The Arms of Death

by Maggie Foster

  She had her hand on Mrs. Blair’s pulse when the ambulance crew arrived. They moved swiftly to get the cardiac monitor on and an intravenous line in.

  Two minutes later, one of them handed Jim an EKG strip. Jim looked at it then handed it on to Ginny. Massive heart attack in progress. At Mrs. Blair’s age, it was unlikely she would survive the night. The looks on the two attendants’ faces confirmed they, too, knew how to read that strip.

  They loaded her onto the gurney, gathered her possessions and family, and moved toward the door.

  Jim’s eyes followed the crew out the door, then turned to Ginny.

  “Well, that was fun.” He looked around. “Where is Mrs. Campbell?”

  Ginny grabbed Jim’s elbow and steered him away from the tight little clumps of people who had been watching the emergency unfold. She could hear the musicians in the background, flipping through their music and discussing what would be appropriate for the sudden appearance of tragedy in their midst. They would find something. They had. The piper began a solo rendition of Amazing Grace. It wasn’t long before someone was singing, his voice deep and resonant.

  Ginny kept her voice low. “She’s in the back, with Himself, being asked about Professor Craig’s death.”

  “Oh?”

  “Something fell out of her purse when it hit the floor. A screwdriver with a rust-colored stain on the tip.”

  He looked down at her, his brow furrowing. “A screwdriver? That would be too big.”

  “A tiny screwdriver. The kind you use on eyeglasses.”

  “Oh! Rust-colored? Blood, maybe?”

  “Maybe.”

  “She’s not a very likely suspect.”

  “Jim, you should have seen her face! She went white as a sheet when she saw what I had found.”

  “Guilty conscience, you think?”

  “I do.”

  “Shall we go see if we can listen in?” He started toward the back of the building.

  Ginny shook her head. “I can wait.”

  He turned and looked at her then came back. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” In truth, she didn’t feel fine. She felt shaky. Too much excitement? Not enough sleep? Or maybe she was coming down with something.

  He was frowning at her. “Let’s go sit and listen to the music.”

  Ginny nodded agreement and let him guide her over to the nearest table.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  The musicians had moved on, still in this somber vein, the tunes and the sadness they evoked all too familiar. The Scots have lots of songs about suffering.

  Jim returned with juice and cookies on a plate. “Here.” He put them down in front of her. “Eat.”

  Ginny started to refuse, then realized he was eyeing her as he would a patient. She picked up the juice and took a sip. It was cold and felt good on the back of her throat. She worked her way slowly through the contents of the plate, listening to Jim’s comments with half an ear. By the time the Laird emerged, alone, and came over to them, she felt better.

  Himself sat down across the table from them and set the screwdriver down in front of them.

  “She says she keyed his car wi’ it.”

  “Professor Craig’s?” Jim’s voice sounded amused.

  “Aye, at th’ welcome dinner last Sunday nicht.”

  Jim picked up the screwdriver and inspected it. “Hang on a minute. I want to try something.” He collected a glass of water and a white kitchen cloth and put them down on the table, then wetted the tip of the cloth, picked up the screwdriver, and applied the dampness to the stain. He inspected the cloth carefully, pushing at the flecks of color with his fingernail, then set it down.

  “It’s not blood. It may be paint. I can’t be sure without a solvent, but it’s not blood.”

  Ginny felt her whole body deflate. She hadn’t been aware of how tense she’d been until it was no longer necessary. “Does that mean we can scratch her off the Suspects list?”

  Jim nodded. “I think so.”

  “Thank God!”

  The two men looked at her. She shrugged apologetically. “It narrows the field a bit.”

  “Aye, it does that.”

  Ginny reached for her glass, then pulled her hand back and hid it under the table. It was shaking.

  She felt foolish and frightened and half-sick. What was she doing, meddling in something that was none of her business? Until this moment, the whole thing had been an intellectual exercise; a puzzle, a game. Even when Hal was telling her he was worried about her safety, it hadn’t been real. All of a sudden she saw where this had to end. Did she want to be responsible for sending someone to prison? Or worse?

  “Does she say why she keyed his car?” Jim asked.

  The Laird nodded. “She was sae angry when she left th’ building on Sunday nicht she could nae see straight. She dropped th’ keys and they fell inta her purse and when she fished them oot again’ this wee screwdriver came with them. It gave her th’ idea.”

  “She knew which car was his?”

  “Aye. By the’ license plate, and it was parked in th’ staff area. She had nae trouble tellin’ him what she thought o’ him at the moment.”

  What she thought of him. Ginny had a sudden mental image of the car, deep scratches down the side, words maybe, etched into the rust-colored paint. Why had nobody mentioned that car before?

  “Ginny? Ginny!” It was Jim again.

  “What?”

  “I asked you if you were all right.”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” She rose abruptly, swaying just enough to make her put her hand down on the table for a moment. “I have some thinking to do. Goodnight.” She didn’t wait for their responses, just turned and fled.

  She scooped up her mother, drove home, put the car in the garage, and retired to her room. There had been too many shocks today and there were too many unanswered questions still to consider.

  Mrs. Campbell had taken her fury out on Professor Craig by damaging his car. A crime of passion. Did that make it less likely she had stalked him with a virus?

  Professor Craig’s car belonged to Mark now. Ginny had seen a car, parked in front of the house when she was over there, and assumed that was it. She’d been wrong. Had the murderer made the same mistake?

  Was the murderer the same person who had tried to break into Professor Craig’s house? If so, what was he looking for? Should Mark be warned or did he already know?

  And what, if anything, was Ginny’s responsibility in the matter? She turned off the light, closed her eyes, and tried to ignore her aching head.

  * * *

  Chapter 27

  Saturday

  Ginny slept badly and rose early the next day. It was too rude to rouse the Craigs from their beds at such an hour, but she could at least drive by and see if she was right about the color of the car Mark Craig had been driving. Later, she could ring the doorbell and ask him about the rust-colored car. She finished her breakfast and hurried off.

  She knew, before she turned the corner, that something was wrong. There were red and blue flashing lights on the street. She could see them reflected off the fronts of the houses and off the people standing on the sidewalk in their dressing gowns.

  She pulled around the corner and saw the fire trucks, two of them, blocking her way. A policeman held up his hand.

  “I’m sorry miss, you’ll have to go back.”

  “What’s happened, officer?”

  “Just turn here and go back the way you came.”

  Ginny looked at his implacable expression, then did as told. She parked the car on the side street and came back on foot.

  The fire had started in the office. That part of the house was gutted—the roof gone, the exterior wall scorched, the timbers dripping—but the flames were out, and the rest of the house still stood. Ginny glanced over in time to see Mark and Theresa coming around the corner of the yard to stand staring at the charred remains. She made her way over to where they stood.

/>   “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “We’re fine.” Mark gestured at the wreckage. “But look at the house!”

  “Do they know how it got started?”

  He shook his head. “No one is saying anything, yet.” He turned and faced her. “Someone called it in and the firemen woke us banging on the door.”

  “Thank God you got out in time.” She looked at the pair of them. “You need coffee, and something to eat.”

  Theresa shook her head. “We can’t leave. All our things are in the house and they won’t let us back in.”

  “We can handle that,” Ginny said. “Give me a minute.” She left them standing on the corner of the property and went to speak to the Fire Chief.

  “No, miss, no one allowed in the house until after it’s been inspected for structural safety.”

  Ginny explained that the occupants were from out of town and needed their driver’s licenses, keys, and phones. He looked at the Craigs, then motioned one of his men over and outlined the situation. “If it’s safe to do so.”

  “Right Chief.” The fireman disappeared into the house through the undamaged front door and returned bearing several items.

  “Is this what you wanted?”

  Theresa had come over when she saw him exit the building. “Yes. That’s my purse. Thank you.”

  “And I found these on the bedside table.” He handed over a watch, a wallet, a set of keys, and a cellphone to Mark.

  “Thank you very much.” Mark smiled. “And thank everyone for the great work tonight.”

  “You’re very welcome, sir.” The fireman waved and went back to the truck.

  “What about the contents?” Mark asked. “How do we make sure nothing is stolen?”

  “We’ll leave a patrolman here for the remainder of today. I’d call the insurance people ASAP so they can assess the damage, then close the hole with plywood and tarps. You might also want to put in some motion detectors.”

  Theresa turned on the Chief. “When can we get into the house?”

  “This afternoon, earliest.”

  “Thank you, Chief.” Ginny turned the other two toward her car. “Come with me.”

  * * *

  Ginny pushed open the back door and ushered the Craigs inside.

  “Mother, we have guests.” Ginny introduced them and explained the situation. Mrs. Forbes immediately went to work, setting out coffee and sweet rolls while she threw together omelets and bacon. “And I have tea, if you’d prefer, and some juice, and milk. Just let me know.”

  While her mother worked on feeding their guests, Ginny went upstairs and rummaged through her closet. Both Mark and Theresa had escaped the flames wearing only nightclothes. Ginny came up with an outfit she thought might fit Theresa, but there were no men’s clothes in the Forbes household.

  “Theresa and I need to do a bit of shopping,” Ginny said to Mark, “but I’m afraid we’ll have to leave you here, for decency’s sake.”

  He laughed. “That’s all right. Terry knows my sizes.”

  She nodded. “I do.” She hugged her husband then followed Ginny out the door.

  “This is extremely kind of you, to go to all this trouble.”

  “No trouble at all. We’re just glad we can do something to help.” Ginny smiled over at Theresa who was trying to suppress a yawn. “After we get you both decent and fed, I expect you’ll want a nap. It must have been a long night.”

  She nodded. “Short on sleep, long otherwise.”

  They pulled into the local twenty-four hour mega-mart and went straight to the clothes, picking up sweats, shirts, underwear, and socks, then visiting the pharmacy for toiletries.

  Ginny had been right about the fatigue factor. She put both the Craigs in her bedroom. Since she worked nights and slept days, it was equipped with blackout curtains making it ideal for napping in the daytime. They were asleep in minutes.

  “We’ll let them sleep until we hear from the Chief,” Ginny said. “He promised to call and let me know when they could get back into the house.”

  Her mother nodded. “That will give me time to make a casserole.”

  Ginny found herself suddenly at loose ends. She couldn’t do anything further for the Craigs at the moment, and it was likely to be some hours before they heard from the Fire Chief. She glanced at the clock and decided she wanted some fresh air.

  “I think I’ll go ride around the lake.”

  “Umhm. Have a nice time, dear.”

  Ginny’s mouth twitched at her mother’s absent-minded response. Her nose was buried in the cupboard, her mind clearly on cooking. Ginny’s mind was on other things. She pulled her bicycle out of the garage and headed off.

  * * *

  Ginny’s primary form of exercise was figure skating. It was a serious aerobic workout and she tried to go to the rink once a week. She supplemented that with the dancing, some swimming, and her bicycle.

  Ginny was a recreational cyclist which meant she was not out to beat the clock. She was there to refresh her spirit, to feel the wind in her hair and the sun on her face. She routinely paused at intervals to close her eyes and enjoy just being outdoors.

  It also meant she was not in the habit of using situational awareness. Oh, she knew it existed, for the streets of New York, for instance, but here? Here she was safe.

  It was, therefore, a shock to discover that someone was following her, in a car, pausing when she did and hanging back to let other cars pass. She had spotted the surveillance by accident. She had turned suddenly all the way around, following the flight of a heron as it took off from the water and soared over her head toward the trees, and seen the car. She knew that car. She had ridden in it.

  Ginny stood quite still for a moment, then got back on her bicycle and continued up the path. Why would he be following her? And why in this surreptitious manner? Why not just park and approach her?

  She completed the circuit, with fewer pauses than usual, and headed for home. She opened the garage door and pulled inside, turning in time to see his car glide past and go off down the alley. She’d had a glimpse of the driver. Not that she’d been in any doubt, but she’d seen him clearly. So what was Jim Mackenzie doing following her around the lake?

  * * *

  Jim had risen late and lingered over breakfast, unable to settle down to anything useful. He had another journal article due, the deadline looming, but no taste for writing today. He’d been out to the car to get some files from the trunk and sniffed the air, then decided he wanted a walk in the park. He’d driven along the edge of the lake, then parked the car and set out on foot.

  An hour later, he found himself at the edge of the spillway, leaning on the retaining wall, watching the water flow over the dam. There were a lot of other people doing the same thing. It was very entertaining and squeals of excitement from both sides of the dam mingled with the roar of the cataract.

  Last night’s rain had swollen the area creeks and the run-off ended here, in a spectacular show of white foam and green water. Mist splintered the sunbeams and tossed rainbows into the mix. There were plumes of spray shooting up wherever the rushing water hit a submerged obstacle.

  This morning that included an entire tree, uprooted by erosion and sent downstream to be caught on the concrete barrier. It rolled as the force of the flood pushed it up and from side to side, trying to heave it over the dam, water and gravity vying for control over the storm’s massive discard.

  Jim’s eyes drifted from the spillway over the surface of the lake. One hardy sailor was out, unconcerned about the undertow, but keeping a weather eye on the freshening breeze. Jim could see, even from here, the careful use of sail and the tight control exerted on the lines.

  Jim missed his little sailboat. He’d sold it before he left Virginia, not knowing what he would find in Texas. Lots of lakes, as it turned out. His informant, one of the respiratory therapists at Hillcrest, had explained that most of them were man-made, but that only meant they were easy to reach and user-friendly.
He should replace his daysailer. It would be fun to go shopping for one. Maybe Ginny would like to go with him.

  Jim’s slight smile faded at the thought. He had not been happy about their parting last night. She left so abruptly, without a backward glance, and she hadn’t looked well. He’d wanted to go after her, but Himself had intervened, laying a hand on Jim’s arm and shaking his head.

  Jim’s brow furrowed, recalling her reaction to the announcement that Mrs. Campbell had not, apparently, stabbed Professor Craig with that tiny screwdriver. He hadn’t been sure she could stand, much less walk. Why had it taken her that way?

  He and Ginny hadn’t put their heads together since Tuesday night and it was now Saturday. What had she learned in the meantime? He’d shared the worst of his discoveries with her, but there were other things he’d like to show her. Had she abandoned their collaboration?

  Last night he’d seen her wooed by other men, swept into the dances, into their arms, and she’d delighted in them, well, in the dancing anyway. He’d watched from the sidelines, admiring her easy grace and a bit envious of the playful smiles she gave her partners. She had friends here, something he didn’t have, yet. Except for her. Not that he’d lacked for company, especially the female variety, but—

  Jim was suddenly aware of a shift in the sounds on the path behind him, of pedestrians moving out of the way of an oncoming cyclist. He turned his head in time to see the rider in profile as she rode past. He started, pushed himself off the wall, and began to call out to her, then thought better of it.

  Jim watched her retreating figure. She had already reached the ramp and was slowing to navigate the hairpin curves. It was too far away for him to make out her face, but her body language was easy enough to read. She was focused on the bicycle, shifting her weight to control the descent. Was it his imagination or was there a wobble in the second turn?

  Jim found himself hurrying towards his car, his decision made without conscious thought. He would follow and watch her. She didn’t need to know. He would follow her in the car, and watch, and spend the time trying to figure out what was troubling him so much about her.

  * * *