Hot Stuff

Chapter FIFTEEN

Cate left Julie’s apartment and rang Sharon’s bell. No answer. On a hunch Cate went down a level and found Sharon in the hall, looking wild-eyed and wringing her hands.

“What’s up?” Cate said. “You look a little unhinged.”

“The door’s open.”

“Excuse me?”

“The door to 2B. Take a closer look. It’s open just a smidgeon.”

Cate took a closer look. “Yep,” she said. “It’s open.”

“Someone’s in there,” Sharon said.

“It could be the housekeeper. Or the plumber again.”

“It’s him,” Sharon said. “Mr. M. He’s home. I can feel it. My skin is tingling.”

“Oh boy.”

“What should I do?”

“Nothing?”

“Should I ring the bell and tell him his door is open?”

“Yeah. Ring the bell.”

“I can’t. I’m too nervous.”

Cate rang the bell.

“Omigod,” Sharon said, her hand in a death grip on Cate’s arm. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“When he answers just tell him his door was open.”

A couple of moments passed and no one answered the door. Cate rang the bell again. No response.

“Maybe he’s dead on the floor,” Sharon said. “Maybe this is the death building.”

“Maybe you’re a fruitcake.”

“Do you think we should go in and investigate?”

“No.”

“Okay then,” Sharon said, pushing the door a little more open, peeking inside. “But it was your idea.”

“It wasn’t my idea. I said no!”

“Hello-o-o,” Sharon called softly. “Anybody home?”

“That’s it. I’m leaving,” Cate said.

Sharon had hold of Cate’s shirt. “You can’t abandon me. We’re in this together.”

“You’re insane! You’re in this all by yourself. Let go of my shirt.”

“Please. Please. Please. I have to find out about this guy. And suppose he really is dead or hurt or something. It’s our obligation as neighbors to help him, right?”

“If he’s dead it won’t matter. And if he’s hurt he should be moaning. Do you hear moaning?”

They both stopped and listened.

“No moaning,” Sharon said.

“He probably took trash to the trash room.”

“He’d be back by now if he was on a trash run.” Sharon had inched her way into the living room. “This is nice. Very calm without being sterile. Earth tones. Flat-screen television. African fertility statue. Framed movie posters on his wall. Fun but not expensive. Excellent Tibetan area rug.”

“I think we should leave,” Cate said.

“Not until I see his bedroom.”

“Okay, but make it fast. I feel uncomfortable.”

Sharon tiptoed in her heels into the bedroom.

“Why are you tiptoeing?” Cate asked.

“I don’t know. I can’t help myself. It’s what you do when you’re being sneaky.” She stopped and looked around the room. “King-sized bed. Completely rumpled. He’s a thrasher. Other than that, the room is neat. Crossword puzzle book on his nightstand. I think I could live with him.”

“You don’t even know him! He could be Jack the Ripper.”

“Jack the Ripper is dead,” Sharon said.

“Okay, he could be Frank the Ripper.”

Cate looked at her watch. She’d been in the condo for not quite five minutes, but it seemed like five hours.

“I haven’t seen any photos of kids or wives or girlfriends,” Sharon said.

“Also no photos of Mr. M.”

They were in the master bedroom and two rooms away Cate and Sharon heard the front door click closed and the bolt get thrown.

Cate felt all the air leave her lungs. Mr. M. was home. It was a nightmare come true. Run! Cate’s brain was screaming. Run! Cate looked around. Nowhere to run. The window, she thought. Go out the window. Okay, so they were two flights up. Probably she’d just break both legs. She could deal. Mental head slap. That was dumb. The window was no good. They had to hide. The bathroom? The closet? Cate was in a panic attack. Sweating. Can’t breathe. Heart racing. Brain running down dead-end streets.

“The bed!” Sharon said. “Get under the bed.”

It was a faux antique mahogany four-poster. No dust ruffle but the quilt was oversized and hung low. Sharon dropped to the floor and belly crawled, barely fitting under the box spring. Cate followed her, and they lay side by side, eyes wide.

There were muffled footsteps on the rug and shoes came into view. Nike running shoes. Maybe size eleven. Jeans breaking on the shoes. Cate couldn’t see more. The shoes were walking around, doing things. Something was placed on the bedside table. A dresser drawer was opened and closed. The shoes were back by the bed. A brown-and-orange T-shirt was dropped onto the floor. The shoes were kicked off. White athletic socks were peeled off the feet. The jeans hit the floor and navy briefs followed.

Cate and Sharon stared out at the pile of clothes and the naked feet and didn’t breathe.

This is a train wreck, Cate thought. What on earth would she say if she got caught? Sharon is in love with you even though she’s never seen you and has no idea who you are, and so we sneaked into your apartment and looked around and hid under the bed. Yeah, that would fly. Not.

The feet walked into the bathroom, there was the sound of the shower being turned on, and then there was the sound of the shower curtain being drawn.

Cate and Sharon locked eyes and backed out from under the bed. They quietly tiptoed out of the bedroom and sprinted through the rest of the condo, out the door, down the hall, and up a flight of stairs. They threw themselves into Sharon’s condo and locked the door.

“I’m having a heart attack,” Sharon said. “What are the symptoms? Are they profuse sweating and burning in the chest?”

“No. I think that’s a hot flash.”

“I’m too young for a hot flash,” Sharon said. “Aren’t I?”

“I don’t know. I guess some women go into menopause earlier than others. How old are you?”

Sharon looked around, making sure no one else was in her apartment. “I’m pushing forty.”

“No! You look much younger.”

“Forty! And I just had a hot flash. Next thing I’ll be finding Modern Maturity in my mailbox. And my breasts will get saggy. And I’ll have to start popping antacids. And I’ll have to start getting Botox shots. Well, okay, so I already get a little Botox, but it’s more preventative, right? And all I have in my life is some phantom man. I haven’t gotten laid in over a year!” Sharon wailed.

“You get Botox?”

“Just a tiny shot between the eyebrows so I don’t look grumpy. No one wants to buy a house from a grumpy realtor. So what did you think of him?” Sharon asked.

“Who?”

“Mr. M. I thought he had nice feet. And the navy Calvins could be sexy.”

“You need to get out more,” Cate said. “Have you thought about a dating service?”

“Tried that. I always got stuck with the check.”