States of Grace by Mandy Miller (great novels of all time .TXT) 📗

too. I called for an ambulance and they sent the police!”

“They Baker Acted her?” I ask, my mind flashing back to six miserable months spent in mental health court, the place perfectly good prosecutions go to die.

“They said something about that. What does that mean?”

“It means they think she is a danger to herself.” Or others, but I keep that thought to myself. “They’ll keep her at the hospital until they decide it’s safe to release her.”

“No, they can’t do that! My husband will be so angry when he hears she’s been taken away again.”

“Again?”

“You’re her lawyer, do something! I told them I would get her to a doctor, but they took her away anyway. And not even to a private hospital. To that place downtown where they let drunks dry out.”

The image of Zoe being carted away from Hibiscus Isle, a street on which Rolls Royces and Armani are more common than squad cars and cops in cheap suits, flashes in my head. Gretchen’s utter horror at the prospect of being treated like riffraff might be amusing under other circumstances, but my mind has snapped into action, consumed by how this turn of events might be useful to help Zoe.

“What did you mean when you said ‘again’?”

A sharp intake of breath. “She cut herself before. Last time was so bad she had to be hospitalized.”

“Which hospital did they take her to?”

“Lauderdale something.”

“Lauderdale West?”

“Yes.”

“You okay to drive?”

“Drive? No, we have a driver.” she says, as if I’ve asked her to do her own laundry or paint her own nails, or whatever else rich people don’t do for themselves.

“Meet me there in thirty minutes.”

“We’ll be there,” she says, and hangs up.

I note the “we.” I thought Anton wasn’t home, but the royal “we” might come as easily to someone like Gretchen as spray tans and personal chefs.

I hang up and windmill my arms like a cop directing traffic. “Hey, Vin. Road trip.”

“Huh?” he grunts, burger suspended an inch from his mouth, bits and pieces of which are oozing out all sides of a flying-saucer-sized bun.

“I need a ride. Zoe’s in the hospital.”

“I thought you said you got her out on bail?”

“I did. But after she got home, her parents found her in her room, out cold and bloody. She tried to kill herself. I need a ride.”

“What? You think I’m your chauffeur now?” he says, smiling wide like a kid going out for ice cream. “At your service, my lady. I’ll see you out front.”

I point at Miranda. “What are we going to do with her?”

“She’s coming with. Her vest is her license to go everywhere with you. And when she doesn’t, I’m the designated dog sitter.”

Miranda yips.

“I think I’m beginning to understand why you’re the newest resident of The Hurricane Hotel, pretty girl.”

***

Miranda hops in between us on the front bench seat of Vinnie’s 1995 Crown Victoria. She lets loose with a couple of deep-throated barks at the death rattle erupting from the engine.

“Good God. Is this thing gonna get us there without blowing up? Maybe Miranda should sniff around for explosives.”

We have a similar exchange every time I get in the car. Vinnie only keeps the clunker because once upon a time it was a police cruiser. He bought it at an auction after he got out of prison. He can afford something better. He’s got money squirreled away. Add to it the cash from the settlement, and he’s got enough for anything he might need from now until the finish line, unless he outlives the actuarial predictions for aging mobsters. But Vinnie loves a good joke, and the car’s just that, a thumb of his thrice-broken nose at authority. Besides, he drives it about as much as he goes to Mass, which is almost never.

He pats the dashboard. “Fear not. She’s solid, a battle ax, like Carmela.”

“Who the hell’s Carmela? Don’t tell me, you’ve found some young thing who mistook you for the most interesting man in the world?”

He bumps over the curb onto A1A, and I grab the sides of the sticky vinyl seat and Miranda’s collar to keep from listing into him. “Take it easy there, cowboy.”

“Carmela was my second wife. Solid as a rock, more a diesel truck than sports car. Reliable as they come.”

I know better than to go down the rat hole of Vinnie’s private life, so I slink down, arm on Miranda’s back, and watch the deserted beach slide by, the only evidence of life are the deep divots in the sand which will be wiped away by the sand rake late tonight, making everything new again for tomorrow. I can make out the silhouette of a homeless man propped up on the seawall, a phantom unseen by the passersby. His feet are swollen and bloody from diabetes, bursting out of his battered canvas shoes like toxic souffles. He’s there every night, tips his cap when I walk by, the walker by his side his only companion.

To calm my nerves, I crank open the window and stick my head out to locate the dog star. “That one, that’s Sirius.”

“Serious? What’s serious?”

“The Dog Star. The brightest star in the night sky.”

“Hear that, pup? The Dog Star. It must be fate.” He strokes Miranda’s fur. “How’d you know about this Dog Star?”

“My dad showed me. We used to look at the stars through his telescope every night before I went to bed.”

“My father showed me the back of his hand most nights,” he says, hands tightening around the steering wheel, tanned knuckles turning white.

We cross the bridge from the beach to the mainland, multi-million-dollar yachts docked in the sprawling marina below, swaying in the breeze like gigantic egrets.

“Pretty fancy street for a mental hospital,” he says as we descend onto Las Olas, a boulevard lined with royal palms laced with twinkling fairy lights as if every day were Christmas.

We cruise by the entrance to Idlewyld Isle. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

Chapter 12

“This thing’s got the turning radius of a cruise ship,” I