The Dead Key Part 8

"I'd been in plenty before I joined the force. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, right?" The way he chuckled reminded her of Max. "Say, I hope my sister isn't getting you into too much trouble there at the bank."

"Trouble?" Beatrice frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, she's such a busybody, getting into everyone's business. If I didn't know better, I'd say she should have been the detective."

"Do you mean the missing records?" She tried to seem casual.

"That and a million other little intrigues. She's always coming up with conspiracy theories about the rich families in town and their relationships with the bank. You know, First Bank of Cleveland has the highest deposits of any bank in northeast Ohio. You should be proud to work there." He rolled the car off the freeway and began making his way south toward Little Italy. "You live up Mayfield, is that right?"

She blinked and realized she hadn't told him where they were headed. "Um, yeah. Did Max tell you where I live?"

"Not exactly. Let's just say it was discussed."

"Discussed?"

"Maxie was all worked up about some mix-up at the bank on your address. You may want to look into that, by the way. Apparently, your file has an error in it. It says you live at a restaurant or something."

Beatrice gaped at him. Someone had discovered that she had lied on her employee questionnaire, and it was Max.

"I told you she's a busybody. She even had me look you up in the police records." He flashed her a rea.s.suring grin. "Don't worry. You weren't in there."

"Is that legal? Why would she do that?" Her voice was becoming shrill.

"Well, it's all public record. I just have better access. What can I say? I'm a sucker for my little sister."

Beatrice opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Tony turned toward her at a stoplight. "Don't worry so much. Max really likes you. Besides, what have you got to hide?" He patted her knee as if that settled the matter.

Beatrice smiled uneasily. "Could you drop me off at the diner up there? My aunt is working."

Tony slowed the car, and Beatrice tried to relax. Perhaps Max's snooping was truly harmless. She'd invited her to Thanksgiving after all. Maybe she really was just a busybody. Beatrice decided to change the subject.

"So, did you just say that the bank works with all of the richest families in town?"

"Yep, from Carnegie to Rockefeller, it seems like they all preferred the First Bank of Cleveland. Half of 'em actually sit on the board of directors. Brodinger, Swede, Mathias, Wackerly, Halloran . . ."

Beatrice had heard of Rockefeller, but none of the other names registered until he said Halloran.

"Some even speculate the Covelli family holds an interest at the bank."

"Who?"

"You live in Little Italy and haven't heard of the Covellis?" He raised an eyebrow.

Her expression was blank.

"They're the last family in town that's still connected to Sicily, or so we think."

Beatrice nodded, even though she wasn't sure what he was talking about. The car slowed, and he pulled to the curb in front of the diner where her aunt was pulling a double shift. Tony got out of the car and escorted her to the front door.

"It was very nice meeting you, Beatrice. If you ever need anything,"-he reached into the pocket of his wool overcoat and handed her a card-"call me."

She took the card. It read "Detective Anthony McDonnell, Cleveland Police Department." It wasn't quite clear if he was offering her police protection or flirting with her. "Thank you, Detective," she said shyly.

He chucked her chin. "Happy Thanksgiving, Beatrice."

The unmarked police car left tracks in the snow as she stood there holding the detective's card in her hand.

CHAPTER 16.

Beatrice walked into the greasy heat of the diner and looked for Doris. The bright lights made everything seem more dingy. Random customers, mostly older men, were scattered around the room, sipping coffee and eating pie. The diner was running a skeleton crew from the looks of things. There was only one cook in the back and one waitress, limping around with a pot of black coffee.

Beatrice waved her down. "Hi, Gladys. Happy Thanksgiving! Is Doris here?"

"Oh dear!" The old woman set down her scorched pot on the breakfast counter. "Beatrice."

Beatrice's smile disappeared.

Gladys grabbed her hand and led her to a chair. "I had no idea how to reach you. I'm so sorry, but Doris is at the hospital."

"What? What happened?" Beatrice felt the blood drain from her face.

"Oh, honey." Gladys patted Beatrice's hand. "I'm not really sure what happened. One minute she was fine, and the next thing we knew she was on the ground. The ambulance came and took her to University Hospitals. Mick went with her. That was two hours ago."

As Gladys explained, her voice sounded farther and farther away. Beatrice sank down onto one of the stools at the lunch counter.

"Let me call you a cab so you can get to the hospital." Gladys patted her hand.

Beatrice might have nodded, she wasn't sure. She had no idea how many minutes she sat there staring at the floor until Gladys helped her into a taxi and paid the driver to take her to the emergency room. The icy air outside the diner forced her to blink.

She turned to Gladys and managed to whisper, "Thank you."

The emergency room was bedlam. Every seat was full. People were leaning against the walls. There was a baby crying somewhere. One woman clutched a wet red towel around her hand. A man sat with his head between his knees. There was a line five people deep at the registration counter. Beatrice kept her eyes on her feet as she waited to talk with the nurse.

When she finally reached the counter, the nurse was busy writing something on a clipboard. "Um, excuse me? I'm looking for Doris Davis. I think an ambulance brought her here."

"Was she admitted?" the nurse asked without looking up.

"I'm not sure. They said she was taken in an ambulance."

"You need to check with admitting. Go out those doors and walk two blocks that way," the nurse said, pointing the way with her pencil. "Next!"

Beatrice wanted to protest, but her eyes filled with water. She backed away from the counter and ran out of the waiting room. Outside, her stifled tears became sobs. She leaned against a light pole and shook with them.

"Are you okay, miss?" a voice asked.

Beatrice didn't bother to look up at whoever was talking. She waved them away and stumbled down the sidewalk, wiping her wet face with shaking hands.

Doris had been taken to the intensive care unit. The lady behind the counter directed Beatrice to a bank of elevators. She reached the fifth floor and found her way to another desk.

"M-my aunt was brought here tonight in an ambulance. She fell at work."

The night nurse looked up at Beatrice's red eyes and smeared mascara, and her face softened a little. "What's her name?"

"Doris Davis."

"Let me see what I can find out." The nurse walked away, leaving Beatrice alone in the ICU lobby. Beatrice could hear the muted whirring and beeping of machines just beyond the reception desk. The air smelled like industrial cleaner and urine. The thought of Doris spending the night there made her nauseous, and she collapsed into a chair, rocking back and forth.

Under her breath she hummed, "Hush-a-bye . . . Don't you cry . . . Go to sleep my little baby . . . When you wake, you shall have . . . All the pretty little horses."

It was her lullaby growing up. She couldn't recall anyone ever singing it to her, but it must have happened. She couldn't remember how old she was when she started singing it to herself.

The nurse finally returned to the lobby, carrying something. It was Doris's purse. The nurse set it down on the front desk and walked over. Beatrice stopped breathing. She was sure Doris was dead.

"Your aunt had a stroke."

The purse on the sterile desk was the end of a tunnel. Beatrice felt herself sinking.

"She's in a coma," the nurse continued. "Dr. McCafferty has gone home for the night, but he'll be back tomorrow to answer any questions you might have."

Coma. The word registered slowly. She sucked in a breath. Doris wasn't dead. "Can I see her?"

The nurse led Beatrice down a narrow corridor flanked with gla.s.s doors. They reached the last door on the right, and the nurse cracked it open. Inside, a woman lay motionless on a stark white bed. Tubes laced in and out of her nose and right arm. Beatrice hardly recognized the body on the gurney, but it was Doris. Beatrice backed away from the open door and staggered toward the lobby with her hand over her mouth. She'd almost reached the elevators when the nurse's voice stopped her.

"Wait. Don't forget her purse!" she called, and carried the brown bag over to Beatrice. "We never recommend leaving personal items like this here at the hospital. We can't be held responsible for them."

Clutching the purse, Beatrice walked the half mile home from the hospital alone. The cold wind tore through her coat as she climbed the hill, but she could barely feel a thing. When she finally reached the apartment, she let herself inside and sank onto the couch, still gripping Doris's purse. The leather was soft and worn.

Her eyes circled the room. What now? What was she going to do now? She tossed the bag onto the coffee table in front of her. It fell, spilling everything to the floor-seven dollars, a hairbrush full of gray snarls. Her aunt's pack of Kools was half-empty and wrinkled. She put the pack to her nose and smelled the cigarettes. Her eyes filled with tears again.

She tenderly picked up her aunt's key chain and cradled it in her palm as if she were cradling Doris's hand. She hadn't touched her hand in the hospital. Instead she had run away.

Beatrice gripped the keys until they hurt. She recognized the apartment key and the key to the bas.e.m.e.nt laundry. There was another key that she figured must be for work. The last key was strange. It was smaller and more intricate than the others. It looked older. She turned it over and saw that it had a number on it. It read "547." She stared at it until her swollen eyes fell shut.

CHAPTER 17.

Beatrice walked into the office on Monday still in a trance. The doctor had given her a long explanation involving bursting blood vessels, smoking, and bad luck, but she could barely make sense of any of it except that Doris may never wake up.

"You look awful!" Max mock scolded her. "Were you out drinking last night?"

Beatrice didn't dare speak. Tears burned the corners of her eyes. She couldn't cry at work; she couldn't afford to lose her job at a time like this. There was rent, bills, and food to pay for all by herself. Alone. A tear spilled down her cheek.

"Meet me in the bathroom. Go now," Max commanded.

Beatrice obeyed. She made her way to a stall and sat down. She couldn't remember the last time she had eaten.

Max came barreling in. "Hey, what's going on with you?"

"My aunt's in the hospital. She had a stroke. I . . . I don't want to talk about it."

"When did it happen?"

"Thanksgiving. I found out after your brother dropped me off."

"My G.o.d! I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

There was genuine concern on Max's face. The sight brought Beatrice to sobs. Max was the first person to offer her help since her aunt's stroke. The nurses were cold. The doctor talked about her aunt as if she were a broken car. She buried her head in her hands.

Max handed her toilet paper to wipe her eyes. "We need to get you out of here. Take the elevator down to the lobby. I'll meet you there in five minutes."

"But what about . . . ?"

"You let me worry about Cunningham. She can't see you like this. Just go."

Beatrice nodded. She stood on shaky legs and caught a glimpse of her red, puffy face in the mirror. Max was right. She couldn't go back to her desk this way.

Five minutes later, Max stepped out of the elevator, grinning. "Old Cunny was feeling very generous today. We both have the day off to help you cope with your family tragedy. Christ, it looked like she might cry herself. How 'bout a drink? You look like you could use one."

Beatrice didn't care where they went as long as she wouldn't be alone anymore. She followed Max out the front doors and up the street to the pub.

Carmichael was behind the bar, prepping for the day, when Max pounded on the gla.s.s door. It was locked. The Theatrical Grille didn't officially open until 11:00 a.m. "Bellas!" he sang out from behind the door. "What can I do for you?"

"Open up, Carmichael! We have an emergency," Max shouted.

"But you know I can't serve you until I open. The police will give me all sorts of headaches."

"My brother and father insist." Max pushed her way into the bar. "Bring us two gin rickeys."

Carmichael paused to consider the argument and eventually nodded. Max pulled Beatrice to a booth and sat her down. "Tell me everything."

Carmichael rushed over with the drinks, and Max pushed one to Beatrice. Beatrice took a long, slow sip and let out a little gasp as the liquor burned down her throat. She took another sip and the story poured out, from her car ride with Tony, to the beeping machines at the hospital. Max listened and handed her tissues from time to time.

"Then they told me to take her purse home because it wouldn't be safe there. The purse wouldn't be safe there, but I was supposed to leave a whole person. A purse is not as important as a . . . person." Beatrice sniffed. The tears were welling again.