The Cop. Jan Hudson
Forget that she was sleeping with most of the single men in town and a few of the married ones. Forget that Kelly had talked with her repeatedly about the physical dangers of her behavior. Iverson had found the pills and gone into a rage, calling Rachel a whore and calling Kelly worse. When his daughter turned up pregnant a few months later, he threw her out of the house and blamed everything on Kelly for encouraging such abominable and licentious behavior.
Kelly shook off the effects of her encounter with him and put on a pleasant face for her patient.
Mrs. Phelps, an eighty-seven-year-old widow, smiled sweetly as they entered her room. “Now, don’t you look pretty in green?”
“Why, thank you,” Kelly said. “I hope I don’t smell like a horse. I’ve been to aerobics class.”
“With Mary Beth? I liked going to her seniors stretching class when I felt up to it. I hate to miss her wedding. She will be such a beautiful bride, and J.J. will be a handsome groom.”
Kelly only smiled and listened to Mrs. Phelps’s frail heart. This was the hardest part of being a doctor. There was very little she could do except to make her patient as comfortable as possible. Oh, how she wished the hospice program was in place already. She’d been working to get it going for a couple of years, and, if luck was with them, it would be up and running in a few months.
But too late for Mrs. Phelps.
AT SEVEN FORTY-FIVE on Friday morning Kelly heard a car drive up in front and a door slam. She lifted a slat on the miniblind to look out. Why she bothered, she didn’t know. As always, it was Gladys Sowell, her maid, climbing from the back seat of Naconiche’s only taxi and gathering her black coat around her. Taxi fare was part of her pay. There were no buses in Naconiche, but the taxi fare was nominal and the driver, Gladys’s cousin, dependable.
A stocky woman with graying hair gathered up in a bun, Gladys was in her midfifties but looked older. She arrived every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at seven forty-five on the button to feed the cats and Kelly, do laundry and keep the house spotless. A better housekeeper than she was a cook, she also cleaned the office rooms every afternoon at a reduced rate in exchange for medical attention. Since she was a terrible hypochondriac, Gladys probably got the best end of the deal, but she was a legacy along with the retiring doctor’s practice.
Kelly finished dressing and walked into the kitchen where Gladys was feeding the cats and talking baby talk to them. Rocky and Pierre adored Gladys, and they were winding themselves around her legs as she pulled off her coat and put on her apron. Kelly had given her the coat last Christmas.
“Mornin’, Dr. Kelly. How ’bout some bacon and eggs and biscuits?”
“Just fruit and cereal this morning, thanks.” Gladys’s idea of breakfast was greasier than anything at the City Grill. “How are you today?”
“Only tolerable. I had a sour stomach all night last night, and it kept me up and down a right smart.”
“Have you been taking your medicine and watching your diet?”
“I’ve run out of them little purple capsules.”
Kelly knew it was futile to scold Gladys about her diet. “I’ll leave some samples at the office for you.”
“And I’m out of my nerve pills, too.”
“I’ll get some from my bag.” She kept a supply of Gladys’s harmless “nerve pills” in an unmarked vial and dispensed them a few at a time.
“I’ll have you some oatmeal done in just a jiffy. It’s cold as a cast-iron commode out there, and you need something to stick to your ribs. You’re likely to be busy today.”
Gladys turned out to be right. Kelly had a booger of a day. It seemed that half her patients had ailments, and two emergencies kept her at the hospital until after eleven that night. Even her cats, Pierre and Rocky, yowled at her when she walked in the door.
“Sorry, guys,” she said as she scooped some food into their dishes and gave them fresh water. “I’m pooped. Don’t wake me early in the morning or you’re toast.”
She fell into bed and slept until almost eight. She would have slept longer except that she had two phone calls. One was a patient in labor, the other was Nonie Outlaw. She returned Miss Nonie’s call on her way to the hospital.
“Dr. Kelly, I’m at my wit’s end,” Miss Nonie said. She sounded distraught and near tears. “It’s Cole.”
Kelly’s heart gave a lurch. “What’s wrong?”
“He refuses to go to J.J. and Mary Beth’s wedding. We couldn’t even pry him out to go to the rehearsal and dinner last night. Everybody in the family has tried to talk to him, but he’s a stubborn as Vick Trawick’s mule. I—I thought that since you seem to have a way with Cole that perhaps you could persuade him.”
“Does he have a suit to wear?”
“Frank was going to lend him one, but nobody would care if he came in pajamas and bathrobe.”
He would, Kelly thought. “I’m on my way to the hospital now, Miss Nonie, but tell Frank that I’ll drop by and pick up the dress clothes when I’m done. The wedding’s at three, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but the clothes are already at the inn. Everything is hanging in a bag in the office. Frank left it there last night—in case Cole changed his mind.”
“I’ll do my best, Miss Nonie. Stop worrying about Cole and enjoy the day.”
BY THE TIME Kelly got home, showered, tamed her hair and dressed in a rust-colored outfit, it was after one-thirty. She ate half a protein bar on the way to the Twilight Inn.
When she walked into the office, she saw the garment bag hanging on a hook behind the desk. Picking up the clothes, she took a deep breath then knocked on the door to the apartment.
Cole opened the door wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of the new sweatpants she’d bought. He gave her the once-over, then smiled. “You look mighty fine, Red. Going somewhere?”
“I am. To a wedding, and I need a date.”
“Can’t help you there. But I can offer you a cup of coffee.”
“Got any brownies left?” she asked as she breezed by him with the garment bag.
“Nope. Ate the last one this morning for breakfast.”
“With your eggs?”
“Instead of my eggs.”
“Works for me,” Kelly said. “Had lunch?”
“Yep. You?”
“Yep. Take off your pants.”
He looked amused. “I think we’ve had this conversation before.”
“A slight variation.” She unzipped the bag and took out the dark suit pants. “Put these on instead.”
“I’m not going to the wedding, Red.”
“Don’t call me Red. And you already told me that you’re not going to the wedding with me. You did, however, ask me out for coffee, and how would it look with you in sweats and me in my finery?”
“In,” he said.
“In?”
“I asked you in for coffee, not out.”
She waved her hand in dismissal. “I prefer out. Need help with your pants?”
“Yeah.”
It was a dare if she’d ever heard one.
“Okeydokey.” She stuck her thumbs in the elastic waistband of his sweatpants and peeled them down. Thankfully he was wearing underwear. “Lift your right foot. Now your left. Good.”
She kicked off her shoes and got into an awkward semisquat behind him