The Trouble With Murder by Catherine Nelson Page B

enough
to put it together.
    With her other hand, she was
holding a penis. Bringing her hands together, she put the end of the tube into
the end of the penis and shoved. My mouth dropped open as the patient shot up
off the bed.
    “Aaaahhhh!”
    The sound had come from both of us.
Him in a scream, me in a panic.
    The patient (obviously a male) with
pain etched into every part of his face, struggled against the second
scrub-clad figure who tried to push him back down on the bed. He caught sight
of me, question in his eyes. But I was already moving backward.
    I banged into the door, which had
drifted shut. Crying out again, I spun around and practically flung myself through
the doorway. I jerked the door closed behind me then stood leaning against the
wall, my hands over my eyes. I knew the image was permanently burned into my
brain.
    “Can I help you?”
    The frosty tone cut into my
thoughts, drawing me back to the present.
    I peeked through my hands and spied
a woman an inch taller and several pounds lighter than me who screamed
“high-maintenance.” Everything from her hair and makeup to her skin and nails
to her clothes and shoes cried time, money, and deliberateness. I instantly
disliked her. And I had the depressed feeling she would give me further reason
for this opinion by the time our exchange was through.
    “I was just leaving,” I said,
attempting neutrality. I pushed myself from the wall and sucked in a deep
breath as I started walking.
    “Who the hell are you?” she
snapped. Then I saw her flinch slightly, her nose working. She’d picked up on
the shampoo. “What were you doing in my husband’s room?”
    What were the chances the man in
the room I’d been mistakenly sent to also wore Axe Phoenix?
    A long, painful howl rolled out of
room eight. Both of us looked at the door. I took a subconscious step backward.
    “Baby!” she cried under her breath.
Then she turned back to me, fire in her ugly brown eyes. “What did you do to
him?”
    Standing up a little straighter,
pushing my shoulders back a bit further, I stared at her head-on and gave a
little smirk. “He has enough company at the moment, and he’s more than
entertained. Guess he wasn’t expecting you back so soon.” I infused this with
enough suggestion to cause her blood to boil. It would be temporary, but I was
satisfied.
    She wanted to have a few more words
with me, but her jealousy and hatred consumed her. Spinning on her expensive
heel, she marched her (slightly dimpled) bottom, stuffed into pants just a bit
too small, through the door into the room.
    I couldn’t help but laugh softly to
myself as I turned to continue on my own way. I was greeted by a young blonde
girl smiling at me.
    “I see you’ve survived your run-in
with the Wicked Witch of Medical.”
    “Aw, and I hoped it was just
something I brought out of her.”
    The girl laughed and shook her
head. “Not even close. I’ve never seen her that mad before, though; you really
got under her skin.”
    I’ve heard this before.
    “You must not be a friend of the
family.”
    I shook my head. “No. The volunteer
sent me to the wrong room.”
    And I’d suffered permanent damage.
Maybe it all worked out for the better that I’d never finished college and
become a nurse. Had I, it would have been me doing the penis-and-tube thing.
I shuddered involuntarily.
    The blonde nodded knowingly, as if
this sort of thing had happened before. She indicated I should follow her as
she walked to a nearby computer.
    “Which patient are you looking
for?”
    “Stacy Karnes.”
    “Karnes with a K ?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s the problem. The volunteer
heard Barnes with a B . She sent you to Stacey Barnes. Was it Millie?
Sometimes she forgets her hearing aids.”
    I confessed I didn’t know the name
of the blue-haired volunteer. The blonde looked up the correct room number and
sent me with directions. I thanked her and beat a hasty retreat. Suddenly I was
ready to run out of the hospital and