Rip Your Heart Out Read online

  "Don't need your help!" Was my greeting from the annoying cockatoo. "Schwam! Go home!"

  "If I go home, Goofus, who's going to feed your unappreciative ass?"

  "Unprissy ass! Shut up, Goofus. Stupid bird. Unprissy ass. Woo-hoo."

  "It's unappreciative, not unprissy. Do you have to repeat everything you hear, Goofus?"

  "Stupid bird! Stupid bird! Woo-hoo! Go away, dumb dog!"

  I heard Gallant whimpering behind me. I patted his massive head as he drooled all over my shoes. "Don't take it personally, Gallant. You are a sweetheart, but your brother is a bad, bad boy!"

  "Bad boy. Bad, bad boy! Can't eat that. Scwam Sam!" The bird chanted behind me.

  I calmed Goofus down by humming a Disney tune I'd remembered from when Regina was a child. While he was momentarily chilled out, I filled his water bottle and food bowl. When I finished the task, I stopped singing.

  "Scuse you!" The bird repeated several times before banging its head against the cage.

  Excuse me? I knew my singing was dreadful, but Goofus didn't have to be boorish about it. Just in case, I checked to see if he had blood running out of his ears.

  "You really are a bad boy, Goofus!" I said, staring straight into the bird's beady eyes. "I have a mind not to feed you again until you apologize."

  "Unprissy ass! Don't need you! Vamoose," was the bird's unconcerned response.

  "We'll see about that! You know, maybe I should feed you, Goofus—to that Doberman pinscher that lives across the street!" I turned to snap the leash on Gallant's collar, knowing he was anxious to get outside to relieve himself. "Let's go, Gallant. Your brother needs a time out."

  "Dwop dead!" I heard as Gallant and I went out the kitchen door to the backyard.

  * * *

  After a restless night, I headed to the hospital early the next morning. At the nurses' station, Nurse Combs informed me that Dr. Murillo would be making a final assessment about Rip's release when he made his rounds around eleven. She also told me that both the construction crew and the cleaning crew were slated to begin work that day. She'd asked if I'd be around to let them into the house, and I'd assured her I'd make certain I was.

  "Good," she said. "I'll stop by on Thursday to see how the work's going and check in on my favorite patient."

  "Okay," I replied, and then jokingly added, "I'll warn him!"

  In the meantime, I'd see if I could locate Ridley Wickets so I could supply some answers for Sydney when she stopped by later in the week. I'd track down the Irish fellow too if at all possible.

  Chapter 17

  I'd been understandably nervous when I returned to the Heart Shack that morning. But the house was quiet, and there was nothing amiss that I could detect. While I waited for the workers to arrive, I descended the dark staircase off the kitchen to the basement. The wooden steps were unstable and creaked eerily. I took Gallant with me for peace of mind and we finally found the storeroom in a remote corner of the basement. It was not easily accessible.

  I was taken aback at the state of disarray in that dank, musty room. Every drawer in the file cabinet had been emptied, along with the contents of a roll-top desk and two storage cabinets. Clearly, someone had gone through everything with a fine-toothed comb. It looked as if a tornado had roared through the basement overnight.

  I knew it was possible that someone other than Sydney or Ridley had participated in the frantic search that had left the room in such a mess. It wasn't inconceivable that the leprechaun, who could appear and disappear without warning, had been behind it. Then again, it might've been the owner of the disappearing roach clip, who was probably Tasman. It could've even been the individual who'd left the intimidating message in the music box. Were he and the roach-clip owner one and the same? Did Ridley scour through Mabel's stuff after pulling off the music box prank? Or, God forbid, was Sydney responsible for the nasty note, as well as the chaos in the storeroom?

  Suspense and intrigue were mounting. But one thing was certain; whoever had trashed the storeroom had obviously been on the hunt for something that meant a great deal to them.

  Gallant suddenly began to growl. I pulled him closer to my side and tightened my hold on his collar. Whether it was an intruder that'd caught his attention, or simply a marauding mouse, I wasn't hanging round to find out. I practically drug the huge canine up the rickety stairs to the main floor.

  I soon realized the search hadn't been limited to the out-of-the-way storage room. Someone had gone through closets, cabinets, and drawers in other rooms, as well. It was less evident in those rooms because the searcher had been more cautious about putting things back in order before going on to scour another area.

  What did Aunt Mabel have in her possession that someone was determined to locate? Was there a rush to find the item because the heart center was soon to take legal possession of the house? Was the item worth a great deal of money? Could it be desired only for sentimental reasons? Or was there another motivating factor—perhaps sinister in nature—that caused the person to be desperate in their efforts to find and seize the item in question? Maybe the house contained evidence of a misdeed the perpetrator did not want discovered. Could that frantic person be afraid that if left behind, this incriminating item might fall into the wrong hands?

  These questions whirled through my mind like a 35 mm film spinning on a reel in an empty movie theater as I straightened up the master suite in preparation for Rip's arrival. Still pondering who was behind the rummaging, I returned to the main floor. I walked through the drawing room and, as before, I felt eyes following me to the front door. A chill ran down my spine. It didn't stop until it reached my socks.

  * * *

  "Hallelujah!" I heard my husband say as I neared the door to his hospital room.

  Dr. Murillo stood at Rip's bedside when I entered the room. "Okay, Rip. I'll have a nurse prepare your discharge papers while you get dressed. It might be an hour or so. The cardiac ward is full and two nurses are off sick, including Nurse Combs. The rest are scurrying about trying to keep up with the work load."

  "Hello, Dr. Murillo," I greeted the surgeon. "No big hurry. He's been here for a number of days. What's another hour or two?"

  "Easy for you to say," Rip said jokingly. He then directed his attention toward the surgeon. "I hope Nurse Combs is not seriously ill. She's been very inspirational to me."

  "That's nice," the surgeon responded absentmindedly.

  "Sydney stopped by my room earlier this morning," Rip said. "She must have fallen ill afterward."

  "I guess so." Dr. Murillo answered in a distracted manner, as if his head nurse's health was neither here nor there. He was simultaneously reading a chart in his hand and glancing at a text on his phone. As hectic as his pace routinely seemed to be, Sydney probably could have called in with mad cow disease without it penetrating the surgeon's concentration.

  "Take care of yourself, Mr. Ripple. I'll see you at your follow-up appointment next week. I've got to continue my rounds right now, but you have my card if a problem arises. Don't hesitate to call." With that, Dr. Murillo turned and briskly fled the room.

  "Thanks for everything, Doc," Rip called out as the surgeon closed the door behind him.

  An hour and a half later, Rip was transported to the front door of the cardiac center in a wheelchair. When he reached the sidewalk, Rip lifted his arms dramatically, exclaiming, "Free at last, free at last! Thank God Almighty, I am free at last!"

  I laughed at his playfulness. "Wait here, Mr. King. I'll go get the truck and pick you up at the curb."

  "Hey look, Rapella! There's Brandy with my cup of coffee!"

  I looked in the direction he'd indicated and saw the hospital volunteer Rip had put the fear of God in when she refused to bring him a hot cup of the caffeine-laden beverage. She was sipping the hot beverage from a Tervis tumbler.

  "That's not her name. It's–"

  "Oh, yeah. Now I remember," Rip cut in. "It's Candy, right?"

  "Close enough," I replied with
a sigh. I knew he'd gotten confused about the young lady's name again because of her candy-striper status, but since he'd probably never need to know or use her name again, I decided not to waste my breath reminding him that her name was Jasmine. I thanked the nurse's assistant who'd wheeled Rip down to the front door, and Rip expressed his appreciation, as well. I was thankful the assistant was back inside the building before my husband's next remark.

  "Speaking of coffee, now that I've been sprung, there's nothing to stop me from stopping at the first convenience store and scoring a steaming cup of hot brew."

  "Actually, honey, there is one thing to stop you."

  "What's that?"

  "Your wife."

  * * *

  We could hear a loud clamor emanating from the Heart Shack when we turned the corner on to South Hart Street. It did my heart good to know the construction crew was on the job and the cleaning crew was due to arrive soon.

  Rip's eyes widened at first sight of the bright red, rambling mansion. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

  "Cat got your tongue?" I asked him playfully.

  "It's even more shocking in person than in the photos you showed me. Kind of overwhelming, isn't it?" Rip said as he stared at the structure in awe. It was as if he'd just seen a mirage in the middle of the Sahara Desert and was waiting for it to disappear.

  "Yes. It really is. I'm not sure the red paint job was the best idea in the world, but no one could say it doesn't make an impact."

  "That's for sure. Speaking of a cat having my tongue, where's Dolly?"

  "She's coming with the Chartreuse Caboose this afternoon."

  "Oh, gosh. I'd forgotten about the trailer. I guess I need to go hook it up and drive–"

  "Nope," I said.

  "But, Rapella, you've never hooked the trailer up before."

  "Relax. It's all taken care of. Dave and Cindy Miller, the couple parked in the site next to us at the RV park, offered to tow the trailer here this afternoon."

  "That's very thoughtful of them. We should treat them to dinner somewhere."

  "Got it taken care of, honey. They already have plans for this evening, but they'll be joining us here for supper in a couple of weeks when they come into town for Dave's overnight sleep study test at the Neurology Institute."

  "Sleep study?"

  "Yes. Don't you remember the test that checks for sleep apnea, a condition you told Dr. Herron that you considered hogwash when she recommended you have one performed? Dave may have sleep apnea, just as you likely do. It'd be a crying shame to go through all of this cardiac surgery and rehab only to stop breathing in the middle of the night because of some 'hogwash' condition you refused to be evaluated for."

  "Get back to the Muehlers," Rip instructed. I just shook my head and didn't bother to correct him on the couple's name.

  "They should arrive with Dolly and the Caboose around four. And, honey, you don't need to be going out to a restaurant quite yet. Your recuperation has really only just begun. Which reminds me, I'll be driving you to your first rehab session this afternoon at two."

  "Say what? This afternoon? Are you kidding me?" Rip looked flabbergasted, as if I'd just told him he needed to put a new roof on the house before sundown. "Wow! There really is no rest for the weary, is there? You'd think they'd give me at least one day to get settled back into real life before forcing me to–"

  "Forcing you to do what, Rip? Forcing you to do what's necessary to recover fully so you can go on with your life and be physically capable to participate in all of the things you enjoy doing?"

  "Aha! I think I just figured out what was wrong with Nurse Ratched today. You swallowed her, didn't you? I can actually hear Sydney every time you open your mouth to speak."

  "Yes, that's exactly what happened, and don't you forget it! Now let's get cracking. There's no time to rest on your laurels. You've got a two o'clock appointment you can't afford to be late for. I'll be dragging you kicking and screaming to the truck if I have to. There is a bit of good news, however."

  Rip perked up instantly. "Really? What's that?"

  "You got Nurse Combs' first name right for once."

  "Oh, joy." And with his disgruntled response, Rip perked down just as quickly as he'd perked up.

  * * *

  I got Rip settled into the recliner in the master suite and went down to the kitchen to prepare a casserole so it'd be ready to pop in the oven later on. Not knowing how long the rehab session would take, I didn't want to put it off until after our return, particularly with the Millers dropping off the trailer around four. I took Gallant outside so he could take care of business, and fed both pets. For once, Goofus was quiet. He looked as if he was brooding, but I knew he was probably shaken up by the commotion and noise of the construction workers. I thought about recording the racket on my phone so I could play it every time I had to open up the sassy bird's cage.

  "No worries, Goofus. They'll be done and out of here in a couple of days. And I'm not going to sing to you this morning."

  Now I realize it's harder to judge a bird's demeanor by his expression than it is a person's. But the look on Goofus's face was clearly one of gratitude. As I closed the door to his cage, I said, "Listen here, brat! I don't enjoy listening to you any more than you like listening to me. You should be thankful I'm not letting you starve to death. You don't want to die of STD, like Rip thought he might, do you?"

  "Go away, bwat!" Goofus said softly while remaining still. "Prissy ass."

  "You're exasperating, but you're certainly a quick learner."

  "Go away, you old bwag! Don't need your help!"

  "Did you just call me an old bag?" I asked the cheeky cockatoo.

  "Old bwag. You old bwag."

  "Okay, fine. Why don't you feed yourself tomorrow then? And, while you're at it, you dumbass bird, feed your brother, too, and let him outside to take a big dump."

  "Take a wump! Take a wump! Dumbass!"

  Although his speech impediment had kicked in on the word dump, he somehow managed to enunciate the similar word, dumbass, precisely. I instantly regretted my poor choice of words and told myself I'd have to be more careful what I said around Goofus. He had no filter to prevent him from repeating any phrase or word he heard. A person could get into big trouble by saying the wrong thing around him, I thought.

  "You old dumb—"

  I slammed the kitchen door behind me before the insufferable cockatoo could finish his insult.

  Chapter 18

  "I'm going to run to the store, honey," I told Rip a few minutes later. He was engrossed in an old Gunsmoke rerun he'd probably seen a dozen times before. "I need to pick up a few things so I can put together a salad for tonight."

  "Shush," Rip said suddenly, pointing at the television screen. "Breaking news regarding the autopsy results of Mabel Trumbo's body."

  "–body exhumed Monday," the news reporter was saying as I turned my attention to the television. "Autopsy reports indicate an abnormally high level of Vitamin K in the body of the late Mabel Trumbo, who'd recently undergone double-bypass surgery at a local cardiac center. The philanthropist had bequeathed her 1882 Victorian mansion to the center to be used as temporary housing for the families of heart patients. Her death has been determined to be associated with this suspiciously high Vitamin K level." The reporter turned to a renowned heart surgeon. "Dr. Gupta, can you explain to our viewers the significance of the results and how it relates to Ms. Trumbo's death?"

  "Simply put, Vitamin K helps the blood to clot. That being said, having a very high level of Vitamin K works against the blood-thinning medications normally prescribed to bypass patients. Pulmonary embolism, the official cause of death, or COD, has not changed from the preliminary findings. Ms. Trumbo died from a blood clot in the lung. Sheriff Watts of the Seattle Police Department stated in a press release that foul play had been ruled out, but Ms. Trumbo's death is being investigated as a possible case of medical malpractice on the part of hospital staff."

  "
Thank you, Dr. Gupta," the reporter said, turning to face the camera. "Callie Barnes will look at our weather for the week when we return from these messages."

  I picked up the remote control to lower the TV's volume. As usual, the sound was too loud for us to carry on a conversation because my husband refuses to wear his hearing aids. I was afraid one of the neighbors from four or five houses down the street would complain about the noise. "Why would those results be considered a possible case of medical malpractice or negligence, particularly if the cause of death remained the same?"

  "Beats me. It's Thursday, isn't it? Didn't Sydney tell you she'd be stopping by this afternoon to check in on the cleaners and construction crew?"

  "No. Today is Wednesday. But I'll ask her about it tomorrow. In the meantime, here's your lunch." I set the plate down on the side table next to the recliner. I was proud of the dish. "It's got to be good. I found the recipe on an app called YUM."

  "YUM? Are you joking?" He stared down at the plate, as if waiting for me to laugh, pull another plate of food from behind my back, and say, "April fools, honey. Here's your Big Mac and fries. I'll be right back with your chocolate shake."

  "I'm serious, Rip!" I tried to contain my irritation. After working diligently to produce a healthy meal for him, he was looking at the food as if he'd watched me scoop it up out of Dolly's litter box.

  "What is it?"

  "A grilled salmon filet on a bed of steamed couscous, topped with a brown butter sauce."

  "On a bed of what?"

  "Couscous. Small steamed balls of semolina. It's a staple food throughout much of North Africa. Like I said, I found it on an app called YUM."

  "Steamed balls of what? Oh, YUM." Rip's voice reeked of sarcasm, with a heavy dose of skepticism thrown in for good measure.

  Grilled salmon had never been his favorite, although he'd eat fried crappie all day long. He'd always been a meat and potatoes kind of guy, but was open to almost anything as long as it was cut from a farm animal, fried in oil, drenched in cheese, wrapped in bacon, or had "double cheeseburger" in its name. He wanted nothing to do with fancy sauces and creams, casseroles consisting of twenty or more ingredients, especially unpronounceable ones, and he absolutely turned his nose up at anything seasoned with cilantro or garnished with sprigs of parsley. I won't even start on how Rip felt about rice cakes, tofu, hummus, and seaweed. I knew getting him to try new recipes that were designed to be heart-healthy was not going to be an easy task, but I'd hoped I wouldn't have to fight him every step of the way.