Trashy Chic Read online

  “Bottles of water,” Bella said, putting the icicle carefully back into the freezer to Bertie’s relief.

  “These are my different formulas for the icicles. I had to get the right mix of chemicals for hard water that wouldn’t melt right away.” Bella picked up a plastic bottle of water. She passed it from hand to hand then suddenly brought it down hard on one of the wooden counters, which shattered from the impact.

  Bella was smiling that awful smile again. She held up the bottle for Bertie to see. It was intact, virtually undamaged. “Father’s head made the same noise when I cracked it open.”

  She started passing the bottle from hand to hand again. “Then, I tossed the bottle in the river with the other junk that stupid people throw away. Who notices pollution? Even if the river was dragged, no one would look twice at a water bottle.”

  Bella lunged at Bertie, raising the bottle, and bringing it down hard on Bertie’s head.

  Bertie fell; blood started streaming down her face. Her body was limp and things went black. Bella stood over her still body for almost five minutes, listening to the wheezing breath that grew slower and slower and finally stopped.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  Bella stood there for another minute before moving away, leaving Bertie’s body in a growing pool of blood. She turned to the sink and started humming while she rinsed blood from the bottle.

  Bertie expelled her held-breath cautiously, gasping in new as quietly as she could. The dust on the floor tickled her nose, sending her into a panic. She couldn’t sneeze. Bella had to think she was dead or she’d never get out of here.

  She’d hit Bertie a glancing blow that dropped her hard and produced a headache so bad she couldn’t think, but she was alive and she wanted to stay that way. She cracked open her eyes and saw Bella at the sink, her back turned to Bertie.

  Bertie clenched her hands and thought briefly about how sweet life was. She slowly straightened a leg. Bella’s humming covered the slight noise. She gathered her waning strength and jumped up, planning to head for the door, but a sudden wooziness staggered her. She regained her balance, but fell into Bella, whose stomach was pushed hard into the sink. Bella let out a whoosh of air and slid to the floor.

  Before Bella could catch her breath and get up again, Bertie tottered toward the kitchen door trying to remember the layout of the living room. Did she go straight past the pile of toilet seats and then hang a left at the teetering stack of newspapers, or right at the decapitated Kewpie dolls?

  She ran out of the kitchen and into the gloom of the living room. “Please, God, please don’t let me die here,” she thought. “Even dying at work would be better than dying here.”

  She staggered again, careening into the toilet seats stacked high, knocking some to the floor.

  They must’ve been prototypes for the Hoity Toity because the lids started snapping up and down, forcing Bertie had to leap over them, timing her jump to a down cycle.

  It slowed her considerably, and she could hear Bella behind her. On a hunch, her breath coming in gasps, Bertie started whistling “Dixie.”

  The toilets lids danced up and down again, one of them snapping shut on Bella’s leg, felling her again.

  “The South has risen again, bitch,” Bertie screamed.

  The activity and adrenalin was making her head wound bleed faster, blinding her in a veil of gooey red, and she didn’t know how much longer she could go on.

  “I’ll kill you!” Bella screamed, trying to untangle herself from the toilet seat that was clutching her leg in its hungry maw.

  Bertie zigzagged, cutting a corner and sending more stuff crashing to the floor in clouds of dust. She accidentally turned into a bedroom where several nude male mannequins guarded Bella’s bed. They’d started life anatomically neuter, but they weren’t now. Bertie swallowed hard.

  Bella’s footsteps picked up again behind her with a dot-dash limp. She was screaming a wordless scream that Bertie knew she’d hear in her dreams forever, if she could just stay alive.

  She twisted and saw, to her relief, the door, one right turn past beady-eyed stuffed ducks, and a left past the murder mysteries that had been her introduction to this madhouse. She was sobbing “Please God, please God,” over and over again.

  She grabbed an old tea cart loaded with rusted dumb bells and ran full-tilt toward the door, shattering the old wood and springing it open to freedom. She was sprinting toward the stairway, pulling the cell phone from her pocket at the same time, when Bella grabbed her shirt from behind. Bertie, exhausted, panting, gasping, her breath raw in her throat, didn’t fight. She stopped and Bella, who was moving too quickly, ran into her.

  They both grabbed at air to keep from falling, and Bella let go of her T-shirt to regain her balance. Bertie turned toward Bella. She’d had it with this gelatinous mass of craziness.

  “Listen, you gelatinous mass of craziness, I’ve had it,” Bertie said, swinging her fist with all her might at Bella’s puffy face.

  It connected with a loud thwack and Bertie caught a glimpse of Bella’s shocked face as she fell back, hitting her head against the door jamb. Bertie had a brief moment of satisfaction, before the force of her own punch sent her backward. Weak, bleeding, she fell, too, her head hitting the floor hard, bouncing. The cell phone had flown out of her hand as she fell.

  Then it was quiet. Bertie knew she should get up, get away from Bella now, while she was down again. But the quiet was like a blessing and Bertie laid there in her sticky blood and enjoyed it. No screaming, just quiet. So quiet.

  Except for a little voice that kept squeaking at her. Who was talking? The voice was too small for a human. Was it a mouse?

  She couldn’t turn her head to see – she thought the pain might kill her if she tried—but over and over again the little mouse voice said, “Hello? Hello? Bertie, is that you? BERTIE! If you’re there, say something. Are you all right? Where are you?’

  Couldn’t the mouse see where she was? Maybe not, maybe it was the third blind mouse. ‘I’m at Bella’s, you stupid mouse,” she whispered. “Bella’s.” She closed her eyes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  The sound of crying. A rough hand on hers.

  Bertie woke slowly, but didn’t open her eyes. The woman—Kate?—said, between sobs, “What if she doesn’t come out of it, what are we going to do?”

  A man’s voice, presumably the one that belonged to the hand, made calming noises. It made Bertie feel like a child, her father at her bedside, telling her soothingly that he’d beat the crap out of the kid who’d thrown a brick at her and given her this massitudinal headache.

  What was that smell? Leather? That reminded her of her childhood yearning for a pony. She sighed.

  A creaking sound joined the leather smell. Creaking leather—not a pony—Madison?

  She opened her eyes—a white world nearly blinding her. She kept her eyes open and registered white sheets, white blankets, white walls. It was Kate crying. Bertie let her eyes slide shut again at the sight of Kate’s tears and swollen eyes.

  “Did she just open her eyes? Bertie?”

  Bertie opened her eyes again, sending Kate into a new cloudburst of tears.

  “Where am I?” Bertie croaked.

  “You’re in the hospital, honey,” Katie said. “But now that you’re awake, you’re going to be fine.”

  “What happened? Why am I in the hospital?”

  “You’ve been in a coma for three days,” Madison said, standing up and moving into her line of vision.

  “A coma?” Bertie attempted to sit up but a spider web of tubes hooked into various parts of her body yanked her back down again. She lay there stunned.

  “What happened to me?”

  Kate looked at Detective Madison, who nodded and said, “I’m so glad you’re awake, Bertie. We’ve been worried.” He patted her hand gently then slowly slid his other hand free. “Do you feel well enough to give a statement about what happened?”

  “I don’t know what hap
pened,” Bertie said, “and thinking makes this pisser of a headache even worse. Since I’m in a hospital, can I get something for it?”

  Kate had already called for a nurse, bustled in. She cooed her pleasure that Bertie was awake and immediately grabbed the hand that Madison had forsaken to take her pulse.

  “You’ll have to talk to her later, you two. She’ll be with the doctor for the rest of the day having tests,” the nurse said.

  “We’ll be back, Bertie, both of us. Don’t worry, everything is going to be fine now that you’re awake,”‘ Kate said. Madison waved before the door closed.

  Bertie wanted to lie there and think, to try and remember why she was there, what had happened to put her in a coma, but the nurse wouldn’t leave her alone. She chirped at her, annoyingly cheerful, and oversaw the moves to a series of rooms where Bertie was poked and prodded and X-rayed in places that she’d never wanted strangers to have access to.

  Bertie kept asking what had happened, but was told over and over again that the doctor who’d ordered all this poking and prodding would be with her soon to discuss the results with her and maybe why she was being forced to submit to all these indignities.

  She never received any medication for her headache and when she finally landed back in her room, she closed her eyes, trying to block out the massive pain that everyone kept telling her was normal... considering.

  Bertie fell asleep thinking “considering what?”

  When she awoke again in the morning, Bertie had a muddled memory of someone waking her in the middle of the night to give her sleeping pills, but still no memories of how she’d gotten there.

  The headache has subsided to a dull pain and she was impatient for Kate to show up again. OK, Madison, too.

  It wasn’t till afternoon that Katie stuck her head around the door of the hospital room. Bertie had survived a breakfast of she wasn’t sure what, and a lunch of. ditto, and more probing by the doctor. Bertie had started to remember brief flashes of events that she assumed were part of the days she’d missed. A water bottle, the Doll, a dark and grimy cave or room, and someone she was terribly afraid of, but it sounded more like a bad dream than something that could’ve happened to her.

  The doctor told her learned that she’d been put in a medically induced coma to reduce the swelling of her brain after severe trauma. And that her tests looked good; she probably wouldn’t have any brain damage or paralysis, and that her memory would probably start coming back, which it was, albeit slower than Bertie liked.

  Kate arrived with Bertie’s mail and a big smile. “I’ve been to your apartment; everything is fine,” she said, settling into the chair next to Bertie’s bed. “I`m so glad to see you up. We were really scared.”

  “We?”

  “Madison, me, your mother. By the way, I talked your mother out of coming, I hope that was OK. I figured you had to be a lot stronger to handle a visit from her. She’s coming later in the week, when you get out.”

  “Yes, thanks. Kate, tell me what happened.”

  “You really don’t remember anything?” Kate asked.

  “Little bits and pieces... something about a water bottle? I don’t know—the doctor said it might come back, but I don’t want to wait.”

  So Kate told her. She’d been found in the hallway in front of Bella’s apartment after she’d fallen on her cell phone and hit the speed dial for Madison with her hip. Bertie had been lying unconscious in a pool of blood about three yards from a knocked-out Bella Bellingham, also bleeding from a head wound and with a developing black and blue shiner.

  As Kate talked, Bertie started remembering enough about the confrontation, the confession, and Bella swinging at her with a frozen water bottle.

  “I have to talk to the police,” she said. “They have to find Doll and arrest Bella.” She sat up, but was yanked down again by the remaining tubes.

  “Shhhh,” Kate said, quietly, and Bertie recognized the don’t-be-afraid-little-puppy tone. “Bella woke up while Madison was overseeing the EMS crew and spilled her guts about everything. She’s all right physically except for a headache and black eye, but she’s a mess mentally. The technical term for her condition is fruit loop. She’s in a state mental institution until the courts can figure out what to do with her.”

  “They have to put her away forever,” Bertie said. “She killed her father and Lester Lomax and she wanted to kill me. And, oh, poor Doll, has anyone found her?”

  Bertie was thinking in terms of body parts but Kate said, “Yes, she’s fine. For the last few weeks she’s been moving her stuff out of that apartment and into the old movie stars’ home where she can be with her friends. I think you have a card from her.”

  Kate sorted through the mail she’d picked up till she found a bright pink envelope that smelled of jasmine and opened it for Bertie. Bertie read until laughter stopped her. She handed the card to Kate.

  “My dear, dear Bertie,” it read, “I’m so sorry I was the cause of your horrible experience with Bella. And all because you were trying to help me! Such a sweet girl. I feel so guilty that I told you she was all right, when she was really a nut. But, my dear, perhaps I should have told you about how I chased wonderful, handsome Rock Hudson for months hoping for a, well to be blunt, roll in the sack. If I’d told you that, maybe you wouldn’t have taken my prattling too seriously. Perhaps I can tell you some of those stories when you’re feeling better, which I hope is soon. Your newest friend, Doll”

  It felt good to laugh. “So have they told you when you’ll be released?” Kate asked.

  “In a day or two,” Bertie said. “I’m officially under observation, but I feel so much better. I think by tomorrow I’ll be more than ready. I want to get back to work and write my story about what happened. And I’d like to thank Madison for saving me.”

  Just then, the door swung open to admit Don Crotty, clutching a handful of daisies in a supermarket bag and a large manila envelope.

  Bertie shooed Kate out, asking her if she’d mind getting checking her phone messages at home.

  “Hey, Bertie, how are you? Cheezus!” Crotty said when he saw her bandaged head and blackened eyes. “I had no idea you looked so bad.”

  “Thanks, Don, you’re a ray of sunshine in an otherwise drab existence.”

  He handed her the daisies. “From the company,” he said.

  “The newspaper has an account at Ralphs? Cool!” Bertie replied. “And hand-delivered, that’s so nice.”

  His fair skin blushed red. “You’re welcome, Bertie, but that’s not the only reason I’m here.”

  “No, I’m glad you’re here; I’m ready to write my story if someone can bring me a laptop.”

  Don looked miserable. “Bertie, I’m sorry. We’ve started laying off people at the paper and…uh, geez, this is really hard, your name is on the list.

  Bertie looked at him, not sure she’d understood what he’d said.

  “I must be in worse shape than I thought ’cause I thought you said you’re laying me off.”

  “I did say that, Bertie, and I just can’t tell you badly I feel about it, what with all that’s happened. This is the last thing in the world I ever wanted to tell you. At least until you were better and back at work.”

  “But what about my story? I mean, I solved the case, even though I didn’t mean to. It’s a huge story.”

  “You were in a coma for three days, Bertie, and the news won’t wait for three days. Shawn wrote the main story, he pretty well covered the bases. And, technically, you’ve been laid off for all three days.”

  “But I’m sitting on a great first-person story,” she protested.

  “Oh, we still want your story. We’re willing to pay you the standard free-lance fee for it. It is a great first-person story and we want to put it on page one.”

  Ýou want to give me a measly $300 for a story that almost got me killed?”

  Crotty had the grace to look ashamed. “Well, as part of the cost-cutting, they cut the standard fee from $300 to
$150.”

  Bertie went silent and Crotty started fidgeting. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft.

  “Get out. Get out, GET OUT, and ram your newspaper up your …”

  The door swung shut behind him.

  “Ass.”

  Bertie was stunned. She’d spent 20 years in newspapers and now she was laid off. She never thought her career would end like this. She always thought she’d mouth off to the wrong person and get fired.

  A few tears snuck out from between swollen eyelids, then she let loose and bawled hard enough and loud enough for an intern to stick his head in the door. She spent 10 minutes assuring him that nothing was physically wrong.

  She closed her eyes after he’d gone and tried to think of something else, anything else. She must have fallen asleep because when she opened her eyes again, Shawn was standing at her bedside.

  “Hey, Bertie, hi. I’ve been calling every day to see how you’re doing. They wouldn’t let me visit till today, though. I’d ask how you are but, no offense, you look like hell.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

  “I feel better than I must look,” she said. “I hear congratulations are in order. Crotchy was here and told me you wrote the big stories about Bella and me.”

  “Bertie, I’m sorry, but you were in no condition to write and they had to be written then.”

  Bertie grumped and groused about it for a few minutes but she really did understand that three days was too long to hold a story that big.

  “Did you hear I’m laid off?”

  “Yes, and it really sucks. There were 40 layoffs and more are coming, they say. I guess the Internet is winning.”

  An awkward silence fell, then Shawn cleared his throat. “I wanted to see you, Bertie, well, because you’re hurt and I care about you, but it’s also part of my treatment.”

  “Treatment?”

  “This is such a lousy thing to lay on you after all that’s happened, but yes, treatment. I’m in a 12-step program and making amends with the people you’ve hurt is one of the steps. I’m sorry, Bertie, if I’ve ever hurt you.”