“Well, maybe we should stick with ‘Best of luck.’ But is there something going on you want to talk about?”
She never heard the answer to that, because someone was suddenly pounding on the door.
Twenty-four
By the time Edie and Frances understood that someone was at the door and came out of their room, Joan and Irene, both dressed for bed, were there. Irene was peeking out the closed blinds.
“It’s the cops,” she hissed.
“With pink lights?” Joan was peeking out the other set of blinds. “I don’t think so.”
“Is it Skinner?” Edie asked.
“Maybe. Maybe this is a shakedown,” Irene said.
Frances looked at her. “What exactly would he be shaking down? We look like a bunch of poorly paid teacher’s aides.”
Someone pounded on the door again, and all of them jumped.
“Stay calm, everyone. Maybe we should see who is on the other side of that door,” Edie suggested.
Frances didn’t hesitate—she stepped up to the door and looked out the peephole. She couldn’t see anyone at first. She stepped back. “No one is there.”
“Someoneis there,” Edie insisted. “They just knocked.”
Frances stepped up and looked out again. She heard a voiceand rose up on her toes to see more through the peephole. “Oh my God,” she said.
“Oh my God,what?” Joan whispered frantically.
Frances yanked the door open.
“Hiii,” a drunken Marcy said, with such enthusiasm that she stumbled, catching herself on the door frame.
The car with the pink lights drove off.
“Excuse me.” Edie shoved Frances out of the way, grabbed Marcy by her arm, and yanked her inside.
“Ouch,” Marcy said meekly.
Frances quickly shut the door and bolted it shut.
She turned around, her heart still pounding. Edie had Marcy on the couch. Irene and Joan were standing with arms crossed over their chests in identical fashion, both clearly unhappy.
“I’m sorry,” Marcy said thickly.
“What’s going on with her? Is she a stalker?” Irene asked.
“What in the hell, Marcy?” Edie demanded. “What in the hell are you doing here, uninvited and unwantedagain?”
“And drunk! Don’t forget drunk,” Joan added.
Marcy had slid down on the couch, her head lolling against the back, her eyes closed. “I knew you’d be mad.”
“Mad?” Edie said loudly. “‘Mad’ doesn’t begin to describe it.”
“I’m really sorry, Nana,” Marcy said again, and slid a little more. “I just stopped for one drink. The Flamingo is right there,” she said, and pointed up.
“You just …” Edie put her hands on her hips. “What in the hell are you even doing in Vegas, Marcy Anne Kessler?”
