Fatally Flaky gbcm-15

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Craig, you are so funny!” Billie announced loudly, and the doctor, obviously pleased with amusing his bride, broke into a wide smile. Father Pete, who sat with them, wore a perplexed expression, as if the joke had entirely eluded him.

  “Excuse me, Dr. Miller,” I said, trying to sound as formal as possible. “One of the guests is sick, and we need you. Please. Sergeant Boyd thinks this guest may be having a heart attack—”

  “Goldy!” Billie shrieked at me, her face ugly with rage. “Go find another doctor!”

  And then, all the months of dealing with Billie Attenborough’s narcissism caught up with me, rising in my throat like so much bile.

  “There isn’t another one! I need Dr. Miller,” I cried. “Please, Craig, Jack has been hurt. If you could just come out to the side entrance—”

  Billie Attenborough sprang to her feet, and with her wide body encased in the cream dress, she blocked my view of her new husband. Unheeding, I peered around her to Craig Miller, who looked as if he’d swallowed half a dozen goldfish, live. “Dr. Miller,” I began again, “please—”

  Before I knew what was happening, Billie Attenborough reared back and slapped me across the face.

  Tears exploded in my eyes. Still, even though my cheek flamed with pain, I was so frantic about Jack’s condition, and so desperate to get Craig Miller’s help, that I ignored my own distress.

  When Billie saw I wasn’t going to react to her, she began to sob.

  “Dr. Miller!” I screamed over Billie’s blubbering. “We need you outside! Jack’s hurt!”

  “Don’t go, Craig!” Billie wailed. “I need you!” With great drama, she fell to the ground.

  “Goldy,” said Father Pete into my ear. “Tell me where this sick person is, and I’ll take Dr. Miller to him. Then I want you to go out to the kitchen, and stay there.”

  “I am not going into the kitchen,” I said, my jaw firmly clenched. “I’ll take Craig out to Jack. You can tend to Billie Attenborough. Please,” I added, as tears stung the slap on my cheek.

  “All right,” said Father Pete, resigned. He knelt next to Billie, who lifted herself slightly, then crumpled onto him.

  “Let’s go,” Craig Miller said from beside me. He’d regained his composure, thank God. “Show me where this patient is.”

  I grabbed his upper arm and pulled him toward the closest exit, which happened to be about ten steps away. Billie was still doing her fraught moaning, and Father Pete was speaking to her in low, comforting tones. Better him than me, I thought, and I wondered if Craig Miller was thinking the same thing.

  By the time we got outside, the ambulance had arrived. Thank God. Craig Miller hurried his pace toward Jack. To my surprise, Lucas Carmichael had magically appeared at Jack’s side, too. He must have heard me yelling at Billie that it was his father who was hurt.

  Despite the presence of two paramedics, Craig Miller was able skillfully to take control of the scene. He assessed Jack’s injuries and ordered the medics to get a stretcher and a brace to stabilize Jack’s neck. The medics sprinted back to their vehicle and returned with the stretcher. Boyd, standing over Jack, shook his head. This brought a fresh onslaught of tears down my stinging cheek, although no sound issued from my mouth.

  “What happened?” Lucas demanded first of Boyd, who shook his head again, and then of me.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He was moaning. Julian and I heard him, and came over. His scalp is bleeding.”

  “His Rolex is missing,” Lucas said to me, his tone angry. “Do you know where it is?”

  This time I knew better than to say or do anything. I’d already lost my cool with Billie Attenborough, and the fact that the only thing Lucas could think about was Jack’s expensive watch made me realize once again, for at least the hundredth time since I’d known him, that what Lucas really cared about was his father’s possessions. The brat. Poor Jack, I thought, to have such a grasping materialist for a son—

  “They’re taking him now,” Craig announced to Boyd, Lucas, and me.

  “I’m going in the ambo,” Lucas announced. “Does he have his wallet? He’ll need his insurance card at the hospital.”

  I prayed to God to give me patience with Lucas. But this was just the way he was. Still, Craig Miller called to the medics, who stopped in their tracks with the stretcher.

  A moment later, Craig called back to us, “No wallet!”

  “Motive was probably robbery,” Boyd said, his tone low. “It might not be here.”

  “Oh, look,” Lucas said, reaching down. The wallet was right at his feet. “I’ve got it. Let’s go.”

  “Let me come with you,” I begged Lucas.

  “I’m family,” Lucas said. He seemed to be savoring the moment, and his superiority over me. “You’re not family. And there’s not enough room in the ambo for all of us.”

  “Will you call me?” I pleaded.

  Lucas didn’t answer me, but merely hurried along behind the stretcher. Openmouthed, I watched them go.

  “Who was that smarmy guy who said he was family?” Boyd wanted to know.

  “Jack’s son, Lucas. He’s a creep.”

  “No kidding. Was that wallet right there at his feet?” Boyd asked. “’Cuz I didn’t see it when I was here with Jack.”

  “I didn’t notice,” I said truthfully, although it did seem a bit coincidental that Lucas had arrived and suddenly found Jack’s wallet right in front of him.

  A police car pulled up, lights flashing. Two cops jumped out and called to Boyd, who started walking toward them.

  Meanwhile, I turned and trudged slowly back toward the dining hall, Billie Attenborough, and all her guests. I so didn’t want to go back there. And I wished, desperately, that Tom was here.

  A glimmer in the muddy grass distracted me. I bent down and saw, barely, the gleam of gold. I didn’t look around to see if the cops were watching me. I just fluffed out my apron and scooped up Jack’s Rolex from the dark spa lawn. Working to appear casual, I stood up, straightened my apron, and dropped the watch into one of its pockets.

  Robbery was the motive? I wondered.

  16

  Somehow, Julian, Yolanda, the servers, and I finished the reception. Billie had left with her mother, one of the servers informed me. Craig Miller and Father Pete had accompanied them.

  “They said they were going to Southwest Hospital,” the server said. She gave me a quizzical look. “Why would a bride and groom go to the hospital?”

  “Was it the bride’s mother’s idea?” I asked.

  “Actually, I think it was. But why wouldn’t you just leave on your honeymoon?”

  Because the bride’s mother pulls the strings, I supplied mentally. In this case, Charlotte Attenborough pulled purse strings, as strongly wired as a ship’s ropes. If Charlotte said, “Drive me to the hospital, Billie,” then that was where everyone was going to go.

  “Take my keys and go home,” Julian said, once we were down to washing pots and pans. “Wait there for someone to call you about Jack. The cell phone reception out here sucks, so how would you know if someone was trying to call you? We can handle the rest of the cleanup.”

  “That’s not what she’s being paid for,” said Victor Lane, who’d swished through the kitchen doors.

  “Victor,” said Yolanda, pointing a crimson-painted fingernail at him. “You want me to keep working for you? I did all this wedding, no charge. Now, let Goldy go. This man who was hurt on your property? He’s family for her. I know you don’t want to upset the family of someone who was hurt on your property.”

  Victor heard the threat in Yolanda’s words, the threat that a family member might sue him for allowing someone to be hurt on spa property. Victor seemed to waver for a minute, then looked at me defiantly. “I’m going to have to tell Billie Attenborough that you left before everything was cleaned up.”

  “Victor!” exclaimed Yolanda.

  “No, that’s fine, Victor,” I said, my voice flat. “Tell her. Tell Billie all about it
, I don’t mind.” I would be so happy if I never had to work for Billie Attenborough again, in any capacity.

  “What did you do to your cheek?” Victor demanded, staring at me. “Did you hurt yourself on spa property? And while we’re at it, could you please tell me what you were doing yesterday, when you were looking through the glass into the Smoothie Cabin?”

  “I told you. I was searching for Jack,” I said. “He was inside the Smoothie Cabin with Isabelle, as you no doubt noticed when you checked the film.”

  “Jack is her family,” Yolanda said. “He’s the one who’s been seriously injured on your property, and now he’s on his way to the hospital. And you’re asking her a bunch of questions? Why don’t you let her go, and let us finish here?”

  Victor was unmoved. “I want to know what you did to your cheek.” His tone was still stubborn.

  “I didn’t do anything to my cheek,” I replied. “Billie the bride did that.”

  “Christ,” said Victor Lane.

  I ignored him and stalked out. Meanwhile, Yolanda was peppering Victor with reasons why he should just leave, so she could prepare the kitchen for the new guests coming in that morning, actually, since it was past midnight. I didn’t wait to hear a reply. Victor Lane was a pill, but my money was on Yolanda in any conflict.

  “Wait. Maybe I should come with you,” Julian said from behind me.

  “You gave me your keys. You don’t need to baby me, big J.”

  “Yeah, and what if the same person who attacked Jack attacks you? Then Tom really would kill me. Which wouldn’t work for his career, him being a homicide cop and all.”

  Outside, a gentle rain had begun to fall. The cops had cordoned off the area where we’d found Jack. They’d set up a spotlight that shone in the mist. An investigator was talking to one of the valets. Should I tell them about the Rolex? Probably. But I didn’t. I wanted to tell Tom.

  “You have your cell?” Julian asked.

  I felt in my other apron pocket, the one that didn’t have a fifty-thousand-dollar watch in it. “Yup.” I rummaged in my purse, and handed Julian the keys to the van. “Thanks for loaning me your Rover.”

  “No sweat. Soon as you get out on the road, you should get good reception. I’d feel better if you called Tom and told him you were on your way.”

  “All right. Jeez, Julian, you’re as bad as he is.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Now get going, will you?”

  And so I took off in Julian’s Rover, which splashed through the muddy ruts in the dirt road leading to the spa. When the rain intensified, I was blinded by it, and when I failed to find the windshield wipers, I pulled over. Once I located the interior lights, I managed to turn on the wipers. But still, I sat.

  I didn’t want to go home, even though every muscle in my back and legs, and my swollen cheek, said that was exactly what I should do. I felt helpless and hopeless. I hated not having any information on how Jack was doing. I told myself I would call the hospital when I arrived home. If I had to get Tom on the phone with them, I would pry out some information on Jack’s condition.

  I figured out how to turn on the wipers and got going again, slowly. Eventually I reached the main road back to Aspen Meadow. When my cell phone rang, it startled me. I pulled over again, and prayed that this was not bad news about Jack.

  “Miss G.” Tom’s voice was as comforting as dark chocolate.

  “Where are you?” I hadn’t checked the caller ID.

  “Home. You out on the main road yet?”

  “Yes, Julian gave me his—”

  “I know,” Tom interrupted me. “I called the spa’s land line.”

  Terror rose in my throat. “What’s going on?”

  “First of all,” said Tom, “I heard about Jack going out for a smoke and being attacked and robbed. And a little while ago, Lucas Carmichael called here,” Tom went on, with amusement in his voice. “It seems your Uncle Jack woke up in Southwest Hospital and had a request.”

  “Request?”

  “Actually, Lucas said Jack stopped breathing in the ambo, and the paramedic had to give him a trake. At the hospital, the first thing Mr. Impatient Attorney wanted was a pad of paper.” I laughed with relief. This was so typical. “Wait,” said Tom, “there’s more. It sounded as if what really upset Lucas was the fact that Jack wrote your name down as soon as he got the pad. Apparently, the person he wants to see is you, his goddaughter. Not Lucas, his son.”

  “I’m going down to Southwest Hospital.”

  “Yeah, I thought you’d say that. I tried to tell Lucas that would be what you wanted to do, and would he allow you to see Jack. He said he would.” Tom paused. “Will you call me when you leave there?”

  “Sure. And, Tom? I have to tell you something.”

  “Uh-oh, sounds like confession time.”

  “Well, first of all, I sort of got into a physical fight with Billie the Bride at the reception.”

  “Super. Did you get your final check before this altercation?”

  “’Fraid not. I was trying to get to Craig Miller, so he could come help Jack. Billie wouldn’t let me through. She ended up slapping me.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. You were trying to get to a doctor. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. But the second thing is, this wasn’t a robbery.”

  Tom’s voice was immediately sharp. “What makes you say that?”

  “I, uh, picked up Jack’s Rolex from the grass.”

  “Goldy, I swear, you never learn.”

  “I didn’t touch it with my hands!”

  “Better and better. You had an evidence bag with you, and you gave the cops on the scene the watch, inside the bag.”

  “Well, no.”

  “Where is it now?” Tom asked.

  “Inside my apron pocket. Sorry, Tom.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay, I want that watch. Do not touch it.”

  “I never did!”

  “Uh-huh.”

  We signed off, and I headed through the dark, rainy night to Southwest Hospital. Why would you rob someone, and then not take his expensive watch and his wallet? Was the robber interrupted? Or was he up to something else?

  Once I’d parked in the hospital lot, I pulled off my apron, folded it, and stowed it on the floor of Julian’s Rover. The rain was still falling, so I hunted around for a slicker of some kind, and found a folded plastic poncho in Julian’s glove compartment. I opened it, pulled it over my head, and trotted into Southwest Hospital.

  After assuring the receptionist that I was not here about my swollen cheek, I was directed to the fourth floor, and Jack’s room.

  I knocked on the door, which was pulled open by Lucas. He looked incongruous in his fancy suit that had become muddy and creased. Since I was ensconced in the brown poncho, a look of incomprehension wrinkled his thin face.

  “It’s me, Goldy,” I said.

  Lucas’s face dissolved into irritation, which I tried to ignore. “He’s conscious, but I just don’t have the feeling that he knows what’s going on. He choked on his own vomit in the ambulance; that’s why they had to give him the tracheotomy. Then he was moaning and groaning, as if he was in pain, so they’ve given him morphine in his IV, for the head injury.”

  “Stitches?”

  “Not yet. Not until he’s stabilized. They butterflied it.”

  “I’m so sorry, Lucas.”

  “Yeah,” he said bitterly. “I’ll bet you are.”

  As usual, I couldn’t read Lucas’s vinegary tone, and didn’t want to waste time trying to.

  “You might as well come in, then,” Lucas said.

  I’d had more enthusiastic invitations in my day, but again, I didn’t care. I was so eager to make sure Jack was his old hale and hearty self that I plunged into the room, then recoiled when I saw how gray and helpless he looked. His eyes appeared rheumy, but when he saw me, he motioned me forward.

  “Don’t upset him,” Lucas warned me, as if I would.

  “Jack,” I sai
d gently. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  Jack reached out the hand with the IV in it and clasped one of mine.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve washed your hands anytime recently,” Lucas’s voice intoned from behind me.

  I turned. In a low voice, I said, “Lucas? Shut. Up.”

  “All right, listen,” Lucas said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Here’s what happened. We got him here, and he woke up, and because of the trake, he couldn’t talk. But he was acting all impatient in that way he does. So I gave him the pad of paper and a pen. He wrote, ‘Gold.’ And I said, ‘Goldy?’ And he shook his head no, but then he nodded yes. I’m telling you, it’s the morphine.”

  Behind me, Jack’s ring banging on the bar of the hospital bed brought me back to his side. He had a yellow legal pad—where had the hospital found one?—and on the same piece of paper that he’d written “Gold,” he now penned, “Feel bad, Lucas. Need time with G.”

  Lucas, who after months had finally shown me a teensy bit of politeness and restraint, raced out of the room in a huff.

  “You know, Jack,” I said, attempting humor, “you might want to try to be nice to Lucas so that he and I could get along and share you—”

  Jack grunted and tapped the legal pad. I said, “Do you want something?”

  He groaned and made a scribbling motion with his hand. Where had the pen gone? Eventually I found a pencil in a table drawer. He took it and tried to get purchase on the pad of paper, then looked at it in puzzlement. He growled in frustration.

  “Do you want me to write something down for you?” I asked. “Do you want to tell me who hurt you?”

  Jack frowned and shook his head. His gray face and the wrinkled skin of his chest visible above the hospital gown made me feel sick to my stomach. Hadn’t Jack just told Lucas he felt bad and needed to be with me? What did he need me for? What was he trying to say? Unable to decipher his grunts and movements, I felt as frustrated as he clearly was.

  The door swished open. I thought it must be Lucas, back already. He’d been gone only a few minutes, which might upset Jack. Still, for once I was grateful that Lucas was showing up. Maybe his presence would clarify what ever it was Jack wanted to write to me—