Plain Jane Page 5

  Olive let loose with another ungodly howl, then bounded down the stairs and ran through the foyer to the parlor and beyond. Her barks echoed through the sparsely furnished house.

  “Come back here, Olive. What’s gotten into you?” Jane kept her eyes on the tinkling chandelier as she crept down the stairs. “Damn you, Mike Sorenson, if you’ve stirred something up, I’ll never forgive you!”

  The chandelier had stopped tinkling by the time Jane reached the bottom of the stairs. Nevertheless, she decided to give it a wide berth just in case the nuts and bolts that held it had come loose. She walked over to the bench where she’d tossed her briefcase, picked it up, and saw that all the zippers were open—the outside zipper; the inside, change-purse zipper; and the two file zippers. She dropped the briefcase like a hot potato. Her frightened gaze swept to the file folder on the floor. Frightened but curious, she stretched out her right leg and, with the toe of her shoe, pulled the folder toward her until she could see the tab. It was the Ramsey file.

  Shivers ran up her arms. Reluctantly, she squatted to pick it up and was knocked off-balance when Olive came from out of nowhere and threw herself onto Jane’s lap.

  “Olive! What the hell’s wrong with you?” she shouted as she tried to get the spaniel off her lap so she could sit up. “Damn it, Olive—” It suddenly dawned on her; Olive was terrified. She was panting heavily, and her entire body was trembling. Overcome with guilt, Jane grabbed the spaniel and held her close. “It’s okay, girl,” she crooned softly. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. It was probably just the house settling,” she said, thinking the dog’s fear was due to the tinkling chandelier, something she’d never heard before.

  Looking over Olive’s head, Jane watched in horror as the rest of her paperwork slithered, page by page, out of her briefcase and onto the old pine bench. “Easy, Olive, easy. I’m sure there is a very logical answer to all of this. I don’t know what it is yet, but once I analyze everything—” She chuckled. “It’s probably just a draft. Yeah, that’s what it is. A draft.” She twisted her head around to see if any of the windows were open in the parlor. They weren’t.

  “This is silly. Get up, Ollie.” She pushed the dog off her lap and struggled to her feet. “After I pick all this up, I’m going to go—” She stared at the papers in her hand. “What we’re going to do is—” They were in order. They weren’t that way when she’d jammed them into her briefcase. “We’re going to the Ramsey house is what we’re going to do!” she said, shoving the folder and all the papers back into the briefcase and zipping all the zippers. She looked around to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. With trembling hands, she carefully hung the briefcase by its shoulder strap on the hall tree.

  Olive pawed at her leg.

  Jane glanced down at her. “You wanna go for a ride?”

  Olive stood up on her hind legs and grabbed the leash hanging from one of the hall tree’s hooks.

  “Okay, okay, calm down,” Jane said as she hooked the leash to Olive’s collar. The crazy dog loved going for rides even more than she loved pig ears. On occasion Jane had tried to fool her and sneak out of the house without taking her, but Olive always knew and came running, dragging her leash behind her. It was like she had a sixth—She stopped herself from completing the thought. Dogs were “sensitive” to certain weather conditions, earthquakes, and their owners’ moods, but they did not have a sixth sense.

  With Olive at her side, Jane walked through the house, turning off the lights she’d turned on a little while earlier. “I know this isn’t going to make any sense to you, Ollie, but my gut tells me I need to do something about Mr. Ramsey. If that means getting personally involved, then so be it. My patient is my first concern. No, that’s not true,” she said, bending to pet Olive. “You’re my first concern.” Olive looked up at her expectantly. The excitement of going for a ride had made her forget her fear. Wouldn’t it be nice, Jane thought, if my patients could be cured of their fears so easily?

  Thirty minutes later, Jane pulled into a parking space a block away and around the corner from the Ramsey house. “I’m going snooping, Olive, and while I’m gone I want you to be a good girl.” She turned off the ignition. “I’ll leave the windows down for you, but you need to remember the rules, no jumping out like you did at the grocery store last year, no whining to get someone to come over to you, and no barking.” She put her right hand under the dog’s chin and looked her square in the eyes. “Yes, I know all your tricks. I’ll be back in ten minutes, and if you do anything bad, I’ll know it.”

  Jane closed the car door and shook a warning finger at Olive. Confident the dog would be good, she headed toward the Ramsey house. It was raining. Rain was good. People would go indoors if they were outside. She turned the corner and walked down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the Ramsey house to the next corner, then came back on the other side.

  Pale yellow light shone through the windows, but no outside lights were on. The streetlights were dim, two of them on the street burned-out. She was soaking wet by the time she tiptoed up the Ramseys’ driveway to the back of the house. Sucking in her breath, she waited to see if she had triggered any motion lights. Either Brian Ramsey conserved electricity, or he didn’t worry about unwanted visitors. Remembering there was no outside furniture, no outdoor grill, and no hoses to trip over, she found her way easily to the back windows.

  As before, the kitchen window gave her a clear view of the entire kitchen, a small hallway, and part of the dining room. Everything was as clean, as tidy, and just as bare as it had been the last time she’d been there. The only difference was that the light over the stove was on, giving an orangey, yellowish glow to the kitchen. She left the kitchen window and moved quickly and quietly, her heart hammering in her chest, to the far side of the house to peer into what she thought was the master-bedroom window. A night-light above the baseboard allowed her to see that the bed was unmade and empty. She continued around to the front of the house, hoping to see someone, something, anything!

  Rain dripped down inside the collar of her jacket as Jane stealthily crept up to the narrow stoop to peer into the living-room window. Shivering, she hugged her arms to her chest. A quick glance up and down the street told her no one was in sight. Off in the distance she heard Olive bark. An answering response came from the opposite end of the street.

  Jane inched upward to look in the window. Brian Ramsey was sitting in a hunter green leather recliner, a bottle of beer in his hand and a package of cigarettes in the breast pocket of his white T-shirt. He was alone.

  Not wanting to jump to any conclusions, Jane looked to every corner of the room and as far beyond it as the view from the window would take her. Nothing. No one.

  Where was Mrs. Ramsey?

  In the bathroom? But the two opaque windows she’d assumed were bathroom windows had been dark.

  Jane gasped when Brian turned his gaze toward the window. She ducked and ran, faster than she’d ever run before, across the lawn, down the sidewalk, her shoes sloshing. When she reached the corner she realized that in her panic, she had gone in the wrong direction. Cursing under her breath, she retraced her steps, taking the long road back to her car. The moment she was safely inside, she locked the door and started the engine, her heart hammering in her chest. For one bad moment she thought she was going to black out. She forced herself to take long, deep breaths, the air hissing from her mouth in a long, unsteady stream. She didn’t turn on the car’s headlights until she was three blocks away.

  “You disobeyed me, Ollie,” she scolded once she was on the open road. “I heard you bark.” The dog moved closer to the passenger window, pinned her ears flat against her head, and hung her head in shame. “You’re a naughty dog, Ollie. No more rides for you this month.” It was an idle threat—she knew it and so did Olive.

  She’d just risked her professional standing to get a peek at the elusive Mrs. Ramsey. And what had she gotten for all her effort? A look at Brian Ramsey sitting in his chair like a zo
mbie, the same way he did in her office. If he had a wife, the woman either spent her life in the summer kitchen or hid out in a darkened bathroom. Because it was a tract house, it was highly unlikely that there was a summer kitchen. That left the dark bathroom. The thought was too ridiculous for words.

  All the way home Jane chastised herself. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she hissed between her teeth. She glanced sideways at Olive. “I think he saw me, Ollie. I swear to God I think he saw me. He looked right at me.” Sighing, she returned her gaze to the road. “If I hadn’t hightailed it out of there—I can just see him catching me, calling the police, and having me arrested for being a Peeping Tom. Boy, when I do stupid things, I really do stupid things. We aren’t ever going to mention this again,” she said, tightening her grip on the steering wheel. “Never, do you hear me, Olive? Never!”

  Olive inched toward her mistress and lightly pawed her arm.

  “Come here,” Jane said, putting her arm around the dog and pulling her close. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean that about not taking you in the car.” Olive snuggled next to Jane’s side and licked her face.

  Jane’s nerves were still twanging when she arrived home. After closing the curtains and checking to make sure the doors were locked, she went into the kitchen and rummaged around until she found the special “brew” she kept on hand for Trixie and Fred. She poured herself two fingers of the finest Kentucky bourbon the state had to offer and tossed it down her throat in one swallow. Coughing and sputtering, her eyes tearing, she collapsed in the chair and waited for the bourbon to do its thing, but after ten minutes, she still didn’t feel any better. Maybe a cigarette would help. She wasn’t a smoker, but Trixie and Fred were, and Trixie always said there was nothing like a good smoke to calm her down and help her think. As with the bourbon, Jane kept a pack of their favorite brand in her catchall drawer as a precautionary measure in case they ran out while visiting. She lit up, broke into a fit of coughing, and stubbed it out. What satisfaction her godparents got out of smoking was a mystery—one better left unsolved.

  Tomorrow morning, when she did her five-mile morning run, something she hadn’t done in over a month, she was going to stop by her godparents’ house. She needed to talk to someone, someone who would listen, be on her side, and still be objective. Trixie could be painfully objective. Fred, too.

  “Enough’s enough, Olive. I’ve had it. Let’s go to bed. I’m so tired I can’t think straight.” She yawned and stretched.

  The spaniel waited patiently until Jane turned the lights off before racing up the stairs. When she reached the top, she sat down on her haunches and barked as if to say, c’mon, c’mon, let’s go.

  Jane went through her bedtime regimen in record time, then grabbed a pair of clean pajamas out of her drawer, her “dream” pajamas she called them because of the fluffy white clouds printed on a sky-blue background. By the time she climbed into the big four-poster rice bed alongside Olive, she was already planning what to dream about—Mike Sorenson.

  Jane rolled over and stretched out her hand to cuddle Olive. Just knowing the dog was beside her was comforting. Instead, her hand encountered the lumpy bedspread. Stirring uneasily, she opened one eye and saw Olive sitting on her haunches in front of the French doors that led out to the balcony. She was wiggling her head the way she did when Jane scratched her ears.

  “Hello, Dr. Lewis,” a boyish voice said. “My name is Billy Jensen, and this is my dog, Jeeter. Jeeter likes Olive. They had a wonderful run earlier out by the well, but of course, you already know that.”

  Wearily, Jane propped herself up on her right elbow and stared at the boy and the dog standing by the door. “Who are you? How did you get in here? I locked the doors.” That was a stupid question, she told herself. This was a dream and anything could happen in a dream. It didn’t have to make sense. She yawned. “I’d appreciate it if you’d move on and let me get back to sleep. What time is it anyway?”

  “Time has no meaning to me. Or Jeeter.”

  “Well, it does to me. I have to get up early in the morning. So go away.”

  “Jeeter is lonely. And so am I. I thought we might become friends.”

  “Fine, but not tonight, okay? I’m really beat, and I want to dream about someone else.”

  “Yes, I know. Your gentleman caller, Dr. Sorenson. He makes you act funny.”

  “Funny? Funny how?”

  “Like this,” he said, batting his eyes.

  “I beg your pardon, but I have never done that to anyone in my life. Dr. Sorenson and I are business associates. Nothing more. Now, please, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d appreciate it if you’d get out of my dream. If I don’t get enough sleep, I’m grouchy.”

  “I know. I’ve seen how grouchy you can be.”

  “Go away!” Jane lay down on her back and closed her eyes.

  “I’ll leave, but first I want to tell you that I know what you did this evening. You shouldn’t do things like that. It’s too risky. And what was worse was that you locked Olive in the car. She couldn’t have helped you if you’d needed her.”

  “For the record,” Jane said with growing impatience, “I didn’t lock the car door, and even if I did, Olive knows how to get it open.” Something about this dream was very undreamlike. She opened her eyes, blinked, and took a good long look at the youth standing by the French door. “Am I supposed to know you? You don’t look familiar. But I must have met you somewhere. . . . Dreams are manifestations of what happens in our daily lives. Olive, get over here.”

  “You know who I am. I’m a spirit. I’m the one who took the Ramsey file out of your briefcase. You’ve known about me for a long time, but you’ve always refused to acknowledge me. You have Dr. Sorenson to thank for opening up our communication wavelengths.”

  Jane snorted. “So . . . Let me see if I get this right. This is not a dream. And I am not asleep. I am, in fact, wide-awake and conversing with a spook.”

  “Yes, to everything. But please, I am not a spook. When you call me that, you hurt my feelings.” The boy laughed, then disappeared.

  When he reappeared, he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Jane reared back and pulled the coverlet to her chin. “How’d you do that?” she shrilled.

  “There is a scientific name for it, but I keep forgetting what it is. Let’s just say it’s a ghostly thing. You know, like walking through walls and stuff like that.”

  Jane could feel her body trembling beneath the covers. “Olive, come over here. Right now, dammit!” Olive and Jeeter jumped up on the bed. Jane grabbed Olive and put her arms around her. “What—What do you want of me?”

  The boy shrugged. “I just want to be your friend. I know you’re scared of me, but you don’t need to be. I won’t hurt you.”

  Jane struggled to relax. This had to be a dream. Had to be. Didn’t it? She stared at the young man sitting on the edge of her bed. He appeared young, fifteen or so, with a million freckles dotting his face, brown eyes, and curly, sandy-colored hair. He wore coveralls and a long-sleeved plaid shirt.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts, spirits, spooks, or other . . . unearthly things,” she said. She rolled over and thumped her pillow. This was one dream she hoped she would remember in the morning. She felt her mattress lift and heard a thump on the floor. Olive was still on the bed.

  “Good night, Dr. Lewis.”

  “Woof.”

  Oh God! Olive hadn’t barked. Her head was plastered against her chest so she would . . . Jane closed her eyes. That was one hell of a dream, she thought. It must have been the bourbon. She looked at the clock beside her bed: 5:10 A.M. She still had an hour until the alarm went off.

  Jane limped up the driveway to her godparents’ house. Her legs felt like they were on fire. Why would she be getting shin splints now? Probably because this was the first time she’d gone running in over a month. “Hey, what’s for breakfast?” she yelled as she let herself in the back door.

  Trixie came out of the pantry, a small bird of a woman wit
h brilliant pinkish red hair, pounds of gold jewelry hanging around her neck, and multicolored half glasses resting on the end of her nose. Gold hoop earrings, big enough for a bird to fly through, dangled from her ears. As always, Jane marveled at the frail body with the stick-thin arms and legs as she hugged her godmother. Eighty-nine pounds dripping wet, she thought.

  “You’re gonna have to drive me home, Trix. I’m outta shape. My run this morning proved it. You cooking breakfast, or are we eating it out of a box?”

  “Pop-Tarts,” Trixie said. “Strawberry or blueberry? Never mind, I only have blueberry.” Trixie laughed as she put the pastries into the toaster oven.

  “Nice outfit,” Jane said, giggling. “What do you call it?”

  Trixie’s laughter tinkled around the kitchen. “It’s my hanging-out-at-the-police-station outfit. Today is Friday. I always hang out there on Fridays. You never know what you can pick up in a police station. Just a word or an action will trigger something. Then there are the criminals who are innocent. The stories would fill a book. Tell me about last night,” Trixie said as she expertly removed the Pop-Tarts from the toaster oven. She tossed one to Jane.

  “I still can’t believe no one in this town knows you and Fred are T. F. Dingle. That’s worthy of a book in itself. Mike Sorenson was terribly impressed that I had a complete set of your books. There’s nothing I would have liked better than to tell him that I personally knew his favorite author, but I didn’t. Your secret is safe.”

  “Okay, so you impressed him with our books, then what?” Trixie prompted.