Koa hooked the plastic bag to the IV stand and pulled it closer to the ancient brocade sofa. It bumped over the carpet and clattered against the table. He tightened the tourniquet around my arm, swabbed the crook of my elbow, then inserted the catheter—neatly, quickly—into a vein. I barely felt a thing. He attached a piece of clear tubing to the catheter and taped the whole thing down.
“We’ll alternate arms, okay?” He attached the line from the bag into the cath. “Try not to turn you into a pincushion.”
“I appreciate that.” I felt the cold stream of chemical cocktails sluice into my arm and relaxed into the cushions.
It was two days later, and we were in the salon, the vast forest-green living room at Ambletern, which boasted an impressive collection of Victorian furniture and, at the far end, a cavernous brown-marble fireplace. The walls were crammed with oil paintings, animal heads, and the occasional framed sepia snapshot. Velvet curtains blocked the scorching rays of the sun. I was ensconced on the lumpy sofa while Doro reclined on a threadbare tufted chaise.
Behind me, along the wall, was a gleaming mahogany bar, above which hung mirrored shelves stacked with every imaginable form of wineglass, cut-crystal tumbler, silver julep cup, and shot glass, all monogrammed with the ubiquitous Ambletern A. The only thing missing was liquor. I wondered if Doro had stashed it in the basement with the wine when she’d shut down the hotel. It probably wasn’t a great idea to drink my way through a treatment, but my mouth still watered at the thought of an extra-dirty martini.
After I’d been released from the hospital, Doro and I had ferried back to Bonny and I’d slept for nine straight hours. When I woke, I’d found eleven voice mails on my phone. Six were from Frances, most of which I deleted. The last one I listened to.
“Megan, darling, listen. About the call—I was just in shock, that’s all, really, and I overreacted. I didn’t realize you had any interest in the time I spent at Ambletern. I can assure you, you’re not going to get the full story from Dorothy—”
I erased it.
The remaining voice mails were from Asa. He recounted, in a series of patchy, broken-up messages, the latest. Frances had contacted the rest of the agents at Rankin Lewis, and he’d been kicked out of the building. No matter—he was now happily fielding calls from every cable and Internet news outlet in existence. We were officially in business.
“This thing has exploded,” he said in his final, breathless call. “It’s huge. And, by the way, crucial point: Pelham Sound is one thousand percent still on board with us. They love the pages. They’re upping the publicity budget; you’re going to be everywhere, at every show, on every site.”
A knot formed in my stomach.
Asa went on. “People are dying for this book. They’re salivating.”
I clenched my tingling hands into fists. What if I didn’t want hype or publicity or talk shows? What if the only thing I wanted was to get this . . . this crushing weight that went along with being the daughter of Frances Ashley off my shoulders? I decided not to call Asa back. Not until I was sure I could put my feelings into words. Let him have his day in the sun.
I’d worked on the book until dinner, then slept until five o’clock the next morning, and, spurred on by Asa’s news, I’d been writing ever since.
Koa bent over me and examined the cath taped to my arm. The scent of jasmine clung to him.
“Where does the doc think you were exposed to the lead?” he asked.
“Ski resort. They were removing lead paint, I think.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” Doro said. “I know. Let’s Google me.”
I laughed. A touch uncomfortably, since I’d already done that. Extensively.
“You don’t have to sacrifice yourself to make me feel better,” I said.
“It’ll be fun,” she said. “And research for your book. We can have a shitty-childhood contest.”
“I don’t know,” I said. It seemed unnecessarily cruel to delve into the freaky world of the Kitty Cultists in Doro’s presence.
“We’re doing this.”
She popped out and returned a few minutes later, depositing my computer in my lap. I powered up the computer, and she settled herself back on the chaise—feet propped, arms crossed behind her head. “Do regale us with what the Kitty Cult says about Ms. Dorothy Kitchens, a.k.a. Kitten,” she said.
Koa sighed. “This is too painful. I need coffee.”
“Me too. Cream, no sugar,” Doro said.
“Sure.” He disappeared into the hallway.
It didn’t take me long to find the top Kitty Cult fan sites: www.kittylitter.fan, www.kittenskills.fan, www.kittenandkafka.fan. They were forums, pretty well-trafficked ones too, essentially just the ramblings of kooks with either too little to do or psychological conditions that made them obsess over a book written forty years ago.
“Listen to this.” I read to Doro. “‘Kitten exemplifies the human struggle with God, with the government, with our need to constantly be transforming, metamorphosing into the latest, purest life form. Kitten is the existential end game, the apotheosis of our desires, the antithesis of our strivings. What Jesus meant when he said, Anyone who wants to see the kingdom of heaven must become like a little child.’”
Doro shook her head.
“Do you realize these people have the right to vote?” I said.
“I think it means kids can get away with shit because they’re kids. They act out of the id, a pure place. And even if they kill, it’s only because that’s what’s needed.” She looked at me. “They’re what we all want to be.”
“I guess.”
“It’s kind of a beautiful thought.”
“Not sure I’m with you there. You want to hear the rest?”
“Sure.”
“Okay.” I swallowed. “They say you killed your friend, Kimmy. They say you hurt Frances when she was living here, maybe even tried to kill her, and she wrote the book to get revenge. This one says you somehow got into the jail cell where they were holding Vera Baker, Kimmy’s mother, and killed her as well.”
She laughed, a short harsh sound. “Impressive.”
I went on, clicking on more links. “This one says you’re responsible for two coeds who went missing back in 1993 from a college in Savannah—”
“Right. I drove to Savannah, kidnapped them, brought them back here, and stuffed them in the cellar.”
Koa walked back in with two mugs. He gave one to Doro, then to me, then checked the bag hanging over my head.
“Almost a third of the way. You feeling okay?”
“Never better.”
“Meg was just telling me about all the murders I’ve committed.”
He sat on a huge carved-mahogany chair and slurped his coffee. “Oh, well. By all means, carry on.”
I gaped at the computer screen. “Says here you killed your father.” I glanced at Doro and noticed she’d gone very still.
“Oh, God, Doro, I’m so sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have read that one. I’m such an idiot.”
She gave me a rueful smile. “No, it’s okay. Hearing that again . . . that people actually think I could kill my own father . . . it’s hard. I guess I wasn’t ready, after all. It’s good to remember why I closed the hotel.” She put down her mug. “This place was my dad’s heart. It took a lot of energy and money to keep it going, and he did what he had to do. He let them come and play their games. Live out their fantasies.”