The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 1-5 - Catherine Coulter [403]
“Where’s Emma?”
“She’s in my big leather chair staring out the French doors toward the bridge. But let me go check.” He brought her back up five minutes later.
“Look who I found with her cute little nose pressed to the window?”
“My beautiful little princess?”
“Nah, she’s mine, but I’ll be willing to share her for a couple of minutes. You can see for yourself, Emma. Your mom’s okay.”
“Can I stay with her, Ramsey? I’ll try to make her laugh. She says laughing always makes anybody feel better.”
“Okay, but if she gets sick again, you holler and I’ll get somebody over here with some needles to stick in her.”
“Yuck,” said Emma.
Three hours later, Molly was chewing on some dry toast and drinking hot plain Earl Grey tea. She still looked pale. At least she hadn’t vomited again. The nausea had been gone for an hour, but his hand still hovered over the phone. He wanted to call Jim Haversham, an internist with privileges at San Francisco General.
“I don’t think we’re going anywhere tomorrow,” he said at nine o’clock that evening. Both Emma and Molly were lying in the guest-room bed, the brand-new TV on low, providing background noise.
The doorbell sounded. Ramsey turned to leave. “It’s just a friend of mine from the San Francisco PD. I called her. She’s going to brief me on anything they’ve turned up.”
“About your house being trashed?” Molly asked, moving the wet washcloth a bit to the left on her forehead.
“That and other things. You guys just relax. Emma, if your mom needs anything, you come and tell me. Can I count on you to mind me and not her?”
Emma looked worried. “I don’t know, Ramsey, she’s my mom. She’s been around since I was born.”
“I know, but right now she’s on the pathetic side. She doesn’t know what’s good for her. Call me, all right?”
Emma still looked uncertain. She pulled her piano onto her lap. Molly groaned. She groaned again, a big funny groan that made Emma smile.
Good for you, Molly, he thought, gave them a salute, and took off downstairs.
Virginia Trolley was at the door, wearing her signature black boots, black slacks, black turtleneck, and a red blazer. “I’m glad you’re home, Ramsey. All hell’s broken loose.”
He invited her into his study. There was a fire in the fireplace and the new heavy pale gold draperies were drawn, making the room darker, more intimate.
“I love your house. The new stuff looks great. Did they bankrupt you refurbishing it?”
“The insurance will cover most of it.”
“Good. Now that everything’s brand-new, do you think we could get married, then we could get divorced and I’d get the house?”
“No way you’d get the house unless you bribed a judge,” Ramsey said, and poured her a cup of coffee from the Thermos on a side table.
She sighed. “My husband might not understand, either. Would you consider adopting me?”
“You’re older than I am.”
“Ah, so have you heard of age discrimination?”
“Not me. Thanks for coming by, Ginny. What’s going on downtown?”
“You know everyone still calls you Judge Dredd. It really fits now, what with all your flirting with the underworld. The media has been going nuts about all of it. I’m surprised they haven’t found out you’re home. Be thankful for small favors. It won’t last.”
He brought her up-to-date, finishing with, “Molly, Emma, and I are all going to Ireland day after tomorrow. We were going to leave first thing tomorrow, but Molly was throwing up her toenails all afternoon. She seems better now, but it doesn’t seem too bright to fly right now. I think it was the linguine she ate on the plane. I’m praying it’s not gastritis or an ulcer, though an ulcer wouldn’t surprise me what with all she’s been through.”
Virginia Trolley rose from her chair, walked to the wide French doors, and pulled back the drapes. The clouds were hanging black and low. There was no sign of a moon or any stars. She sighed deeply. “We’ve all been talking about what’s happened. This Shaker guy is bad stuff, Ramsey.