Marcia Talley - Occasion of Revenge

Deirdre wrinkled her brow. “I don’t remember. Maybe Darryl does.”

When Mary Ellen returned with our entrees I asked her to find Darryl and send him over to our table.

Eventually Darryl swaggered over, tucking a plastic bill server into the back of his pants. “Whatcha want, Didi?”

“Didi” rolled her eyes. “Do you remember the name of the woman Carson divorced so he could marry Mother?”

Darryl squinted and wagged his head back and forth like a metronome, thinking hard. “Can you give me a hint?”

“She was youngish. Had a name like an actress, you know, the one with the fat lips?”

Darryl’s face brightened. “Kim Basinger?” he tried.

Deirdre shook her head. “Not that one. She was with Hugh Grant…” She turned to me in triumph. “Julia Roberts! That’s it. Her name was Julia. Julia Prentice.”

I tried to remember if Virginia had mentioned her daughter’s name, but couldn’t.

Deirdre favored her brother with a plastic smile. “Thank you, Darryl. You’ve been such a help!”

“Don’t mention it, dudette.” He thrummed his fingers on the top of his sister’s head, disturbing her over-laquered do, then moved quickly out of the range of the flat of her palm.

“Does that help?” Deirdre asked as she fluffed up her hair with nimble pinches.

“Yes, thank you.” I nibbled thoughtfully on a cracker. “Virginia told me she’d had a daughter once, but she died. I wonder what her name was.”

“You could always ask her,” Paul suggested.

“That would be insensitive.”

“I’ll bet LouElla knows,” offered Deirdre. “She knows everything.”

I remembered LouElla’s dining room lookout post and was sure she knew a lot about a lot of things. The problem was sifting the truth out of the fantasy. I sat there in a haze listening to the banter going on around me-the subject had shifted to Super Bowl XXXIV-but I couldn’t have cared less about the Rams or the Titans. In my right ear, Ruth’s voice was insisting that the Rams were from Los Angeles and on my left Paul was saying St. Louis, St. Louis, while a voice in my head kept repeating Prentice, Prentice, Prentice, Julia Prentice. What if Virginia Prentice’s daughter had been married to Carson McPhee and Darlene had broken up the marriage? That would give Virginia a powerful motive to bump off Darlene. Revenge.

Then there was the funny business with the mailboxes. Something I’d overheard at Darlene’s party was gonging loudly in my head. Hadn’t Marty O’Malley, the charming retiree, mentioned something about getting his prescriptions by mail?

Ruth was conceding that the Titans were from Tennessee when I excused myself and took the stairs to the second floor. I parked myself in the hallway next to the cigarette machine, reached into my bag, and pulled out the cell phone. I dialed four-one-one and asked directory assistance for Marty O’Malley’s number in Chestertown. For an extra thirty-five cents I let the operator connect me, then waited impatiently through the rings, praying that Marty was spending the waning hours of 1999 at home in front of his television set.

On the sixth ring, someone picked up. “O’Malley.”

“Marty, this is Hannah Ives. Remember me? From Darlene’s party?”

He remembered me, down to the sweater I was wearing.

“Sorry to bother you tonight of all nights but I was just wondering something. You get your prescriptions by mail, right?”

“Saves me money.”

“Has any medicine ever gone missing?”

“Once or twice a shipment got lost, but they always replaced it.”

“What medicine did you lose?”

“Vitamins once. And my stress medicine.”

“What do you take for stress?”

“I can’t remember. Just a minute.” Marty clunked the receiver down. While I waited, listening to his TV playing softly in the background, I paced the hallway outside the rest rooms. It seemed like forever before he returned, rattling the pill bottle in my ear.

“Something called Compres.”

I swore softly and sagged against the wall. Must be a brand name. “What do they look like?” I asked.

Marty rattled the bottle again. “Little orange buggers with a seven on ’em.”

My heart did a rat-a-tat-tat on my ribs. Clonodine hydrochloride! I thanked Marty and wished him a happy New Year. I leaned against the wall, still holding the phone, trying to catch my breath and wondering what to do next. Circumstantial evidence, I told myself. Nothing that would hold up in a court of law. But Captain Younger needed to know about this. I rummaged in my bag, looking for the card he had given me. You’d think I’d have the blasted number memorized by now. I couldn’t find it in any of the pockets or nooks and crannies so I called 911, asked to be connected to the Chestertown Police, and left a message for Younger to call me. I was putting the cell phone back in my bag when Darryl appeared at the top of the stairs.

He swaggered in my direction, his lips twisted into a half smile, half sneer. “Hannah! We can’t go on meeting this way.”

I looked for an escape route, but I was standing in an alcove next to the cigarette machine. Now Darryl hovered between me and the emergency exit on the landing. He was so close I could tell he’d had garlic for dinner. I lifted my bag and clutched it to my chest, like a shield, fighting the urge to clobber him with it. “I had to make a phone call.”

He loomed closer. “Calling the boyfriend, huh?”

I hugged my bag even closer. “Do you mind if I tell you something?”

He folded his arms and leaned toward me. “What?”

“You are disgusting.”

“That’s no way to talk. Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”

That wounded, as he knew it would. I yearned to slap that triumphant look off his face. “Get out of my way, Darryl.”

He touched a finger to my cheek. “I could have been your brother.”

My head was so far back against the wall that I had to duck to one side to escape. “But now, happily,” I shot back at him, “that doesn’t seem very likely.”

“I’m just trying to be friendly.”

I prayed somebody would show up to use the rest room soon. Usually there was a line a mile long. If nobody came, I might have to get physical with this irritating creep. “If you don’t get out of my way, I’m going to start screaming.”

He ignored me. “Didi is such a stuck-up bitch. Thinks she knows everything.”

I put my hand against his chest and pushed him away. “Move!”

Darryl raised his hands, palms out, and took a step backward. “OK, OK. Don’t get all bent out of shape.”

I scurried around him and bolted for the stairs.

“Don’t you want to know about Julia Prentice?”

As much as I wanted to put twenty-five miles, maybe even an ocean, between me and the Dearly Departed’s son, his question pulled me up short. Halfway down the stairs I turned and looked up at him.

“I thought so.” He leered.

“What about her?” I asked, hoping that he wouldn’t ask me to do him any favors in exchange for this information.

“Come here.”

“If you can’t say what you have to say from up there, forget it.”

He shrugged. “OK. Just thought you’d be interested to know that Julia Prentice killed herself.”

I swallowed my revulsion long enough to ask “How?”

“Jumped off the Mount Hope Bridge.”

I shuddered. “Does anybody know why?”

“Couldn’t deal with the divorce, I suppose, and the prospect of raising her baby alone.”

“She had a child?”

“Sort of. She was seven months pregnant when she took the plunge.”

I staggered back, catching myself against the wall. Poor Virginia. If she held Darlene responsible for her daughter’s death and that of her grandchild…