by Diane Capri
“No, I’m dying!”
“You’re not dying, honey. You’re having a baby.” Pat. Pat. Pat.
She grabbed my arm and screamed. I swore she sounded just like the girl from the movie The Exorcist. I hated that movie. Scared the bejeezus out of me. Gave me nightmares for years, just as I expected this whole event was going to as well.
Before I could do anything, the doctor and the nurse rushed into the room. The doctor was a pleasant-looking woman with pixie hair and a nose to match. She actually looked like a fairy. A tall, gangly fairy, mind you, but one nonetheless. She reached down and helped Sasha up to her feet, then shuffled her over to the bed.
“I’m Dr. Neumann, Sasha. I’ll be your doctor. Now let’s see what’s going on down there.”
While they maneuvered Sasha, and me by proxy, toward the bed, I tried to extract myself from the situation, but Sasha had a death grip on my hand. She was holding on like I was a life raft in a flood. The doctor got her settled with her legs up in stirrups and then got down to business.
“Looks like you’re already dilated seven centimeters.” She smiled at Sasha. “You’re going to be having this baby very soon.” She looked at me. “Are you her partner?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m Andi Steele. I’m the concierge at the Park Hotel.”
Dr. Neumann made a face then chuckled. “Wow, you’re really taking customer service to a whole new level.”
“Yeah, you have no idea. Lois better give me a raise after this.”
Sasha squeezed my hand so hard as she went through another contraction that I swore I could hear the bones break, then she let out a long string of curses in the guttural voice of the possessed. Curses that just about made me blush.
The doctor patted me on the shoulder. “I’ll put in a good word for you with Lois. We play bridge together every Thursday night.”
I couldn’t respond through the tears streaming down my face thanks to the pain zinging up my arm. I tried to pry Sasha’s fingers from my hand. “You’re crushing me.”
She screamed again, bowing her back, as another contraction hit her.
“Try rubbing her belly or shoulders. It’ll help with the pain,” the nurse suggested as she puttered around getting things together for the impending birth.
“What about my pain?” I grunted.
The nurse just chuckled. “Oh, you’re lucky. The last birth we had in here, the husband got knocked on his butt from the mother’s very well-placed uppercut. I don’t think he saw it coming at all.” She shook her head and continued to chuckle good-naturedly. “I totally did.”
For the next four hours, I rubbed Sasha’s belly, her shoulders, then her back, then her belly again. I coached her breathing, panting along with her, not caring that I made stupid faces while doing it. After the second hour, my stomach was grumbling so hard that I tore into the gift basket. I devoured an entire sleeve of vegetable crackers, a roll of sausage, and nearly a block of cheese. Thankfully there was some fruit and a bottle of Perrier water to wash it all down.
When the time was right, I urged Sasha to push, praising her with every advancement, and when the electricity of the room was finally punctuated with the robust cry of a tiny baby boy, I smiled and gently patted her on the shoulder.
“Well done,” Dr. Neumann proclaimed. “He’s a healthy little man.” She gave Sasha’s leg a gentle squeeze and then exited the room, having done her good work.
The nurse cleaned the little guy up, swaddled him tight, and set him into Sasha’s arms. The nurse left the room. Even with her dark hair in complete disarray, sweat dotting her forehead and upper lip, her eyes glassy and a bit unfocused, Sasha was beaming with that new-mother glow.
“He’s beautiful, Sasha,” I said.
She nodded and pressed her lips to her baby’s head. Tears dripped down her cheeks and kerplunked on his little face. He didn’t seem to mind, though. He seemed quite content being out and proud and lying on his mom’s chest.
“Is there anything I can get you?”
She pressed her lips together, and she seemed not far from completely breaking down. “Thank you for being here.”
I smiled at her. “You’re welcome. I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to. You had a pretty good grip on my hand.” I flexed it because it was still a bit stiff.
She bit down on her bottom lip, and I could tell she was struggling with something.
I put my hand on her shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll make sure you get everything you need, Sasha. You don’t need to worry. I’ll figure something out.”
She looked up at me. “Steve Bower is the father of my baby, and I’m pretty sure he killed my brother.”
Chapter 31
I gaped at her, my mouth opening and closing like a guppy. “Okay,” I said after I recovered. “Let’s start with the first thing. You had an affair with Steve Bower?”
She nodded and nuzzled her face against her baby’s head.
“For how long?”
“Almost a year.”
“And I take it he broke up with you when you told him you were pregnant?” It was such a cliché, but it happened a lot. As a lawyer at a big firm with many wealthy clients, I’d been on the other side of that equation, trying to find ways to protect that client’s money from situations like these. It had always been my least favorite part of the job.
“When I found out I was pregnant, I told him, and he told me we were through and that I couldn’t prove the child was his.”
“Does his wife know? About the affair?”
She shook her head. “No. Steve was adamant about that. He was scared that she’d divorce him and take the business and all the money. There was a prenup.”
This confirmed what I’d been hearing around town. That Steve had all the assets and had provided all the initial income to start Bower Development. His family had amassed most of their fortune in the ’70s and ’80s from a well-known soap business. His parents were good friends with the families who started the company in the late ’60s. Who knew cleaning products could be so lucrative?
I imagined Pamela had been forced to sign a prenup that protected all his money. But I imagined an affair and an illegitimate child on his part could make a lot of that contract null and void.
An affair was a scandal Steve literally couldn’t afford.
I could probably infer how the affair had led to blackmail, which led to Thomas’s death, but I needed to ask. I needed to be sure. Accusing someone of murder was extremely serious and couldn’t be taken lightly.
“Why do you think Steve killed Thomas? Did he tell you?”
“I just know,” she said.
“Do you have proof? Give me something I can take to the sheriff. If Steve killed your brother, he needs to be arrested.”
She closed her eyes and breathed in her baby. There was something she didn’t want to tell me. I didn’t blame her. She was probably having a difficult time dealing with the fact that her baby’s father may have murdered her brother. That wasn’t an easy thing to digest. I’d have to pull the truth out of her bit by bit.
“Was your brother blackmailing Steve?”
She gave me a side-eye look around her baby’s head, and I knew I had hit on something.
“Because of your affair and pregnancy?”
Before she could answer the nurse returned. “All right, time to get this little man fed, and time for him to bond with his mommy.” She glanced at me. “Time for visitors to take a break and come back in a few hours after mommy and baby have gotten to know each other.”
“I just need to talk to Sasha for a little bit—”
“Nope. Time for you to go.” She said it with a smile, but she was all business. I admired nurses who could be both gentle as a lamb and as tough as a drill sergeant. They also scared me.
“Sasha, I will be back to make sure you’re all right.” I barely made it out of the room with the remains of the gift basket before the nurse shut the big, heavy door, missing my foot b
y mere inches.
As I stood there in the corridor, I considered my options. I could go to Sheriff Jackson with what Sasha had said, but I had no proof to back up her claims. If I was going to make accusations like murder and such about a prominent member of the town, I needed something to back me up. Otherwise, the sheriff would throw me out on my butt or, worse, harass Sasha about it. But first, I had to figure out what to do with the pitiful remains of the gift basket that I was supposed to have delivered already.
I’d eaten all the crackers, sausage, and gourmet cheese. Granted, I did share it with Sasha; she’d helped me devour the crackers. Giving birth was hungry business. All that was left was a teddy bear wearing a Get Well Soon t-shirt, an apple (I’d eaten both the pear and the orange) and some chocolate-covered almonds, which I was surprised I hadn’t eaten. The cellophane had been ripped open and hung in tatters from the wicker basket. I couldn’t present it as it was. I had to fix it up a bit.
As I made my way to the hospital lobby, I spied a gift shop/convenience store. I went inside and perused the shelves, looking for anything that could help fix the situation. I quickly grabbed a box of Ritz crackers, some pepperoni sticks, and a block of cheddar cheese I spotted in one of the refrigerated shelves next to the yogurt cups. I also snagged all the ribbon they had in the corner next to the get-well and sympathy cards. After paying for my purchases, I rearranged them all in the basket as best I could—I was definitely not a skilled basket decorator—then tore away the rest of the cellophane and tied all the ribbons around the basket handle. I nodded at my finished piece, satisfied, then took it and hurried down the other hallway looking for Mrs. Cushing’s room. I was going to run in, drop it off, and get the heck out of there.
When I found her room, I slowly pushed open the door and peered in. There was an older woman in the bed, and she was sleeping. There didn’t appear to be anyone else in the room. Perfect. I quickly walked in, making sure I was quiet. I set the basket down on the table beside her bed, then turned and was just about to march out, when the door to the adjoined bathroom opened. A tall young man with an artfully messy mop of blond hair and big brown eyes walked out.
He glanced at the basket, then at me. “Can I help you?” His voice was musical and cultured, with just a hint of a British accent. This had to be Casey Cushing. Everyone at the hotel, especially the ladies, had made a point of telling me how incredible he was.
“Ah, I just dropped off a gift basket from the Park Hotel.”
He smiled, and I kid you not, the room actually lit up. “Oh, how nice. Lois and the whole crew are just so amazing to me.”
I nodded. “Yeah, they sure are.”
His eyes narrowed a little. “I don’t think we’ve met before. I would definitely remember your face.”
I had to tamp down the urge to girlishly giggle. The man was definitely blessed with high voltages of charm. “I’m Andi Steele.”
“Ah, yes. Lois told me that she got someone to cover my job while I was taking care of my mom.” He offered me his hand, and I shook it. His skin was exceptionally soft. “You’re Ginny’s old friend, aren’t you?”
The way he said “old” made me think he was referring to my age and not that we were long-time friends, although he couldn’t have been that much younger than me, maybe by seven years.
“Yes, Ginny and I went to college together.”
“Oh, that’s right, I heard you were a lawyer.”
Oh, the joys of living in a small town. Everyone knew your business, even when you didn’t want them to.
“Yeah. I’m just taking a much-needed break.” I didn’t know why I lied about my situation. Besides the fact that he didn’t need to know the truth—it wasn’t his business—I suddenly felt a whole surge of competitiveness with him. I wasn’t someone who liked to lose. And I had a feeling that Casey Cushing had just set up the competition.
“Well then, I’m sure you’ll be happy to move on once I’m able to return to work. It must be so boring here compared to the big city.” He gave me a smile. I knew it was meant to win me over, but now that the gauntlet had been thrown down between us, it didn’t do anything but piss me off.
“Well, we’ll see. You never know what can happen in that time.” I returned his smile. “Enjoy the basket.” I then turned and left the room, happy that I had eaten most of the good stuff.
I left the hospital with a bit of a burn in my belly. And no, it wasn’t food poisoning. It was the drive to do better, be better. I was going to be a better concierge than Casey Cushing. I just had to prove myself to Lois and to everyone at the hotel. And the best way to start was to figure out once and for all who killed Thomas Banks. I’d like to see Casey do that with his smarmy 100-watt smile and perfectly messy hair.
Chapter 32
As I approached the golf cart, I realized it still needed gas. Damn it. I decided the easiest way to solve that problem would be to call Ginny and ask her to bring me a jerry can full of fuel. When I reached into my pocket for my phone, I felt something else in there. I pulled out a set of keys. At first I was confused as to what keys they were, and then I remembered that I’d helped Sasha lock up her apartment. During all the chaos, I’d forgotten about them.
As I looked at them in my hand, I thought about heading back to her hospital room and returning them, but then I thought that maybe she had proof somewhere back at her place about Thomas blackmailing Steve. That kind of information would be enough for the sheriff to launch a thorough look at Steven Bower.
My conscience poked at me a little, but I ignored it. If anyone caught me there, or asked, I’d just say I was there getting some things for Sasha and the baby. It wouldn’t really be a lie, as I would definitely pack up some things for her while I was there anyway. Because of everything that had happened, what we’d experienced together, I felt a weird connection to Sasha. I wanted to help her in any way I could. I needed to help her.
I walked back to her apartment, making a mental note to call Ginny to help me get the golf cart back to the hotel before I got in too much trouble for taking it in the first place. Before I climbed the stairs, I made sure no one was around. I waited until a few loud tourists walked by, then I raced to the top, opened the door, and went inside.
She still had her phone with her, so I couldn’t search that, but if she had a computer somewhere around…
I found a laptop in her bedroom and brought it out to the kitchen table. Little pieces of me felt bad about going through her stuff, but I had a killer to catch, and if anything here could prove motive or means, it was a risk I’d take. I’d apologize for it later.
I opened the lid and hoped the laptop wasn’t password protected. I wasn’t a hacker by any means and didn’t know Sasha well enough to guess at what her password could be. I turned it on, and the generic ocean-themed screensaver filled the screen. I pumped my fist in the air. I was in! I clicked on her web browser, hoping she had bookmarks for all her regular internet doings. Most people did. We were a society that loved its conveniences. Yup, I spotted her banking, email, and most used search engine on the top toolbar.
I clicked on her email provider, knowing a lot of people saved their passwords in their computer. Again another dangerous convenience we used as a society. Like a million other people, I was able to access her emails with one click. I hated snooping through her private conversations, but it had to be done.
There was nothing glaring in her inbox. Just some emails from her bank and insurance company, probably checking up on some things for the impending birth of her son. She had some spam she hadn’t deleted yet from retailers, a couple of dating sites, and the usual array of sexual advancements, marketing schemes, and Nigerian prince scams. I went through her sent emails but didn’t find anything addressed to Thomas Banks, or T Banks, or anything obviously related to Thomas. Nothing directly related to Steve Bower, either. There were a couple of emails addressed to bowwow69, though.
I shook my head at the moniker. Some men just never grew up. I clicked on
the first one and found an exchange between Sasha and someone who I assumed was Steve because it contained flirtatious wording about seeing each other and hooking up. The date on the last exchange was three months ago. So, if the recipient was Steve Bower, he and Sasha were still seeing each other when she would’ve been four months pregnant. There were no more emails between her and bowwow69 after that.
I continued the search through her sent folder and didn’t find much of importance, except for a few emails to the Swan Song, which was one of the pubs on the island, about holiday pay and work hours. Sasha must have worked there at some point. The emails were dated seven months ago.
Nothing else popped out at me, so I clicked on her web browser. I checked her search history for anything interesting. Most recent searches were about pregnancy and all its relevant health information. She’d searched warning signs of miscarriage and the like a few times. Poor girl had obviously been alone and afraid for most of her pregnancy.
I continued to scroll down her search history. Seemed like Sasha rarely, if ever, deleted any of it. So stuff from months ago still showed up. I was just about ready to give up when a couple of search terms caught my attention. Steve Bower and Bower Development. The searches were made over a year ago. Before Sasha and Steve had started their affair, according to Sasha.
I clicked on the links. They took me to the Bower Development website and the bio of Steve Bower directly. I continued looking in the search history and found more searches: Pamela Bower, Pamela Platt, Douglas Platt, places to rent on Frontenac Island, jobs on Frontenac Island, Swan Song.
I sat back in the chair. I’d always assumed that Sasha was from here. But now I wondered if she had moved here only about a year and a half ago, after some research on Steve Bower. I didn’t like where this was going.
I stared at her computer screen, and another icon caught my eye. I clicked on it. There weren’t a lot of photos in it. For most people nowadays, photos were kept on our phones. I clicked on a folder, and several photos came up. I stared at them in disbelief. They were of Steve Bower. Leaving his house, driving to his office, coming home. There were others of Pamela and their kids, I assumed. Then there were a few of Steve out in the village. Going to the café, going to the store, and several of him going into and leaving a pub. The Swan Song.
