“Didn't come out of the coma, huh?”
“Oh, he did. Somebody strangled him right there in his room.”
“Better let me have a look,” Lieutenant Belmont said.
“Oh, no, you don't. You're a patient, remember? The chief's here, too. We'll take care of the investigation. You'd better get back to bed before your nurse shows up.”
“She made me walk all around the floor this morning. I don't think she'll mind.”
“Baloney. You had a heart attack yesterday, man. You're supposed to be on sick leave.”
“But I can help. I'm the only real detective you've got.”
“Go back to your room, Bill. I'm not kidding. I have work to do here. I'll stop by later and fill you in.”
The lieutenant didn't look happy. “OK, but I need help.” He looked at me speculatively. “She'll do. Push this contraption back in there for me, will you, Mrs. Trent?”
Despite being pretty sure that the lieutenant's request for my help amounted to nothing more than a ruse, I did as he asked. As soon as he settled himself back in bed, I learned the real reason he'd turned to me.
“You're tight with Dave and Mike,” he said. “I want to know everything that's happening with the Durand investigation.”
“Why ask me? Sergeant Martinez already told you he'd keep you informed.”
“Dawn won't go for that. She thinks I need rest and no stress. There's no way she'll let him tell me a thing. The chief and Dave—they're good cops, but they're not detectives.”
If he hadn't been so down and out, I might have been tempted to remind him that he hadn't done such a bang-up job of solving the last murder in Lonesome Valley, but, as matters stood, I thought it best not to say anything that would agitate him further.
We were interrupted by a hospital technician who had come to draw blood, and I slipped out of the lieutenant's room without making him any promises.
The hallway was so crowded by the time I left the lieutenant's room that, still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that Ulysses had been murdered in his own hospital room, I decided to take the stairs, just a few feet away at the end of the hall. I'd gone down a flight when I heard the sound of a door closing. Someone on one of the floors above had entered the stairwell.
I stopped. Instinctively, I looked up, behind me and shuddered as a chill went through me. Taking the stairs instead of the elevator had seemed like a good idea. The hallway on the fourth floor, where I'd visited Ulysses, was busy. The stairs weren't used much, especially by visitors, so I'd thought I could avoid the crowded hallway and elevator and hasten my departure.
But, now, I was alone.
I was vulnerable.
I heard nothing more.
Looking up, all I could see from my present vantage point was the flight of stairs I'd just descended and the railing along the stairs' edge. I didn't see anyone. No shadows loomed or shifted on the stairs, either.
Whoever I'd heard had decided not to take the stairs, after all, I told myself. I exhaled. I hadn't even realized that I'd been holding my breath. I felt tense and stressed.
There's no reason to be frightened, I told myself, as I started down the stairs. Then I remembered that Brooks originally hadn't wanted to report Olivia's kidnapping to the police because he'd feared that the kidnappers could retaliate. He'd thought I might be in danger, too.
Footsteps! On the stairs above me!
I froze.
There was no mistaking the sounds.
Someone was on the stairs, after all.
And I was alone.
I'd been foolish to take the stairs, putting myself in jeopardy. Ulysses had been murdered, and his killer was on the loose. The murderer could still be in the hospital. Maybe whoever the killer was had entered the stairwell to pursue me.
Listening intently, I hurriedly descended the stairs.
Sure enough, the footsteps continued, echoing hollowly in the high space of the stairwell. When my pace increased, so did theirs. I didn't know where my stalker had entered the stairwell or how far above me the person might be.
I paused, glancing up, but the levels of the staircase doubled back on themselves at the landings connecting the sections of stairs, forming a rectangle, and the structure impeded my vision.
I knew one thing, though. If Ulysses's killer had decided I, too, must die, he was more than capable of achieving his goal. Whoever had strangled Ulysses had murdered him right in the middle of a busy hospital. My only hope was to get down the stairs before my stalker caught up to me.
Except for my own labored breathing, I heard nothing.
The footsteps had stopped.
Had my pursuer paused, too, to listen?
Above me, I heard a door close.
Then silence.
Ready to resume my flight at a moment's notice, I waited, listening.
A minute passed; I heard nothing.
I continued down the stairs without incident.
Whoever had entered the stairwell above me had obviously exited.
Had I been targeted by Ulysses's killer, or was the presence of another person on the stairwell due to nothing more sinister than a visitor who, like me, had merely found the stairs more convenient than the elevator?
Perhaps I'd never know. Perhaps I was letting my imagination run away with me.
But I did know one thing. I was alone again.
Chapter 24
My heart still racing, I hastened down the remaining stairs. The bright lights, the sight of the people in the lobby, and the receptionist at the desk near the front entrance were a welcome relief, indeed!
As I crossed the lobby, I saw Olivia, Gabrielle, and Brooks rushing into the main entrance. Now didn't seem the best time to offer condolences, so I stepped around a corner, out of sight, until they'd boarded the elevator.
The shock of learning about Ulysses’s untimely demise stayed with me as I drove home with the sickening feeling that if the police had known about the kidnapping earlier, perhaps Ulysses would still be alive. On the other hand, I could be wrong, and the two crimes could be unrelated.
Busy as the hospital was, anybody could go into a patient's room unnoticed. Whoever the murderer was must be a strong person. Both Mike and Sergeant Martinez had said Ulysses had been strangled. I couldn't imagine how anybody could do that to another person; it was terrible to contemplate.
I wondered whether I should call Pamela to let her know has died. I didn't really want to be the bearer of bad tidings, but I also didn't want her to hear about it on the news.
I decided to make a detour by the gallery so that I could talk to her. When I arrived, I had to park in the town's downtown lot because there wasn't an empty parking space on Main Street. As I walked toward the gallery, a bus pulled up out front, and a crowd of tourists streamed off the vehicle and into the gallery. With so many people around, it was going to be difficult to grab a minute alone with Pamela. I was on the verge of turning around when I saw Valerie, one of our members who taught art at the high school, frantically gesturing to me to come inside. I couldn't very well ignore her.
“Hi, Valerie. I stopped by to see Pamela. What's up?”
“I'm here all alone. Pamela hasn't shown up yet, and Frank called to say he'd be delayed, something about having to take his son to an emergency dental visit. Can you help out for a while?”
“OK, sure,” I said, hoping that Frank or Pamela would show up soon. I still had scarves to dye, potato salad to prepare, and a call on my next-door neighbor to make so that we could see how the painting he liked would look in his living room. I started to panic, but there was no time to think about all the tasks that I'd planned when the immediate one was right in front of me.
A few of the tourists had gathered at the jewelry counter, and I went to assist them while Valerie answered questions about the paintings on display.
Soon she was removing one from the wall and ringing up a sale for it. Rather than lugging a bulky painting around downtown for several hour
s, the couple who'd purchased it requested that we hold it for them to pick up before their bus departed in the afternoon. This was a common practice, and Valerie readily agreed.
By the time the crowd thinned, I'd sold several pieces of jewelry, and Valerie had sold some packets of note cards and a few prints. The rush over, we looked at each other, and she gave me a thumbs-up.
“Thanks for staying to help, Amanda. I can't imagine why Pamela isn't here yet. She's usually the first to arrive.”
I glanced outside and saw a big SUV double park in front of the gallery. Pamela got out and waved to the driver. The windows were tinted so dark that I couldn't see who it was, but I assumed Rich was the one who'd dropped her off.
“Good morning, ladies,” Pamela said breezily when she came in. “How's it going?”
I could tell Valerie was irritated as she explained that she'd pressed me into action because she'd been the only member who'd shown up to work.
Pamela didn't catch on, although normally she would have been concerned about any glitch that might interfere with the smooth operations of the gallery. Instead, she smiled and murmured “uh huh,” then went down the hallway to her office. In a few seconds, we could hear her singing, although she stopped after a few bars.
Valerie shook her head. “I think I'll call Frank to find out if he's going to show up. If not, maybe Dorothy or Dawn might be able to take his place; that is, unless you can stay.”
“I'd rather not. It's just that I have a ton of things I need to do this afternoon.” I explained about my scarf orders and the in-house showing of my painting.
“OK. I'm sure I can find someone to come in. Why don't you head on home? I'll call Pamela out of her office to help if it gets busy again.”
“I need to talk to Pamela for a minute first. That's why I stopped by. It's bad news, I'm afraid.” I told Valerie about Ulysses.
“Murdered? He seemed like such a nice man. I mean I only saw him a couple of times, but I can't believe somebody would want to kill him.”
“Pamela knew him better than the rest of us, so I thought I should tell her before she hears it elsewhere.”
I wasn't looking forward to giving her the news, especially when she was in such a good mood, but I thought I should.
She looked up from tapping her computer keyboard, as I walked into her office.
"I'm putting the finishing touches on our newsletter.” She clicked the mouse.
“Pamela, I'm afraid I have some bad news.”
My statement seemed to get through to her, and her mood turned serious immediately.
“What is it?”
“Ulysses is dead.”
“Oh, no! He never came out of the coma,” she moaned.
“It's actually worse than that.”
She stared at me. “What could be worse?”
“He was murdered, strangled right in his hospital bed.”
“That can't be! How could this happen? Oh, poor Ulysses!” Pamela started to cry, and, before I knew it, she was sobbing.
“I'm so sorry, Pamela,” I said, feeling guilty at having upset her. She grabbed a wad of tissues from the box on her desk, and now it was empty. I ran to the restroom to find another box to replace the empty one. I located some supplies in the bathroom cabinet, grabbed a new box of tissues, tore it open, and returned to Pamela's office. I offered her the box, and she grabbed a handful of tissues.
“Thanks, Amanda,” she sniffed.
I was glad to see she had calmed down a little bit. “Would you like a glass of water?” I asked.
The door opened before she had a chance to answer me, and there was Rich, a bag from the bakery down the block in his hand. He set it on Pamela's desktop and went around her desk to embrace her.
“What's wrong, honey?”
“Ulysses has been murdered!”
“The artist?”
“Yes. You know, the one who set up the plein air paint-out and auction.”
“Well, that's a shame, but you hardly knew the guy. Why are you so upset?”
I took his question as my cue to tiptoe out of the office. I had a feeling that Pamela's long-past relationship with Ulysses was about to become an issue just when they had evidently reconciled their differences over Chip's presence in the gallery. I didn't look back after I gently closed Pamela's office door, but by the time I reached the end of the hallway, I could hear their raised voices.
“Trouble in paradise?” Valerie asked.
“I guess so.”
“It's too bad. Pamela was in such a good mood when she came in.”
I wished Rich hadn't come in when he had. If only Pamela had had a chance to pull herself together, the whole situation could have been avoided. She'd told me his jealousy had kicked in lately, and I'd witnessed it myself when he'd insisted she resign as gallery director. I didn't know how jealous he could be of a dead man, but I believed he didn't want Pamela to have feelings for any man except him.
I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and was dismayed to see that the time had really gotten away from me. Belle and I were due at our new neighbor's in a few minutes. Rather than rushing through our visit with him, I decided to postpone it. I still had scarves to dye before the barbecue, and I needed to get started.
I called Belle, explained the situation, and asked her to let Brian know.
“Don't worry, Amanda. I'll take care of it. Shall I try to reschedule for the same time tomorrow afternoon?”
“Perfect. I hope he's not angry.”
“He struck me as a level-headed guy. I'm sure he'll understand that you have work to do, and you couldn't very well leave Valerie in the lurch at the gallery.”
“I hope so.”
“Leave it to me. I'll see you at six. I don't know what the world's coming to—another murder in Lonesome Valley!”
“Yes. It's awful. I was so shocked when Mike told me.”
We didn't linger on the phone. I knew Belle would have to visit Brian in person to ask to delay our appointment because neither of us had his phone number. I hated to postpone, but I knew I'd never finish everything else I had to do if I kept the appointment.
Once home, I slapped together a sandwich for lunch, gave Laddie and Mona Lisa a snack, and rushed to peel the potatoes I'd boiled earlier. After I cut them into chunks, I chopped an onion and made the potato salad for the barbecue. I put it into the refrigerator to chill. Finally, I was ready to dye a dozen silk scarves.
Dyeing was a messy process, so I always used vinyl gloves to protect my hands and did all my dyeing outside. I planned to tie-dye most of the scarves and use a watercolor-effect technique with a salt resist on the rest.
Using wide rubber bands, I tied the scarves individually after folding them to produce different effects. Laddie ran around the yard while I worked at the picnic table. Soon, he came over with his ball in his mouth, wanting to play fetch. I took a few minutes to oblige him before returning to the scarves. I prepared dye in plastic squirt bottles so that I could apply it easily. After I finished the tie-dyed scarves, I moved on to the watercolor style, which involved tacking the scarf to a wooden frame before applying the dye and salt. I had only one frame, so I was forced to dye each of these one at a time. I had to let each scarf dry before removing it from the frame and starting another one. Luckily, the low Arizona humidity ensured they'd dry quickly.
I barely had time to shower and dress for the barbecue, but at least all I had to do the next day was steam and press the scarves. I slipped Laddie's leash around my arm and grabbed the bowl of potato salad. I planned to drop him off and come back for the beans and the pie, but as soon as Belle saw us coming, she called Dennis, who took the bowl and Laddie so that Belle and I could collect the rest of the food from my house.
Dennis was in the backyard with Laddie and Mr. Big, and Belle was preparing a green salad when Brian rang the doorbell. Since they were busy, I answered the door and invited Brian in, apologizing profusely for postponing the showing of my landscape in his living roo
m.
“No problem,” he said. “We can do it another time.”
Maybe it was my imagination, but I sensed he was less than pleased by what I'd done. I led him to the kitchen, where he handed Belle a large bottle of wine. She, in turn, took him out to the patio and introduced him to Dennis, and the two seemed to hit it off right away.
Belle and I withdrew to the kitchen.
“I get the feeling Brian's a little put out with me,” I told her.
“Really? He seemed fine when I asked him if we could bring the painting over tomorrow.”
“So we do have an appointment for tomorrow?”
She nodded.
“Maybe I misunderstood him.”
“I think he might feel a little bit shy and awkward around you.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because he's attracted to you.”
“You really think so? I sure didn't get that impression.”
“Mark my words.”
Chapter 25
Frankly, I thought Brian's supposed attraction to me was a figment of Belle's imagination. Although he acted polite toward me during dinner, he seemed more enthusiastic about the food than me, not that I cared one way or the other. Romance didn't figure in my plans for the near future and perhaps not for the far future, either.
After dinner, I helped Belle clear and put away the dishes, despite her urging me to stay outside, where Dennis and Brian were playing tug-of-war with the dogs.
When it came time to leave, I told Belle I'd pick up my serving dishes the next day, but she insisted that Brian could help me carry them home. He could hardly refuse his hostess's request, so he awkwardly agreed. He didn't say a word to me as we walked the short distance to my kitchen door and I unlocked it.
I'd left lights on in the carport and the kitchen. I let Laddie run inside, ahead of me, and, as I turned to take the large bowls from Brian, he bumped into me but managed not to drop the bowls.
I don't think I've ever seen anybody look so embarrassed.
“I'm sorry. I'm such a klutz,” he apologized, turning red.
“Not at all. It was my fault,” I replied, trying to set him at ease. I was beginning to think Belle had accurately pegged him as somewhat shy.
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