Last Scene Alive at-7

by Charlaine Harris

  Padgett Lanier had had a massive heart attack in his office (some said while he was receiving the personal attentions of an attractive prisoner) the previous spring, and his newly elected successor was a politically savvy African-American named Davis Coffey. Coffey, who was six feet tall and massive, had been out here a couple of times before during his years as deputy.

  Jimmy Henske and Levon Suit, who had also paid visits to my house before, gave me disapproving headshakes as they followed their leader. Levon winked at me, though.

  After calling into the house and getting no response, David Coffey hurled his large body into the doorway we'd left open, gun at the ready. After a few minutes, I could see through the kitchen window that he'd lowered his gun and was looking down at the floor.

  The ambulance came up the drive just as Catherine and I scrambled out of her car, an aged Buick. It was for Tracy, Davis not having noticed I was wounded. Levon and Jimmy had stepped out of the house to wait in the yard, and Levon winced when he saw the blood dripping down my left arm. Jimmy raised his radio to his mouth and, in only a few minutes, another ambulance arrived for me. I knew my wound wasn't anywhere near life-threatening—it was probably pretty minor—but it hurt like hell, and I couldn't seem to stop the bleeding.

  Tracy was alive, I could tell. Her mouth was moving when they were loading her into the ambulance, and though I couldn't hear what she was saying, I was sure it was about Robin.

  Who, by the way, I should call. He picked up the phone at the motel and said, "Yes?" abstractedly. It was his working voice. Well, he'd just have to put it aside for now.

  I explained the situation to him briefly. There was a moment of silence, a silence I couldn't characterize. Then he said, "I'll meet you at the hospital," and the phone went dead.

  By the time we got there, I was feeling a little spacey. Loss of blood and shock, I guess. Plus, the EMT who rode in back with me took my glasses off, for some reason, and I am never at my most alert when the whole world is a blur. He was a handsome young man, whose family had emigrated from El Salvador, he told me. He had a crewcut and a large tattoo, but I was willing to love him nonetheless. I had to admit our romance was doomed when he passed the time on our ride to the hospital by telling me about his motorcycle.

  I would have been glad to ride into town in Catherine's car instead of the ambulance, but (a) I didn't want to get blood all over it, and (b) she didn't offer. It was possible Catherine had had enough of me for one day and, frankly, I couldn't blame her.

  Robin was already at the emergency room entrance, and he behaved in a gratifyingly loverlike way. Not a disappointment, like my EMT. Robin was even a practical help, which I hadn't expected. He fished my insurance cards out of my purse and showed them to the admitting clerk.

  "Thank you," I said, wondering if my voice was as fuzzy as my vision. "This is above and beyond the..." And then I didn't know how to finish the sentence.

  "Obligation of a new boyfriend?" Robin suggested.

  "Something like that," I agreed, trying to smile. "I started to throw you over for the cute Hispanic guy who rode with me in the ambulance, but I think you'll do."

  "Glad to hear it."

  The emergency room doctor was a gruff young woman employed by one of the big health-care systems. She had one of the worst haircuts I'd ever seen, but she had a massive assurance that I really liked. She let you know that she was not about to make a mistake, and you would get worse at your peril.

  "Don't see too many knife wounds in Lawrenceton," she commented. I had my head turned away, since I just didn't want to look.

  "Mmmm," she said after a painful few moments. "Well, I'm gonna numb you up; you need some stitches."

  Robin winced. "You can leave," I told him, wishing I could, too. "There's no need for you to watch this."

  "Are you the husband?" the doctor asked.

  I opened my mouth to say my husband was dead, and then I shut it.

  "I'm the boyfriend," Robin said. His charm was such that she grinned at him before she strode out of the room.

  "That what you are?" I asked weakly.

  "I don't know what to call what I am, so that'll do."

  A nurse came in and gave me a shot, with the customary warning about me feeling a little pinch. I rolled my eyes at Robin. Whatever getting a shot felt like, a little pinch was not it.

  "This really hurts," I told Robin, "and I'm really ready for the shot to work."

  "Do you need to think about something else?" he asked.

  "That would help. I wonder how Tracy is. She tried to kill me!" I said, amazed all over again. "Did I tell you she was watching this morning?"

  Robin turned red. "While we ... ?"

  "Yes, while we."

  "Oh, God." His face scrunched with revulsion.

  "Yeah, me too."

  "But it was great, wasn't it?" he said, bending closer. "You want to think about that while the doctor takes these stitches?"

  "It would be better than thinking about someone actually sewing on me."

  "Do you remember how you ..." he whispered in my ear, and then the doctor came in. She began her work, chatting all the time to Robin, but I kept my eyes fixed on his face, and I knew he was thinking about that morning, too.

  When she was through she gave me a list of instructions and told me I could go. Robin rescued my glasses and we left the hospital. I glanced at Robin doubtfully from time to time. This was surely a lot of trouble for a fragile new relationship.

  Robin opened his car door for me, and went around to the driver's side. After he got in, he put the key in the ignition, but then he paused. "I know you're tired right now, but I need to talk to you."

  Oh, no. Here it came. "Sure," I said, my voice empty of emotion.

  "I feel guilty as hell. Tracy said she hit Celia with the Emmy?"

  "Yeah."

  "And she attacked you. It seems like I bring nothing but trouble to a relationship."

  "I was just thinking the same thing about myself."

  His eyebrows raised in a question.

  "My first long-term boyfriend marries someone else and then divorces, my first husband dies, my short-term boyfriend shows back up and there's a killer stalking him."

  He laughed. When Robin laughed, his whole thin face was involved. "I left my short-term girlfriend behind, hooked up with my agent, had a disastrous relationship with her, dated an actress who was strictly out for herself, then went back to my short-term girlfriend to get her stabbed, apparently."

  "Can we actually date without killing each other?"

  "I think we have to try," he said.

  "I think I need to go to sleep," I said.

  Robin took me back home, and helped me undress and get into bed. Okay, maybe that was overdoing it a little, but I think a woman deserves some bed rest after she's been stabbed. I called the library to tell Sam I wouldn't be coming in on time. I explained why in as few words as I could manage. He was so miserable he hardly seemed to care.

  Robin said he'd be downstairs with his laptop, and I snuggled down in the bed. I could hardly believe it was only early afternoon. The morning had been packed with more incidents that I usually encountered in a week. Maybe two weeks. I'd had great sex, found out a coworker was a terrorist, started buying a house, and been stabbed in my kitchen. Busy day.

  And it wasn't over yet.

  I woke up about four. My arm was very sore, but it was bearable as long as I didn't move it too vigorously. I got some pants on by myself, and actually zipped and buttoned them. Getting the nightgown off over my head was much worse, and pulling on a knit shirt was just as bad. But finally I managed, and crept downstairs very slowly.

  Robin was asleep on my couch, his laptop plugged in on my desk. He'd carried my phone to the couch with him, and it was moving up and down with the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He snored, like a big cat. It was a large noise, but oddly delicate.

  I padded into the kitchen barefoot, and made some coffee. I looked outside to see a day
that had gone gray and windy. Rain was coming up. I watched a swirl of gum leaves sweep past the window, yellow and red and brown. Indian summer was definitely over. I looked at the thermometer mounted outside the window. It had dropped twenty degrees since this morning.

  While the coffee perked, I found a notepad with messages in Robin's slanted, narrow handwriting. My mother had called, which was no surprise. I should have called her. My sister-in-law—well, my stepsister-in-law—had called, too. So had Sally. And Arthur.

  The last name Robin had written was "Will Weir." I wondered what the cameraman could have to say to me. Though everyone else deserved to be called back before Will, his was the number I dialed first, out of sheer curiosity.

  "Weir," he answered. I knew he must be on a cell phone, but it was the best connection I'd ever had. No crackling, no distant buzz.

  "You called me?" I asked, after I identified myself.

  "Right. The newspaper reporter who was here today, doing a story for your local paper... she said that a woman who claims to have killed Celia had attacked you. Is that true?"

  "Yes," I said, promising myself I'd grab Sally Allison and stuff her head in a food processor. Violent images were coming easily to me today. "It was Tracy, the young woman who served the food at the caterer's truck?"

  "The reddish-haired girl," he said, after waiting a second for his memory to kick in, I assumed.

  "That's her."

  "Why did she say that?"

  I looked at the phone. I was glad Will couldn't see that look. "Well, because she had a bee in her bonnet about Robin Crusoe, and she was resentful of Celia's former relationship with him."

  "But why would she attack you?"

  This had me stumped. "She thinks that Robin and I have a relationship now," I said, feeling very awkward.

  "That is a little quick," he said, his voice as dry as toast.

  "Robin and I are old friends," I said, as neutrally as possible.

  "I remember, from the book. Well, Mark and Joel wanted to know if it was because of something that happened on the set..."

  "No," I said, not following his line of reasoning, but willing to dismiss it as my own woolly-headedness.

  "Mark brought some books by the library yesterday," Will was saying.

  "Yes."

  "Some books Celia had borrowed?"

  "Yes."

  "They were in her trailer when she was killed?"

  Were we playing twenty questions here? Robin slouched into the kitchen, his hair rumpled and his face creased from the throw pillow on the couch. He came up behind me and wrapped his long arms around me. I snuggled back against him.

  "Yes," I said again, hoping he'd get to the point soon. I tapped his name on the list with my finger, so Robin would know to whom I was speaking. I could feel him nod.

  "The thing is, she'd borrowed some books from me," Will was saying.

  "Oh, gosh. No wonder you want to know about the books." I never loaned books, myself. You never got them back, or if you did they had peanut-butter fingerprints on them, or smelled of other people's cigarettes or pets. "Aside from a batch of paperbacks, there were two hardbacks about the sixties, and one home health book. Those were Lawrenceton library books, though. I'm really sure."

  "A home health book?" His voice sounded weaker.

  "Yeah, the kind that you use when you want to diagnose your own illness. Poor thing."

  "You think she figured out what she had?" Weir sounded horrified.

  "I know she had. There was a bookmark on the page for Huntington's chorea."

  A long silence fell. Robin poured himself a mug of coffee, asked me in mime if I wanted one, too. I nodded emphatically.

  "She knew," Will repeated, his voice just as shocked as it had been the first time. "Oh, my God."

  "I'm sorry if I've upset you," I said, actually feeling a little on the impatient side. "What books were you trying to find?" I took a sip of coffee. The groggy nap hangover began to fade. My eyes strayed to my other phone messages. I had a lot of things to do, and my arm was burning.

  "Books," he said blankly. "Oh, right, I'd loaned her some paperbacks. You said Mark also brought a few paperbacks to the library."

  "Yes, that's what I said." He could have asked Mark before he called me.

  "I'll drop by the library and have a look through those books," he said. "They're not important, but I stuck a letter in one of them, and I need it. When will you be working?"

  "Tonight, six to nine," I said. I'd told Sam I'd try to at least make the evening part of my shift, if I could. I didn't feel too bad.

  "If we finish filming, I'll drop by," he said.

  "Okay," I said doubtfully. "They're in a box in the back. By the employee entrance, but it'll be locked, so come to the main doors. I can show you." I was sure no one had had a chance to get to them in the past twenty-four hours.

  "Good, maybe I'll get there tonight." He sounded much more relaxed than he had at the beginning of the conversation.

  "You're going in to work tonight?" Robin asked after I'd hung up.

  "I ought to," I said. "I really don't hurt too bad, and with Patricia missing, I feel like I should keep things as even as possible. I'll call Sam to tell him as soon as I finish my coffee."

  "I was hoping you'd stay with me," Robin said, doing his best to look pitiful.

  "We've had our time today," I reminded him. "I think after work I'll need to come home and sleep some more. My arm is sore." Plus other things.

  He kissed my shoulder. "Did that make it feel better?"

  I tried not to smile, failed. "A little."

  "Can we plan on tomorrow night?"

  "Oh, yes. And I don't have to work the next day."

  He smiled at me. Robin had a radiant smile.

  We talked about the move for a while, and the book Robin was working on, while I returned the rest of my phone calls.

  Sam was glad to hear I was coming in, since he hadn't found anyone to replace me yet. After an incident a few years ago, librarians weren't allowed to work by themselves, no matter how few patrons showed up in the evening. My mother was glad to hear I was all right, and she had some rental units to show Robin. My stepsister-in-law Poppy was glad, too, and she wanted me to know that Brandon had his very first tooth. Arthur wanted me to know that law-enforcement gossip had it that Tracy was talking at great length about everything: her long-standing obsession with Robin, beginning with reading his books and escalating to focus on his personal life, her careful maneuvering to get the job with Molly's Moveable Feasts, her visit to Celia's trailer with a tray of croissants as camouflage, her subsequent movements...

  "That's good," I said, puzzled.

  "She's telling us everything," he repeated, significantly. "In detail."

  I could feel my face turn red as I realized Arthur was telling me that everyone in the SPACOLEC (Spalding County Law Enforcement Complex) was aware that Robin and I had had sex on the carpet in the office of the house I was buying.

  "Oh," I said. My voice sounded small and embarrassed to my own ears.

  "Oh," he said. Angry.

  "Um. Well, I'll talk to you later, thanks for letting me know—I think."

  "Roe, you realize this woman did not really kill Celia Shaw?"

  "Yes, I know that." Point?

  "You want to know what I think."

  "No."

  "I think your new boyfriend did it. I think he knew what disease she had and killed her out of mercy."

  "I think you're nuts," I said furiously, and slammed the phone down.

  But when Robin asked me what I'd gotten upset about, I didn't look him in the face. And I didn't explain. No one could have persuaded me to believe Robin murdered someone—anyone—out of malice. But out of pity... it was almost conceivable. A lovely young woman, once beloved, facing a horrible fate—it was just barely possible. Didn't the fact that she'd been drugged argue that whoever had killed her didn't want her to feel the pain? Didn't the pillow pressed over her face give her a c
omparatively gentle end? Celia Shaw had had a merciful murder, if you believed such a thing was possible.

  I didn't know Robin well enough, really, to completely rule out such a possibility. I needed to be by myself: to think, to recover my equilibrium. I reminded myself vigorously that Robin had a practically ironclad alibi.

  He left a few minutes later, and we planned on seeing each other the next day, and I smiled at him, but when I locked the door behind him, I have to confess I felt some relief. When I thought of him not only coming to the hospital, but taking such good care of me afterward, I knew I was being one horrible woman to even doubt him for a second. But the tiny thread of doubt made me miserable, and I didn't need to be around him for a while.

  I could not have a relationship with someone who could do such a thing. On the other hand, when I thought of the dreadful disease that would have killed Celia slowly, maybe her death had been a favor to her. That didn't mean I could cohabit with the one who'd granted it.

  I pottered around, cleaning our mugs and the coffeepot, taking some extra-strength pain reliever the hospital had sent home with me, cleaning myself up a little for work. By five-thirty, I was at least presentable and functioning, though at a low level. Jeans and a long-sleeved tee were not my usual working gear, but I was not about to try to change again. I put on my red-framed glasses, to give me pep, and brushed my hair awkwardly. With the damp and cold in the air, my hair was on its worst behavior. It made a cloud around me, crackling with electricity.

  It was already dark when I used my key to enter the employee door of the library, always kept locked after dark. The lights were on in the employee lounge, and I glanced over to see the books Mark Chesney had brought in, still in their box on the repair table. Patricia's office was still dark. I wondered how far away she'd gotten by now, and I felt sorry for Jerome. As I slung my purse into my locker, I thought of how long Patricia had kept such a big secret, and how careful she must have had to be for many years.

  A slip of the tongue, and her new life and her son would be gone.

  Celia had had a massive secret, too. I wondered if she had known that her mother had died of the same disease she was developing. I wondered how she'd gone to work the first few days of filming, knowing what she was facing and how terrible her end would be: that surely her disease would become apparent to everyone in the course of time. I found myself thinking that Celia had surely had a theatrical flair, and she would have appreciated being a colorful True Crime episode rather than a disease of the week.