“Well, I have some in my first aid cabinet.”
“You have a first aid cabinet?”
“Of course. I had a wild, sports-obsessed son who was good at injuring himself.” Still holding the two bottles, Riva opened the door. “Any more booze hidden in here?”
“I’m not an alcoholic.”
Riva frowned at the bottles in her hands. “Sure could’ve fooled me.”
“Ha ha.” Kitty growled. “Thanks. Now I’m craving a Manhattan.”
“I’ll get that elastic wrap.”
As Riva closed the door behind her, Laurel poked her head out of her room. “Windy told me about Kitty’s ankle. Do you think she’s faking it to get you to feel sorry for her so you’ll let her stay?”
“Being that she injured it before I had a chance to tell her about our concerns, I have to assume it’s legitimate.”
Laurel’s brows arched. She nodded toward the liquor bottles in Riva’s hands. “Wow, you hittin’ the hard stuff now?” She laughed as Riva headed down the stairs.
“I hope this is all she had in her room, but the place is such a disaster area, who knows?”
“Did Kitty get an X-ray?” she asked, following Riva.
“No, she doesn’t seem to want to see a doctor.”
“Right. Easier to fake it and milk it for all its worth.” Laurel followed Riva through the kitchen.
“Maybe ... but I have to admit the ankle is a bit swollen.” Riva dumped the contents of the bottles down the sink drain. “And Brent had his fair share of twisted ankles. This looks similar. Brent’s sprains usually healed fairly quick though. He’d often be off his crutches after just a week. But then he was young. At our age, well, it probably takes longer.”
Laurel snorted. “Like Kitty will ever confess she’s our age, or even close.”
Riva dropped the glass bottles into the recycling bin, then rinsed her hands.
“Does Kitty have crutches to get around or will Marcus be stopping by to transport her as needed?”
Riva ignored Laurel’s jab. “No crutches yet, but I think Brent’s spare set is in the garage.”
Laurel continued to shadow Riva as she perused the first aid cabinet, eventually unearthing the storage container with elastic bandages. She held the plastic box out to Laurel. “How’re you at wrapping an ankle?”
“Seriously? You want me to help that little witch?”
“Oh, Laurel.” Riva frowned and shook her head. “What would Jesus do?”
“Tell her to get up, pick up her bed, and walk?” Laurel smirked. “Maybe have her fix us something to eat, then go and sin no more?”
“Funny.” Riva handed Laurel a rolled bandage. “I happen to remember heroic tales of you playing school nurse when no one else was there to step in, and I also happen to know you’re first aid certified. Why don’t you handle this while I hunt down the crutches? That could take me a while.”
“Fine. But if she gets gangrene because I wrap her foot too tightly, don’t sue me.”
“As long as you don’t put a tourniquet around her neck, I won’t report you.” Riva reached for a bottle of Advil. “Offer her a couple of these for the pain, Nurse Ratched.”
“Or just give her the whole bottle with a stiff drink?”
“Laurel!” Riva scowled. “I never knew you were so wicked.”
Laurel looked genuinely contrite. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what gets into me sometimes. I never used to think of myself as hardhearted. But that woman—she just pushes all my buttons.”
“Maybe God is giving you an opportunity ... a lesson in turning the other cheek, loving your enemy.” She held out the Advil. “Being a good Samaritan.”
