Plain Jane Page 3

  “Yes,” was all Jane could think of to say.

  “You’re lookin’ good, Jane. I like that hat. See ya tonight.”

  Jane watched as every single female in the restaurant followed Mike’s retreating back. He liked her hat. Fancy that.

  She finished her lunch, considered dessert, only to wave the waiter away. While her mouth watered for chocolate thunder cake, her hips said no. She laid a couple of bills on the table and left, certain no admiring male glances were following her. She bemoaned the ten extra pounds she’d picked up over the summer. It seemed she would never again see a size eight, just like she’d never again see a size eight shoe.

  Inside her tomato red Honda Civic, Jane reached for her cell phone. She dialed the station and waited until she heard Tom Bradley, the station manager’s voice. “Tom, it’s Jane. I have to cancel dinner this evening. Something’s come up. No, it isn’t serious, and no, I’m not up for company later.” She put her key in the ignition. “Listen, I’ll stop by the station tomorrow if I can free up some time, but promise me you won’t try to talk me into anything. I’m up to my eyeballs with work as it is. A once-a-week radio show is all I can handle, and besides, why would you want to mess with something that is working perfectly? No, a partner is not out of the question but not Harry Lowell. He’s too arrogant, plus he drinks too much. I’ll give it some thought, okay?” She pressed the end button and tucked the phone into her purse.

  Maybe Mike Sorenson would be interested. He seemed impressed with the whole radio-show thing, said it was a coup. Cohosting might work out, especially if he was the co part. It would be one way to see him more often, to get to know him better. Suddenly the idea was immensely appealing. She wished now that she’d worked the conversation around to personal issues, like was he involved with anyone?

  She wished she knew someone to call and ask before tonight. She hated the Q & A thing. Maybe she could tell Trixie she needed a rundown on him because she was considering asking him to cohost the show. Trixie knew all the ins and outs and would get off on doing something like that. She’d call her when she got to the office.

  Jane slammed through the door to the tiny suite of offices the way she did everything—with gusto. She took off her denim hat with the yellow sunflower and sent it sailing across the room to land neatly on the coat rack. “Bull’s-eye!” she chortled, then tossed her briefcase down onto the top of her spindly antique desk. She glanced at the clock. If she called Trixie now, she would use up the eighteen minutes she had left until Brian Ramsey arrived. Maybe it would be better to wait, to use what time she had left to freshen her makeup, go to the bathroom, read over last week’s notes, and, most of all, calm down from her meeting with Mike.

  Neat stacks of files lined the credenza behind her desk. She really needed to find someone to help out with the office work, until her right hand, Lily Owens, returned from maternity leave. Perhaps a college student or even an office temp. Anyone who could type up her notes, transcribe and catalog the session tapes, set up appointments, run errands, and listen to her bitch and moan. First thing tomorrow morning she would start making calls.

  With six minutes to spare, Jane sat down to study the Ramsey file. Her notes were all of two pages long—everything he’d told her about his wife, his feelings regarding her rape, and her refusal to get help; his complaints about the advice Jane had given to her radio-show callers; her own impressions of him and their sessions. . . . That was it. Not much considering the time she’d spent with him.

  She closed the file and took it into the room she used for communicating with her patients. The moment she stepped inside she felt better, calmer. The room was small, cozy, the carpet thick, the two easy chairs deep and comfortable. She’d decorated it herself, using earthy tones that were easy on the eye.

  A fifty-gallon fish tank was the room’s focal point. She’d opted for large fish versus small ones, and she’d chosen a sunken treasure theme. Even the most uptight patients calmed down and relaxed after a few minutes of staring at the fish.

  Her own chair was ergonomic, comfortable but not too comfortable. It helped remind her she was the one in charge.

  Jane glanced at her watch as she adjusted a lamp shade. She made a mental note to water the maidenhair fern sitting beneath it. Two minutes until Brian Ramsey walked through the door. Her heart began to race. She gasped when the phone rang.

  “Dr. Lewis here.” Brian Ramsey’s voice came over the line. “No, I don’t have a problem with the cancellation, Mr. Ramsey. I’m sorry your wife is under the weather. No, I won’t be billing you for the canceled appointment. We normally do bill if a patient doesn’t cancel twenty-four hours in advance, but I’ll make an exception this time.” She remembered what Mike had said about paving the way for him to talk to Brian. “While I have you on the phone,” she said, purposely trying to sound upbeat, “I’d like to tell you that next Thursday, Dr. Michael Sorenson will be sitting in on our session. I think you might enjoy having him here. If you have a problem with this, you need to let me know now.” She held her breath as she awaited his answer. “Good. Then I’ll see you next Thursday. Tell your wife I hope she feels better soon.”

  Jane hung up and stared across the room at the fish tank. What was wrong with Mrs. Ramsey? Funny, he’d never mentioned her first name. He always referred to her as my wife. A spouse under the weather wasn’t enough of a reason to cancel an appointment. Was there something about today that was different from their other appointment days? Only from her standpoint because she’d talked about him to Mike Sorenson. If she hadn’t, the cancellation probably would have rolled off her back just like any other cancellation. Mike was right, she was breaking the cardinal rule by getting personally involved. She needed to stop thinking about Brian Ramsey because every time she did, she thought about Connie Bryan.

  She had time now to call Trixie. “It’s me, Trixie. How’s it going?”

  “If things get any better, I might have to hire someone to help me enjoy it. In other words, it’s gooder than grits. Hold on a minute, honey,” she said. “Fred,” Trixie McGuire called to her husband, “Janie’s on the phone. Pick up.” Jane smiled as she carried the phone over to the fish tank and checked on her newest additions, a pair of very large angel fish she’d named Gracie and Slick.

  Fred came on the phone. “Janie, girl, it’s nice to hear your voice. You stoppin’ by for a visit?”

  “Not today. I might make it out tomorrow, though. Of course that depends on what you’re having for supper.”

  “Whatever Fred picks up,” Trixie answered, predictably. What that meant to Jane was, Fred would go to the nearest takeout, probably Roy’s, and bring something home. “Spareribs would be real tasty, Fred. Janie likes spareribs, doncha, girl?”

  “I sure do. Seven o’clock okay? Tomorrow, not today.”

  “Okay with me,” Fred said.

  “Trixie, I know you keep tabs on the comings and goings here in town. What do you know about the Sorensons? I had lunch with Mike today in Lafayette. He didn’t say anything about his family. By the same token, I didn’t ask.”

  There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. “Hmm,” Trixie finally said. “As a matter of fact, I do know a thing or two. His parents moved to N’awlins a year or so ago. Rayne was just too quiet for them, and they didn’t want to move to Lafayette for fear Michael would think they were trying to keep tabs on him.”

  “Do you happen to know if he’s married or if he’s seeing anyone?” Jane ventured, knowing she was probably opening a can of worms.

  There was a smile in Trixie’s voice when she answered. “No, he isn’t married. He was seeing a woman, a young lawyer. Coletta was her name. Vivian, his mother, told me she was cuter than a basketful of puppies but that she was jealous of all the hours Mike put into his practice. So they broke up a couple of months back. Does that help?”

  Jane grimaced. Cuter than a basketful of puppies had to mean she was spectacular. “Yes, that helps. Is there anything abou
t anybody you don’t know?”

  “Umm, let me see,” Trixie said as if she was actually considering the question. “No, I don’t think so. Why do you want to know about Mike?”

  “He’s coming over for supper tonight.”

  “I see,” Trixie said, the two words full of innuendo.

  “No, you don’t see. We met today because I invited him to lunch to discuss a patient I’m having some difficulty with. We got to talking, I mentioned my ghosts, and he said he was interested in the paranormal. There you have it. As much as I’d like to think he could be interested in me, it isn’t possible. In high school, he was the kind of guy who always went for the cheerleader type.”

  “That was then and this is now,” Trixie said. “He’s a man now, a professional. Trust me, he doesn’t want some hoochie mama, he wants a real woman. Like you, sweetie.” Jane heard the TV in the background. “By the way, what’s going on with your station manager? I thought you had a thing going with him, though for the life of me, I can’t see what you see in him. The man is uglier than homemade soap.”

  “Shame on you, Trixie,” Fred piped up. “That’s not nice. He can’t help that he fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. Now, I’m not saying he isn’t a nice man, it’s just that . . . Janie, you need to think about how your children will look.”

  Jane shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Not to worry, Fred. I don’t plan on marrying him. I’m just using him for sex.” She put her hand over her mouth and giggled as she imagined the shocked look on his face. “Besides, the whole thing is winding down. All the surprises are gone. He doesn’t have any zip.”

  Trixie cackled with glee.

  “One more thing, Trixie,” Jane interrupted. “Do you know a Brian Ramsey? He owns a trucking company outside of town. I was wondering if he’s local or if he moved here from somewhere else. I’d like to find out a little about his wife. Don’t ask me why I want to know, okay? Don’t you have a snoop file or one of those I Spy files or something you use when you’re doing your writing and you want to check up on people?”

  “I do,” Trixie said smartly. “If you have a social, an address, anything that will help in the search, give it to me and I’ll see what I can do. You know you can trust me to keep quiet.”

  “By the way, how’s the new book going? What number is this again?”

  “One hundred four and going great. Blood and guts everywhere. Fred and I were having a serious discussion when you called. I want the blood to river and he wants it to trickle. When you slice someone in two with a chain saw, the blood will river, not trickle. Right?”

  The visual image made Jane grimace. “I’m not going down that road, Trixie.”

  “Not to change the subject,” Trixie said, “but what are you planning on wearing tonight?”

  “Tonight? Why, actually—Absolutely nothing!” Jane teased. “I’ll see you both tomorrow and give you a full rundown on what happens tonight.” As she was hanging up the phone, she heard Trixie say to Fred, “Did you hear that, Fred, she’s wearing absolutely nothing!”

  “I heard! I heard!” Fred said before the phone went dead.

  Jane’s face broke into a warm smile when she opened her front door. Olive bounded down the steps. Stepping into the foyer, Jane tossed her gear in the general direction of the antique bench before she hunkered down to tussle with the springer spaniel. “I know you’re happy to see me,” she said in her baby-talk voice. “I’m happy to see you, too. Did you have a good day? I had a good day and a bad day. Not really bad,” she said, letting the dog lick her face. “Hey, guess what? We’re having company for supper. The guy of my youthful dreams is bringing Chinese. He’s got a cat named Noodle, whatya think of that?”

  “Woof.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Jane said, staring past the dog to her parlor. Thanks to her father, she’d learned to love carpentry and had done most of the wood restoration herself. The fireplace mantel, original to the house, had been one of her biggest challenges, but she’d patched it lovingly and repainted it. At some point in time the former occupants had removed all the crown molding and stored the pieces in the attic. It had taken Jane forever to haul it down, lay it out on the floor, and put it back together. Copies of pictures owned by the local historical society had revealed that there had been bookshelves on either side of the fireplace. Opening up the walls and finding them still there, intact, had been like finding a hidden treasure. Now, the shelves held all one hundred and three T. F. Dingle books, Trixie and Fred’s pen name. Their spines were unbroken, the brilliant, grisly covers as shiny as the day she’d arranged them.

  A stuffed Taco Bell Chihuahua in her mouth, Olive stood looking at Jane, her eager expression saying she wanted to play.

  Feeling guilty that she’d given Olive short shrift, she got down on her hands and knees and took the back side of the stuffed toy between her teeth and played tug-of-war. Jane was winning when the doorbell rang. Thinking it was the paperboy, she called, “Come in,” between her teeth.

  “Now, this is a Kodak moment if I ever saw one,” Mike said from the doorway.

  Olive dropped her end of the toy to bark at the intruder, leaving Jane holding the other end. Jane’s blood pounded, and she could feel her face growing hot with embarrassment. This was not the way she wanted Mike Sorenson to see her. Annoyed with the picture she knew she was presenting, she yanked the stuffed dog out of her mouth and quickly got to her feet. “We were ah . . . playing,” she said.

  “I can see that. Who was winning, you or . . . Olive, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s Olive, and I was definitely winning.” Jane straightened her shoulders and dusted off her hands. “It can’t be seven o’clock yet. I just got home.” She glanced down at her watch and saw that it was indeed only six-thirty.

  “My last patient canceled. I didn’t think you’d mind if I showed up a little early. I was prepared to sit on the porch and wait.” He moved past her into the parlor. “You’ve really done wonders with the place, but—” Jane watched as he made a telescope of his left hand and peered through it. “Who was your carpenter? You need to sue him!”

  Olive sniffed Mike’s shoes and trouser legs. She was probably smelling his cat.

  “Why would I want to sue the carpenter?”

  “It looks like the crooked little man’s house—everything’s crooked, and the corners don’t meet. I know a good lawyer.” He marched over to the bookshelves. “Good God, do you have the whole set?”

  It was a moment before Jane could get far enough past the crooked little man to answer. “Whole set of what?” she asked coolly.

  “Dingle. It looks to me like you have the whole set, and they’re in mint condition. I only have about sixty in my own library, but I’ve read every single one of his books, some more than once. I’d kill for these. Did you pick them up at a garage sale or what? I never would have figured you to be the blood-and-guts type,” Mike said all in one breath.

  “Really. What type books did you think I would read?” Olive’s head jerked upright as she listened to her mistress’s frosty voice. She slunk closer to Mike, her tail between her legs.

  “That sappy romance stuff all women seem to read. These are guy books. You know, murder and mayhem, blood and guts. T. F. Dingle was one of the first authors I read just for myself back in school. The whole set! I can’t believe it. I don’t suppose you want to sell them, do you?”

  “No, I do not want to sell them.”

  “Over the years I must have written a hundred letters in care of his publisher. He didn’t respond to even one of them!”

  “He who?”

  “T. F. Dingle. The author. I think he must be some kind of recluse. I heard he lives in a shack somewhere and pounds out his novels on an old Underwood. Can you imagine that? Now there’s a guy whose head I’d like to get into to know his thoughts. How about you?”

  Her annoyance dissolved into smug satisfaction. “No. I can’t say that’s one of my top prioritie
s,” she said, enjoying that she finally had one up on him.

  Mike stood back from the bookshelves and did that thing with his hand again. “The whole thing is off a good half inch. How can you showcase T. F. Dingle’s books on a crooked bookshelf? Who’s Stephen Rhodes and why does he get a shelf all to himself?” he asked, walking over to the shelves to inspect the books. Velocity of Money, The Money Trail. “Are they any good?” Little Women, Gone With the Wind, the Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew? “You do have an interesting list here. Don’t you get dizzy when you come in here?”

  “Shut up, Mike,” she said, surprising herself at her boldness. “I don’t want to hear any more. For your information, Stephen Rhodes writes about money. I like reading about money. He’s very good. No, you can’t borrow them, buy your own. Authors depend on royalties and frown on their books being loaned to other people. He has a shelf to himself because he’s going to write a lot of books, and I’m going to buy them all. He might even end up writing more than Dingle. So there. The others are my favorites. Didn’t you read the Hardy Boys growing up? Bring the food into the kitchen. If we eat in here, you might get dizzy and throw up.”

  Jane was aware of him on her heels as she headed into the kitchen. “Sit down,” she said, motioning to an oak pressed-back chair. She zipped around the kitchen collecting plates, napkins, silverware, and, finally, two bottles of beer. “Bon appetit,” she said, setting it all down in the center of the table.

  “I hope I haven’t offended you,” Mike said, his grin conflicting with his words.