Authors: Fern Michaels
Plain Jane (4 page)
“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, butâ” 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 houseâeverything'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 priorities,” 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?”
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.
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.
“It takes a lot more than a wiseass psychiatrist to offend me,” Jane snapped back as she dug into the carton of fried rice.
“Ow,” he said, rubbing his cheek as if she'd slapped him.
She ignored him.
“Hey, I like these paper platesâ”
“These aren't paper, they're
plastic.
There's a difference. See, these are hard, and the food doesn't soak through.”
plastic.
There's a difference. See, these are hard, and the food doesn't soak through.”
“Why so testy? I'm for whatever it takes to make life easier. Paper plates. Carryout. Housekeepers. Gardeners. If you can afford it, I say go for it.”
“Do you have an opinion on
everything
?”
everything
?”
His composure melted like butter, and for a moment he looked like a shy little boy. “I talk a lot when I'm nervous. I was nervous about coming here. Then, when I saw those books I was off and running.” He forked a helping of sweet-and-sour pork onto his plate.
Jane put some white rice and chow mein onto a plate and set it on the floor for Olive. “She's a vegetarian,” she explained. “There's no MSG in this food, is there?”
He'd been nervous about coming.
She couldn't decide if she should be flattered or annoyed.
He'd been nervous about coming.
She couldn't decide if she should be flattered or annoyed.
“No MSG.”
Jane uncapped the two bottles of Corona and took a swig from hers. When he didn't reach for his, she wondered if he was expecting a glass. A devil perched itself atop her shoulder as she reached behind her for a bright red plastic tumbler.
“The bottle's fine,” he said. “How'd your session go this afternoon?”
“It didn't. He canceled two minutes before he was supposed to show up. I explained about you and next week. He's okay with it. How'd it go with your battery guy?”
Mike sighed. “He said he bought stock in Duracell yesterday. A lot of stock. Five thousand shares to be exact. And he found a wholesaler who will deliver batteries to him once a week. Kind of like a home-delivery milkman.”
Jane digested the information. “So did you find out why he's so obsessed with batteries?”
“No, not yet. He took a circuitous route around every question I put to him.”
Over the years Jane had treated any number of patients with obsessionsâhand washing, collections, organization. But never batteries. Was the man worried there would be a loss of power? Or did he think the batteries would
give
him power? “Does he have any health problems?”
give
him power? “Does he have any health problems?”
Mike finished chewing before answering. “Yeah, a bunion on his left foot. The guy's an ox. He radiates good health.”
“What does he do work-wise?”
“He's some big comptroller at a mega chemical company.” Mike waved his fork. “Let's not talk about him. It makes me crazy when I think about him lugging all those batteries around everywhere he goes. Tell me about you, Jane. I've seen you at various conferences, and I've heard you on your radio show, but other than that, all I know about you is what I remember from high school. Are you married, divorced, what?”
“Single. Between renovating this house and my practice, I haven't had much time to get involved. That's not to say I don't date occasionally. I do.” Carefully, she removed the foil on a piece of paper-wrapped chicken, popped it in her mouth, and savored the delicious taste. Paper-wrapped chicken was her favorite. After that, the dish of choice was moo shoo, which she'd learned to make herself using flour tortillas. “My parents died four years ago, which is why I bought this houseâto keep my mind active and positive. I'm close to my godparents and see them regularly. And I have Olive here and a few good friends. How about you?”
“I've been involved a couple of times but never tied the knot. This last time, we found we wanted different things out of life. She moved on, and so did I. Mom and Dad didn't like her, said she thought she was pretty high up on the Christmas tree. I have a brother in Montana and a sister in England. We e-mail. But basically, it's just me and Noodle.”
“I had a crush on you back in school,” Jane blurted, and immediately wished she hadn't.
Mike put down his beer and cocked his head. “I didn't know that,” he said, looking far too deeply into her eyes.
“Of course you didn't,” she answered. “You were too busy being Mr. Popularity and running after Ginger and Lonnie and all the cheerleaders.”
He threw up his hands in self-defense. “Hey! I admit it. I was a real jerk back then. I thought only of myself, how much fun I could have, and who I could have it with.”
“That's a fair assessment,” Jane smirked.
“Yeah, but I'm not like that anymore. I've changed. And so have you. You used to be quiet and studious, and you kept to yourself.”
“That's because I had low self-esteem. I had a very vain mother, who was pretty and thin and didn't wear glasses. She loved to point out our differences to her friends.”
Mike studied her for a moment. “If
I
hurt you in any way, Jane, I apologize.”
I
hurt you in any way, Jane, I apologize.”
Jane pushed her plate away. “I'm basically a vegetarian,” she confided. The food was good, but she wasn't nearly as hungry as she'd thought. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?”
“You bet, but first I'd like to see the well.”
“The well?”
“Yeah, where the guy fell down and the dog died waiting.”
“Oh, sure.” She shook her head to clear her thoughts. “I don't know what I was thinking.”
They left the food sitting on the table and went out the back door and down the steps. A gently curved brick path meandered through the garden, widening and narrowing as it went.
“I've been looking forward to this ever since you mentioned it at lunch,” Mike said behind her. “I'm going to sleep like a top tonight. First, I find a complete set of T. F. Dingle, and now I'm going to the site where a ghost might be dwelling. Today was an absolute fluke. I think we should both buy Duracell. My guy might be onto something.”
Jane laughed. It was the first good laugh she'd had in a very long while. She led him down the path to the well. She turned when she heard Olive barking. By the time she realized the dog's intentions, Olive already had a hold on Mike's ankle.
“Get her off of me,” he yelled.
“Ollie. Let go, Ollie,” Jane commanded. But Olive was determined and refused to let go. Jane did the only thing she could think of and struggled to pick up the springer. “I'm sorry,” she said, grimacing. “She's become very territorial where the well is concerned.”
Mike pulled up his trouser leg. “I think she took a chunk out of my leg.” Blood was oozing through his gray sock. “Look, I'm bleeding.”
“Oh, it's just a little nip,” Jane said, purposely making light of it. For a big man he was certainly acting like a
wuss.
She pulled a tissue out of her pocket, tore off a piece, spit on it, and started toward him. “Here, let me justâ”
wuss.
She pulled a tissue out of her pocket, tore off a piece, spit on it, and started toward him. “Here, let me justâ”
He dropped his trouser leg. “No! You are not going to stick that on me,” he said, backing up a couple of feet.
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