The Hot Ladies Murder Club. Ann Major

      Five

      Campbell’s head pounded as he wheeled into the nursing home parking lot so fast he spun gravel. His headache got worse as he parked his gleaming black Porsche near the front doors of the red brick building. Twice a month he came here, and he hated every minute of it, even as he hated himself for being such a sap as to come.

      A group of old men and women, their wheelchairs jammed together in a tight little semicircle, were smoking and telling stories until they saw him. Every one of them set his cigarette aside and stared at him blankly—as if he were someone interesting.

      Campbell cut the ignition and got out of the car. Poor devils, didn’t they have anything better to do? No, they were out here every time he came to visit. He smiled and they smiled back, just like always. Hell, at least they had one another. Who the hell did he have?

      When he got nearer, they waved and he waved to each one, scanning each wrinkled face. But his father never left his room.

      His mood darkened as he headed inside, striding down a long hall past limp, corpselike figures in recliners on wheels, past the nurses’ station, where the head nurse eyed him warily.

      He wasn’t the most popular visitor. Too many lawyers had won huge judgments in Texas against nursing homes by charging neglect for bad results that were nothing more than the natural consequences of old age. Not that Campbell ever took such cases, but the old battle-ax didn’t know that.

      He stalked down the hall and into his father’s room. As always, the shades were drawn. Still, he made out two beds squashed together in the gray light. The bed nearest the door was empty, yet the floor and bed linens and chairs reeked of old man and dried urine and pine-scented disinfectant. Vaguely he wondered what had happened to the old fellow who’d been here last week.

      When a thin stick figure with grizzled hair and a wizened face that somehow still resembled his own stirred in the bed by the window, Campbell snapped on the light.

      “Dad?”

      The old man hadn’t been washed or shaved that day. He blinked a couple of times and then held up a thin hand that was spotted with age.

      At the sight of Campbell, the old man’s expression darkened just like it used to. “Turn out the damn light and get out of my sight! Nobody invited you. You ain’t no son of mine.”

      Campbell shrank from him just like he had when he’d been a boy.

      “I came by to see if you needed anything.”

      His father snorted. “As if you give a damn.”

      The harsh words hurt way more than they should have. Campbell couldn’t account for it, didn’t want to account for it. He’d never known anything but pain from his father.

      “I know we didn’t get along in the past—but you’re sick now. Maybe you need somebody.”

      Maybe I do, too. Did they have to hate each other forever? Then he remembered his mother. Yeah, maybe they did.

      “Are you deaf? And crazy, too?” His father picked up a bedpan and threw it at him.

      Campbell ducked as he hadn’t been able to duck as a kid, and the pan whizzed past him out into the hall.

      “Get the hell out of here,” the old man said.

      When Campbell hurled himself outside into the brightly lit hall a dozen patients stared blankly at him and the bedpan.

      “You killed her. Remember that. Just like you’re killing me. Don’t come back.”

      Campbell told the nurse the old man smelled bad and needed a bath. She told him three orderlies had tried, but he’d fought them so hard, they’d given up.

      Campbell walked down the hall, his spirits lifting, but only a little, when he saw the exit sign.

      The trouble with old people in nursing homes waiting to die was they slammed you into your own mortality. Campbell couldn’t come here without taking a long, cold look at himself.

      What the hell was he doing with his own life? Would anybody care if he died tomorrow?

      Yes, they would. A lot of people would be glad.

      War Party.

      The red neon letters of the hotel sign flickered like flares against the red sky and bay. In the distance a lone sailboat rode the waves. Not that Hannah noticed the yacht. She was too busy wondering why she’d let Taz talk her into this.

      One glance at that hotel sign had her pulse in overdrive. The huge motorcycles gleaming in the red sunlight in the jammed parking lot didn’t help her mood, either.

      “Taz, let’s go home.”

      “We just got here, girl. Georgia’s fine. Lilly’s a great sitter.”

      When Taz wheeled into the lot, a burly pair of bikers in black vests with chains belted around their waists hooted, “Women—over here!”

      Grinning at Taz, they gunned their engines and then rolled their big chopped hogs out of a parking space beside the hotel entrance.

      The bikers’ burly arms had tattoo “sleeves.”

      “Taz, I want to go home.”

      With a jaunty smile Taz zoomed into the empty spot. “Jesus, I wish we were on my bike.”

      Hannah buried her face in her hands.

      Taz laughed. “You need this recharge way more than I do. Your life is too bo-oring.”

      “Which is exactly the way I want it.”

      “Why?”

      Because I want to be safe. Because I want Georgia safe. Because I’ve learned lessons I never wanted to learn.

      Not that she could tell Taz any of her story. Not about her crazy, superfamous parents or their highly publicized squabbles. Not about the wall between their two houses. Not about her little-girl dream of wanting them to simply be happy. Not about her own fame at too early an age. Not about her own need to rescue bad handsome men, either. Not about the terrible experiences her husband had had in boarding school.

      She’d loved the wrong men with a big open heart. She’d paid a huge price for her naiveté. And so had Georgia. No more. For Georgia’s sake, if not her own, she had to make more prudent decisions.

      Inside the hotel, Hannah had barely had one long slim foot with