The Trouble With Dying Page 13

  My stomach lurches. Oh? I look from Geoff to Cynthia and back again. No. I give myself a mental shake. Don’t be silly.

  “What is it?” murmurs Cynthia.

  For a moment Geoff doesn’t respond. He stares into the distance. “That was Faith’s dentist on the phone. Apparently she missed an appointment.”

  “Hardly surprising.” Cynthia’s lips form a faint smile. “She’s in a coma.”

  He frowns. “The appointment was March the tenth.”

  He waits for her reaction. When she shows none, he pointedly adds, “The day of the accident?”

  “Ah.” Beside him, she turns and rests her elbow on the windowsill. Gazes down at the garden, chin in hand. “What time?”

  “Four o’clock.”

  “Well, she was in hospital by then.”

  Cynthia turns and studies his face. “Geoff, why are you letting this bother you? It was just a courtesy call.”

  “That’s not the point.” His words, though quiet, are clipped. He folds his arms and looks away, jaw working.

  I watch the two of them, confused. Then I remember Gran’s words. Geoff. Keep an eye on Geoff. I narrow my focus to him. Man, he’s agitated. What’s this really about? If only I could read his mind.

  “Relax,” Cynthia murmurs, her eyes back on the view. “People miss appointments all the time.”

  “People might, but Faith doesn’t. Don’t you see? How can it be attempted suicide if there are loose ends like missed dental appointments?”

  For a moment everything mutes. All I hear is my heart, too loud and too fast, banging against my ribs. Loose ends? Around me, the birthday party continues in pantomime. What does he mean, ‘loose ends’? A leaden weight of dread drops in my belly. I feel winded.

  Cynthia speaks but no sound emerges. I watch her lips, forcing myself to concentrate, and her voice comes through to me as if from the far corner of a farmer’s field.

  “. . .-one who’s suicidal to be thinking straight.” One elegant eyebrow arches. “So she forgot to cancel. She had other things on her mind.”

  She’s rationalising it. Calming him down. Helping him. My heart lurches up to my throat.

  Geoff shakes his head. “Faith plans everything down to the last detail. She wouldn’t forget to cancel. I know it, you know it, anyone who knows Faith will know it. Christ. What a mess.”

  And how am I supposed to take that? Fear snakes along my veins, lifting the hairs on the back of my neck. Because no matter which way I look at it, there’s only one way I can interpret his words. Geoff wanted it to look like I’d attempted suicide.

  He tried to kill me.

  The noise returns ten-fold, so loud it’s smothering.

  And there I was, worrying about a stupid suicide rumour?

  But why? Why would he want me dead?

  Cynthia looks at Geoff, then reaches out and caresses his arm.

  My heart slows. Really? My best friend? There’s a steel band around my chest, squeezing tighter, tighter.

  And my husband, my . . . murderer? I struggle to breathe.

  Geoff does that hand-through-the-hair gesture I now recognise as agitation. “When Kathy hears about this she’ll create merry hell. She’s so determined to prove it wasn’t suicide.”

  “Well, accidents do happen.” Cynthia’s words boom in the unexpected hush that’s fallen over the room.

  She turns. Geoff looks sharply towards the bed and I hear what everyone else has already tuned in to: the heart monitor. It’s beeping. Blast. Faith-in-the-bed. I’ve upset her.

  Even as I listen, the beeping accelerates.

  “Mummy?” Tess looks wildly around.

  Our eyes lock and I give her a reassuring wave, but it does nothing to dispel her terror.

  “Mummy!” she shrieks.

  “It’s okay, darling,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”

  At least, I hope so. I just need a moment to calm my breathing.

  “Get a doctor!” barks Geoff, but Nate’s already at the bed, pushing the call bell.

  Grim-faced, Geoff strides over to the heart monitor. Adrenalin shoots through my limbs. Fuck. What’s he about to do?

  “Faith!” Gran reappears, and the onesie has been swapped for a soldier’s uniform. “Stop this! Now!”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. Calm down. At once.” Hands on hips, she glares at me as if I’m a naughty little girl.

  I want to scream. Cry. Vomit. Instead I close my eyes and focus, the way she’s taught me. Slow. Down. Breathe in. Breathe out. Beep-beep-in. Beep-a-beep-out.

  A nurse arrives, takes in the situation at a glance, and tells everyone to leave the room. She works with Faith-in-the-bed, ignoring Geoff who stands silently by. But the moment is over. I’ve forced myself calm, and Faith-in-the-bed has stabilised.

  The nurse smiles across at Geoff. “Your wife’s a fighter. She’s fine.”

  Geoff exhales, and I’m not sure if it’s relief or disappointment. “Thanks.”

  “She just has to ride these episodes out, I’m afraid.” With a gentle touch to his arm she leaves the room, leaving me alone with him.

  Alone with the one man who makes my stomach turn.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I feel vulnerable, and emotional, and trapped. I’ve felt like that for days, but this time it’s different.

  This time it’s about my husband.

  Even though I’m not the first woman to discover she’s married a fink—nor, I doubt, the last—I can’t help the despondency tainting my thoughts. How could I have married him, of all people? Am I really that bad a judge of character?

  I watch my husband—my traitorous ass of a husband—and my poor-me feelings gradually dissipate. Resolve straightens my spine. I have the strength of generations of Osbourne women flowing in my veins. Geoff could be Darth Vader and I’d deep-breathe my way through it. Why? Because I have no alternative.

  My gaze shifts to Faith-in-the-bed. Of the two of us, I’m the strong one—so I’ll do exactly what the nurse said. I’ll ride this out. I’ll get through this for my daughter, and for me.

  Where is everyone? My gaze ricochets from Geoff to the corridor—empty—and back. Surely one of the nurses has told them it’s okay to come back in? Tess will be desperate to see me.

  I gulp back my fear and edge towards the corridor, keeping a watchful eye on Geoff—which is silly, of course, because if he decides to flick the switch or poison me or whatever it is he’s planning, I can’t do a damn thing to stop him.

  I thrust my head through the wall and quickly search left then right for my family.

  Nobody’s there. I pull my head back in and check on Geoff.

  He wanders into the bathroom and the seat clicks against cistern. Okay, I probably don’t need to watch that. He can’t kill me if he’s in there, and it gives me a few moments to search for reinforcements.

  I whip into the corridor.

  “Tess?” I call, not too loud, because this is a hospital and there are patients to consider.

  Except I’m thinking too much like I’m alive, aren’t I?

  “Tess?” I repeat, louder.

  Maybe they’re in the visitor lounge.

  Just as I decide I’ll risk it and go there, the toilet flushes. I stop, torn. Back to my room or down to the lounge? The room wins. I don’t want to leave Faith-in-the-bed alone with Geoff.

  He comes back in and walks over to Faith-in-the-bed. Anxiety claws at my stomach. He stands there, motionless, looking down at her. A series of emotions cross his face: frustration, anger, bitterness, determination and, surprisingly, sadness.

  Sadness—or is it regret? I hover at his shoulder like a stressed-out Tinkerbell. Faith-in-the-bed sleeps peacefully on. Too peacefully.

  Where are the others?

  At last Tess appears. “Hi!”

  Thank God. Her presence dispels the uneasy tension in the room. For now, at least, Faith-in-the-bed is safe.

  “Hi,” Geoff and I reply in synch. His eyes remain
on his wife.

  “Are you okay now?” asks Tess, swinging her gaze between me and the bed.

  Geoff glances up with a distracted frown. “Me?”

  “No. Mummy.”

  “I’m fine,” I reply. “Absolutely fine.”

  “She’s not very well, Pumpkin,” he says. “But the nurse has sorted her out and . . .”

  Tess, clearly not interested in his response, leaps onto the throne and wriggles into a quasi-regal pose. She grins, then looks down her nose at him with such a snooty-Queen expression I snort with laughter.

  “Never mind.” Geoff sighs. He picks up a random magazine, sits in a chair, and opens it.

  “Off with his head!” Tess points imperiously at Geoff then dissolves in giggles.

  “If my head’s on the floor,” he replies, page-flicking, “who’s going to cook your dinner?”

  “Nan, silly.”

  I stifle a snort. Out of the mouths of babes.

  “As long as it’s not me.” Cynthia saunters in, coffee in hand. With a brief smile for Tess, she looks at Faith-in-the-bed then Geoff. “Panic’s over?”

  Geoff glances up, nods.

  She exhales. “Thank goodness for that.”

  Head to one side, Cynthia watches him for a moment.

  “Hey.” She steps closer and places a hand on his arm. “Are you okay?”

  Geoff sets the magazine aside and looks up at her with a weary smile. He nods.

  “Good,” she says. “Come on, then. You need a break from this. How does dinner at Lolita’s sound? My shout.”

  “Maybe another day,” he says. “I promised Tess a special birthday dinner at her favourite restaurant. Didn’t I, Tess?”

  “Yes!” she cheers. “Yay! I can’t wait!”

  Cynthia bends close to Geoff and his eyes drop momentarily to her cleavage. My heart slows. Is something going on here?

  No. He’s just enjoying the view. What man wouldn’t?

  Their eyes lock, and even I can feel the tension between them. Something is definitely going on here.

  Cynthia drops her voice to a bare murmur. “Shame. I was going to suggest Lolita’s and their famous oyster dish.”

  A restaurant scene flashes across my vision.

  Subdued lighting, intimate surroundings, discreet staff. Geoff, me, a mountain of oysters. He offers me one, guiding it to my mouth, sealing the gift with a kiss. My smile, coy. His eyebrow, suggestive. My laugh, skittery. He’s trying to make this work, he really is. Why can’t I play along?

  A voice in the corridor drags me back. My pulse kicks up. Nate. The perfect distraction from thoughts of Cynthia oyster-ising Geoff.

  I merge through the wall and focus on Nate. And what a focus to focus on. My breath catches. He’s deliciously dishevelled, as always.

  This afternoon he’s brought someone with him. I don’t recognise the man but he clearly knows Nate well, judging by their camaraderie. For all his easy manner and open-necked shirt, though, I wouldn’t want to cross him. He may well be a good six inches shorter than Nate but he looks like he’d be lethal in a bar fight.

  They stop at my door. Their joviality turns sombre.

  “We had a bit of a scare earlier this afternoon,” Nate tells him in a low voice. “Faith’s okay now, but people may be a bit . . . edgy.”

  The other guy shrugs. “You know me. No one stays edgy for long around me.”

  Nate chuckles. “Not after you’ve fired a couple of rounds into them, anyway. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  He ushers his friend into the room. “Geoff, Cynthia, Tess, this is Detective Inspector John Brady.”

  Tess looks at the detective with soulful eyes. She huddles deeper into the chair, looking so sad I want to wrap my arms around her. Some birthday this is turning into.

  Nate walks over to Tess and lifts her into his arms. He murmurs something in her ear and my heart feels suddenly full. What a guy. He sees everything where Tess is concerned and I am so, so grateful. If only I could say the same for her father.

  “Okay, Squirt? I promise.” Nate chucks Tess’s chin. “John’s my friend. He looks kind-of ugly but he’s actually really nice.”

  “Hey!” John pretends to be offended. “Less of the ugly, mate.”

  Nate winks at Tess. “He’s just here to ask us a few questions.”

  Geoff eyes the detective with undisguised hostility. “I’ve already answered questions. Lots of them.”

  “So I understand. But I’m working the case now, and I need to get up to speed.” Brady smiles, and it’s the sort of smile that really needs a cigar to chomp down on; all teeth, no humour.

  “You, ma’am,” says Brady, swivelling his assessing gaze to Cynthia, “are a sight for sore eyes. To what do I owe the privilege?”

  She raises an elegant, unimpressed brow. “Your general nosiness, I imagine.”

  “Crashed and burned,” says Nate lightly.

  Brady ignores him and steps forward. “Nosiness gets me everywhere.”

  He holds his hand out to Cynthia.

  She gives him an assessing gaze, then shakes his hand.

  “Which piece of the puzzle are you, darling?” Brady’s words are kid-glove-soft, but his eyes are flint-hard. My bet is he knows who Cynthia is but wants to hear her explanation. So do I.

  “Darling?” She abruptly releases his hand, and for a moment I think she’s going to shove his darling down his throat.

  Then she blinks and her expression is back to bland. She looks at him from under her lashes. “I know your type all too well, darling.”

  She smiles, but her eyes are calculating. I wonder if he sees it.

  “I’m Cynthia Barton-Wilde,” she adds, “a close family friend.”

  Which seems reasonable, considering she’s got the ‘Auntie Cynth’ and ‘best friend’ labels. But my latest flashback echoes in my mind. Her eyes, so cold. My hurt, so raw.

  The detective nods. “You’ve known the Carsons a while, then?”

  “Oh, years.”

  He waits.

  “I’ve known Faith the longest,” she expands. “We met abroad, during our gap year.”

  I see a brief flash of Cynthia in cargo pants, hair loose, face youthful, makeup flawless in spite of the heat.

  “Smile! Show me glam!”

  Glam? I’m sitting on a bony, flea-ridden donkey, the sweat is literally dripping off me, and in this dusty valley full of ransacked tombs there’s not even a whisper of wind to cool me down. Glam, my ass. I’ll probably die here.

  “Come on.” She laughs at me over her camera. “You look like hell.”

  If we weren’t such good friends I’d think she was running me down.

  Brady raises an eyebrow. “Only a couple of years ago, then?”

  Cynthia laughs, preens a little. “More like a decade.”

  He gives Cynthia a lazy smile. “And Geoff?”

  “I’ve known him just over seven years.” Cynthia turns and smiles at Geoff. “We met at Bar Barbados. Memorable times, they were.”

  She raises a playful brow at Geoff, whose lips twitch. Some shared memory, clearly. He ahems, shoots a glance Brady’s way then ducks his head.

  Brady leans against the wall, eyes hooded, face impassive. He’s an observer; much like me, I realise. I’d love to know what he’s thinking; compare notes.

  “And you’ve been friends ever since,” says Brady.

  Cynthia nods. “Yes.”

  “Until Faith tried to commit suicide, of course.” Brady’s voice is a study in casual.

  Silence.

  “Suicide.” Brady fixes Cynthia with his stare. “What’s that all about?”

  She shrugs. “I have no idea.”

  “But you don’t really care.”

  She narrows her eyes at him.

  Geoff’s face reddens. He steps forward and opens his mouth to speak, but Cynthia puts a restraining hand on his arm. Their eyes meet. He backs down and Cynthia responds instead.

  “How dare you?” Her voice
is low but heated. “Faith was my best friend.”

  “Is.” Brady corrects her.

  He shifts his gaze to Geoff so abruptly I jump—as does Geoff, whose expression turns wary.

  “Mr Carson—Geoff. This must’ve been a huge shock to you, too.”

  Geoff nods but offers nothing further.

  “Did you think your wife was suicidal?” asks Brady.

  “Before this? No. In hindsight? Maybe. I knew she had bad days, but . . . well, obviously it was worse than I thought.”

  “Hmm.”

  “We were never great at talking.” Geoff glances at Cynthia. “When it came to the big stuff I think Faith probably talked to Cynth more than me.”

  Big stuff like ‘my husband wants to kill me’, perhaps? I look at Cynthia, waiting for her to say something.

  But even if Faith-in-the-bed had it worked out, even if she’d told Cynthia—would Cynthia tell Brady? Would she incriminate a man she wants to take to Lolita’s?

  Unlikely.

  Brady’s gaze flicks from Geoff to Cynthia and back to Geoff.

  “Hmm,” he repeats.

  The air vibrates with tension.

  Brady waits.

  Geoff jiggles one leg. Clears his throat. Rakes a hand through his hair.

  Cynthia folds her arms with an exasperated sigh.

  Geoff breaks first. “What exactly is the problem here?” he demands. “Faith confided in Cynth. So what?”

  Brady purses his lips and says nothing.

  Cynthia eyes him frostily.

  Geoff’s agitation grows. I notice sweat beading on his brow.

  At long last Brady relents. “I think there’s something in the notes about Faith telling Cynthia but I forget the details.”

  He pushes away from the wall. “Cynthia, I’d really appreciate it if you could bring me up to speed on all this. Join me outside for a moment?”

  “Thanks.” He holds the door for her, as if she’s already agreed.

  Cynthia shares a look with Geoff—what is she trying to say?—before following the detective out into the corridor.

  Nate gives Tess a reassuring kiss then starts quizzing her about her day; best part, funniest moment, favourite party food, etcetera—anything to distract her.

  Geoff frowns at them, then thrusts a hand in his trouser pocket. For a moment he sullenly watches Cynthia and Brady out in the corridor.