The Man Who Wasn't All There by David Handler (book recommendations website TXT) 📕

‘I wonder if it’ll be the same one with the blocky blond head.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Never mind.’

It was an overcast morning. Not nearly as cold out as it had been when it was crisp and clear. The Jag was parked curbside with a state trooper standing watch over it. Lulu was in the passenger seat, anxious to greet me, although not half as anxious as the half-dozen TV news crews whose vans were parked nearby. The camera crews went to work instantly. Reporters shouted questions that Merilee totally ignored. Photographers snapped pictures. The bright lights made my head start to spin. She hustled me into the car with a generous assist from the state trooper. I maneuvered myself into the passenger seat with Lulu and her heavily bandaged paws in my lap. She whooped and licked my face, her tail thumping. I allowed as how I was happy to see her, too.

Then Merilee jumped in behind the wheel, started up the Jag with a throaty roar and sped out of the parking lot toward Route 9. ‘I see that you two made yourselves right at home in the master bedroom suite,’ she said drily as she got on to Route 9 and floored it for home. She drives fast but well. There’s nothing she doesn’t do well.

‘The guest cottage isn’t heated,’ I said as my head mercifully stopped spinning. ‘Besides, I turned off the water and bled the pipes. I can move upstairs to one of the guest rooms if you wish.’

‘Like hell you will, mister. I’m just doing a yank on your frank.’

‘“A yank on my frank?” From whom did you pick up that choice morsel of ribald vernacular? Mel Gibson, am I right?’

‘Seriously, darling. How do you feel?’

‘Like I have a concussion. I’ll be OK in a day or two.’

‘Sure you will. You just need some rest and TLC. What’s the first thing you want to do when you get home?’

‘Put away a plate of the girls’ eggs, over easy, and a gallon of your coffee.’

‘Consider it done.’

‘I should feel much better after that, and I’ll get back to my fall chores.’

‘Not until Dr Eng says you can. And even if she gives you the green light, you are not getting up on a ladder to hang those storm windows. Mr MacGowan has called the Hardy Boys.’

‘Frank and Joe?’ I asked hopefully.

‘Tony and Gas, silly man. I swear, sometimes talking to you is like talking to a twelve-year-old. They’re coming over to finish the job.’

‘Some of the windows need re-glazing.’

‘So they’ll re-glaze them. And put in the storm doors. And chop the kindling and everything else on that cute little to-do list of yours on the kitchen table. All of these years and I never knew you made to-do lists,’ she said with a cascade of girlish laughter as Route 9 merged on to I-95 at Long Island Sound and crossed the Connecticut River. I heard relief in her laughter. She’d been frightened. Having to endure that long flight from Budapest, not knowing if I was dead or alive, must have been hell.

She got off at Exit 70 and started up into the hills of Lyme on Route 156 before she turned off at Hamburg Cove on to twisting, turning Joshua Town Road for home. When we got there four TV news vans were lining the narrow road at the foot of the driveway. But Jim Conley had made good on his promise. A state trooper was staked out at the gate to keep them out. And, yes, it was the same teenager with the blocky blond head. I wondered if he’d armed himself with a fresh comic book. He backed up his cruiser, opened the gate so we could pass on through, and up the gravel driveway Merilee sped.

‘You and Lulu are going to do nothing but sit in front of the fire and relax today,’ she informed me. ‘But first you’re getting a treatment.’

‘Treatment? What kind of treatment?’

I found out what kind after I’d put away those fresh eggs with their bright orange yolks, a buttered English muffin and two huge mugs of strong coffee. Lulu, who’d already had her breakfast before they picked me up, stared at the refrigerator until I gave her one, two, three anchovies. It was vital to keep her in good spirits. If she weren’t – being a dog – she’d start misbehaving by chewing on her bandages, which meant she would have to wear one of those cones on her head. Not an attractive look for a basset hound, take my word for it.

The phone rang non-stop. Reporters wanting to talk to me, to Merilee. Hell, they would have gratefully grabbed a quote from Lulu if they could have. Merilee unplugged it so we’d have some peace and quiet. Our agents and the state police knew her unlisted business number. If anyone important needed to reach us, they could.

Next it was time for my treatment. Virtually all actresses have deeply held beliefs in the curative powers of exotic herbal remedies that other, somewhat more earthbound people might construe as, well, nutty. But I’d grown accustomed to Merilee’s home ministrations over the years. This particular one involved me stretching out in the master bathroom’s enormous claw-footed cast-iron tub and soaking for a half-hour in steaming hot water laced with eucalyptus oil, camphor oil, hyssop oil, bloodroot and several other things I can’t remember and don’t want to.

‘The two of you were trapped in that cold, damp root cellar for an entire night,’ she informed me as she filled the tub with the hottest water the furnace could produce and added generous droplets of her magic potions from tincture bottles, filling the bathroom with their powerful scents. She’d already closed the door and shoved a towel under it, the better to turn it into a steam room. Lulu was curled up on a pile of towels with a pleased look on her face. She enjoys taking steam.