroked her fur.
Ginger stood in my lap on her hind legs, placed her front paws on my chest, and began to lick my chin with her sandpaper tongue. She purred, rhythmically kneading her claws into my shirt.
“Okay, okay, Gingerella,” I said. “That’s enough!” I set the enormous cat on the driveway. She immediately vaulted back into the car, bounded over me, and then settled on top of the brown bag of groceries.
“Wait just one second. That’s not for you.”
She’d started to sit on the bag, but stopped midstream and began to sniff around the edges. Her whiskers twitched and her tail curled into a striped orange question mark above her body.
“That’s our dinner, Ginger.”
She looked at me as if she understood, licking her paws to hide her embarrassment. I moved her again and managed to gather my produce and close the door before she could sneak back into the car.
Chapter Sixteen
Boris’ sharp bark echoed through the house when I came in through the back door and dumped the overflowing basket and packages on the kitchen table. One stray tomato bounced out of the basket and rolled along the wooden floor toward the dining room. Boris flounced after it, his long, soft ears flapping. The mini-dachshund maneuvered his little body to the treasure. He nosed around it with his tail whipping like a metronome. Finally bored with it, he trotted into the kitchen and looked up at me expectantly, his tail still wagging.
“What is it, buddy? Do you want something?”
Boris waved his sable plume and stared at me. He’d been outside an hour earlier, but I asked him again just to be sure.
“Do you wanna go out, Boris?”
He stayed still, his eyes riveted on me.
“Do you want some water?”
No response. I glanced at his water dish. It was full. He’d eaten an hour ago, just before I’d made the quick jaunt to my garden. His bushy tail wagged rapidly back and forth, but his focus stayed on me.
Suddenly, I had it. “Want a chewy, boy? Is that it?”
Boris began to dance in circles. His toenails tapped on the linoleum floor. He bounced over to a cupboard door, sat down, and stared at it. I opened the door and took out a new, chicken-basted rawhide chewy. Boris took it gently from my hand and trotted to the braided rug under the dining room table, where he vigorously worked on his treat.
I skipped up the stairs two at a time to Camille’s room. “I’m back. Are you comfortable? Do you need anything?”
She smiled at me from her pile of pillows and dropped the September/October issue of Country Living onto the white bedspread. “I’m okay, Gus. Please don’t go to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble, my love. I’m glad to be here.”
She tried to smile, but winced instead, shifting against the pillows.
I hurried to her side and helped her sit up. “Where do you hurt?”
Camille raised the hem of her pajama top, revealing yellow and purple bruised ribs. It had worsened since I’d settled her in bed earlier.
“Whoa. You’re turning every color of the rainbow. How about some Advil?”
“Okay.” Her face tightened and she lay back against the pillows.
I brought her the pills and sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hand. Anger surged through me when I thought about Armand Lugio and his vile temper.
It must have been Armand. Who else would have done such a thing?
Although it could’ve been one of the boys who were cut from the show, they hadn’t been on the set. Who else harbored such powerful anger toward Camille? I ached to grab him by his Brazilian neck and punch his handsome face. After picturing the satisfying scene, I drew in a deep breath and decided this wasn’t the time to discuss him.
“I’m going down to make supper. Will you be okay up here?”
She nodded and tried to smile. I kissed her hand and picked up the magazine that had slipped to the floor. Although the attack on her had been horrible, I found myself eager to take care of her.
I bounded down the stairs and into the living room where I selected highlights from “Carmen” to cook by. A large pot of jasmine rice steamed as I prepared the Gaeng Kua Sapparod. It had recently become one of my favorite Thai dishes and I was eager to share it with Camille.
After opening a can of shredded pineapple, I poured it into the pan with coconut milk, red curry paste and fresh shrimp. I washed the fresh-picked cilantro leaves. The best flavor was attained if the pungent pieces were added to the mixture in the last few minutes of cooking. While the shrimp simmered, I started the beans in the steamer. In ten minutes, they were ready, sitting under a pat of butter in their covered dish. I chopped the tomatoes, cukes, and dill and set them in a bowl to marinate while the remainder of the meal cooked. Last of all, I peeled and sliced two ripe mangoes and arranged them on a cobalt blue plate with two forks.
Boris continued to work on his treat, grabbing it between his stubby legs and chewing on the rawhide. Ginger had fallen asleep on top of the refrigerator.
When it was ready, I placed two servings of beans onto dinner plates, spooned the shrimp and curried pineapple over mounds of fluffy rice, and scooped out two portions of the tomato-cucumber salad. Cracking ice cubes into tall glasses, I filled them with sweet well water from the tap and set them on the tray. Finally, I placed the plate of mangoes between the two dinner plates and hoisted the tray onto my shoulder. Ginger woke from her nap, dropped down to the kitchen floor, and circled around my ankles, purring loudly.
“Sorry, kitty. This isn’t for you.”
The tabby had already polished off her can of tuna and demolished her dish of kibble. I balanced the tray and walked up the stairs, and the cat wove in and out of my legs, nearly tripping me on several occasions. When we reached the bedroom, she leapt onto the windowsill and perched on the ledge with white lace curtains billowing lightly around her. She closed her eyes halfway and began to snooze again.
I placed the tray on Camille’s bureau and passed her a yellow dishtowel. She tucked it obediently under her chin and sat up. “Mmm. Is that curry?”
I nodded, handing her the plate. “It’s a Thai red curry paste.”
She brightened, pulling herself up and reaching for the fork.
I pulled a spindle-backed chair to the nightstand and set up my own place beside her.
The cozy room was a study in whites. Camille had decorated with white walls, white painted furniture, white lacy curtains, white bureau scarves, and a white bedspread. A large crystal vase of white cosmos from her flower garden complemented the pure white of the bureau. The curtains fluttered at the windows and a late summer breeze wafted into the room.
Her dark hair formed a striking halo against the pillows. Although her complexion was wan, the lively spark in her eyes encouraged me to believe she’d be back to normal in no time.
Between mouthfuls, she commented on the meal. “I didn’t know I was so hungry. Gus, this is fantastic.”
I smiled, leaned back in the old chair, and took another long drink of cold water. The antique creaked when I shifted my weight. “Thanks. Glad you like it.”
Her eyes shimmered. “Like it? Good heavens, Gus, I may just have to devote my life to you now.”
I stabbed another piece of mango from the blue plate. “Good. The plan’s working. That was the intention all along, Miss Coté. All along.”
She tilted her pretty head to the side. Her eyes watered.
I was surprised by the swift transition from light humor to near tears and reached for her hand.
She looked down and spoke in a suddenly husky voice. “Just try to get rid of me, now, Professor.”
Chapter Seventeen
On Monday night, I picked up Camille for rehearsal. As expected, she insisted on going to work during the day and to rehearsal at night in spite of her pain.
“How’d school go today?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes. “It was a zoo. Lou Marshall and the cops had meetings all day about the attack on me. They dragged in student after student, and asked me questions over and over again. You know, trying to get leads on who might hate me enough to knock me off the stage.”
“Did they confront Armand?” I asked.
Camille shifted her weight gingerly and pulled the seat harness away from her sore ribs. “They interviewed him for an hour.” A soft sigh escaped from her pursed lips.
“Did he admit it?”
She shook her head and stared at the trees rushing by the window. “No. He flipped out. Denied it, over and over again. Said everyone in this country was out to get him, just like they persecuted his father. He got pretty violent, I guess. Tried to take a swing at Marshall. Told them he was quitting the show, anyway, since he had such a crummy role.”
“What did they do to him?”
She turned back to me with a sad smile. “He's been expelled. Permanently. It's such a shame. He was a pretty good student until his father was deported last year.”
We drove in silence, and I digested what she'd said. It had to have been Armand who attacked her. The guy was truly unstable. I began to worry about Camille's safety in general. What if he lost it and attacked her at her home?
I pulled into the parking lot and my mind flipped through potential solutions. Camille could move in with us until it was resolved.
But what would constitute “resolved?” Would getting Armand deported, like his father, solve the problem? And what would be required to get him kicked out of the country? Catching him in a violent act?
I still hadn't learned what Armand had done last year to upset Camille. She'd quickly changed the subject each time I asked.
I was about to slip into a free space when an old, rusty yellow Camaro careened past, narrowly missing our fender. The driver revved his engine, his tires screeched, and he almost hit two young boys who were jogging along in their football gear. Armand's face leered out the window.
I slowly pulled into the parking spot, and the car sped away.
Molly stood on the sidewalk, looking alarmed. Her hand fluttered to her mouth. I figured that Armand had dropped her off for practice.
On the verge of tears, she clutched a notebook and she waved to get Camille's attention. “Miss Coté!”
I walked around to help Camille get out. She grimaced in pain, got up slowly, and turned toward Molly.
The words spilled out of Molly's mouth in a jumble. “He didn't do it, Miss Coté. He was sitting right beside me, I swear.” Tears streamed down her face. “You've got to fix it for him, please.” She looked from Camille to me, wringing her hands.
Camille placed an arm around her shoulders, leaned into her face with concern, and answered, “Honey, calm down. Please, calm down. What are you trying to tell us? That he wasn't responsible for—for pushing me off the stage?”
“Yes, oh yes! Please, fix it. His mother will send him back to Brazil and I’ll never see him again. He was right beside me the whole time. I swear. I would take a lie detector test, Miss Coté, I swear to God.”
We began to walk into the school. I supported Camille's left arm and the tearful Molly clung to her right. A few students who lingered in the school stared at Molly while we walked Camille to her office and closed the door.
“Please Miss Coté, please listen to me. You know me. I wouldn't lie.” Fresh tears slid down her cheeks.
Camille guided Molly to a chair. I grabbed a pillow from the old sofa that stretched across the far wall in her office, placed it behind Camille's back, and helped her settle down behind her desk. “Do you want me to stay, Miss Coté?” I asked.
She looked at Molly and pushed a box of tissues across the desk.
The girl wept freely now. “It's okay. He can stay.”
I grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the corner of Camille's desk.
Molly hiccupped a few times and finally controlled her tears.
“Molly?” I asked gently.
She looked up from her wad of wet tissues.
“Can you be sure Armand didn't leave your side even for a few minutes? It was pitch black in there. How could you tell for sure?”
Molly's color faded. She looked at Camille with soulful eyes. Pushing back a lock of blond hair, she drew herself up in the chair as if summoning courage. “I couldn't tell this to Superintendent Marshall. It was just too embarrassing.”
Camille got up slowly, grabbed the pillow, walked gingerly around the desk, and pulled up another chair so she could be close to the girl. She took her hand. “Sweetie, you can tell me anything. Whatever you say stays right in this room. I promise.”
“Same here.” I smiled and nodded at Molly.
“Okay.” The girl inhaled and closed her eyes. “When the lights went out, we were sitting together about halfway back in the auditorium. Armand started to—to become amorous with me. He started to—well, he—”
She looked down at her hands in shame.
“It's okay, honey. You don't have to give us the gory details,” Camille whispered.
Molly shook her head. “No. I want you to believe me. He—he reached under my skirt and I was afraid when the lights came on that everyone would see! It happened exactly that way, Miss Coté, exactly!”
I believed her. I believed her and was stunned. She’d spit the words out quickly, as if they were distasteful.
I exchanged a surprised look with Camille.
If Armand had his hand up Molly’s skirt the whole time, then who pushed Camille off the stage? Maybe one of the boys who were cut from the show had been lingering backstage.
It was possible, but not probable. It sounded as if the footsteps clattered down the aisle from the back of the hall toward the stage. Of course, in the dark, it was easy to get disoriented.
I helped Camille calm Molly. We both assured her we’d try to intervene for Armand. The boy obviously had anger issues, and needed some good therapy. It seemed as if being unjustly accused had broken him.
I realized he probably was humiliated, too. Losing the lead role to a sophomore must have stung, particularly when his girlfriend was playing the female lead and his rival, Randy Sherman, was to play a major role opposite her. In the musical, “Damian Firebrand,” the rock star, takes advantage of Celeste’s innocence. The gyrating, leather-clad Damian is older, dangerous, and a bad influence. The thought of Molly playing out this scene with Randy probably drove Armand crazy. Perhaps that, on top of his escalating family problems, was enough to push him over the edge.
Another thought occurred to me. I'd almost forgotten about it, but the snake incident happened the day before Camille posted the audition results. Armand hadn't been disappointed yet, and didn't have reason to try to sabotage the show, or frighten the actors. So who in the world had dropped the snake from the rafters?
We walked with Molly to the auditorium, and I vowed to help set the record straight.
Chapter Eighteen
On Tuesday morning, I called Lou Marshall from my university office.
“Marshall here.”
“Lou? It's Gus LeGarde. I'm calling about Armand.”
He didn't hesitate. “It's all straightened out, Gus. Camille saw me first thing this morning and explained what she learned from Molly yesterday. Looks like he couldn't have done it, huh?”
“Right. He's a troubled young man, but he couldn't have been responsible for what happened Saturday.”
“I've already spoken to his mother. They're both coming in this afternoon for a conference. I'm going to apologize to him for the accusation, and then offer him a three-day suspension instead of expulsion. He still deserves some disciplinary action for letting that nasty temper of his go wild. Camille told me what he did in her office the other day, and I swear to God, I really thought he'd hit me yesterday. I hope it teaches him a lesson.”
“What about therapy, Lou? The kid obviously needs some help.”
“I know. The family can't afford a psychiatrist on the outside, that's for sure. Even if you're assessed to be in an acute state of depression, in most health care programs these days, the co-payments are at least fifty bucks a session. I'm going to recommend that he sit down with Camille two or three times a week. She's agreed to try to help him.”
I didn’t like it. “Really?”
“Something wrong with that, Gus?”
“I just worry about him being around her with that temper of his. But if she feels she can handle him, I trust her judgment.” I said the right words, but didn’t mean it. I didn’t want that volcanic young man anywhere near Camille.
