by Ann Cook
“Grandmother had marks on the front of her neck,” Brandy said. “Do you think she was choked from the back?”
“She wasn’t choked, young lady. You choke on food. She was strangled. Yes, likely from the rear. We’ll know more after the doctor examines her.” He fixed Brandy with a penetrating gaze. “She got enemies?”
“I’m afraid the answer is yes.” Brandy weighed her words. “She threatened her business partner with exposure. We both suspect him of illegal activities. I reported it to the Sheriff’s Office today. Others, too, might want her silenced.”
He paused before her. “And what made you come here yourself this afternoon?”
“Her cat. When I stopped in front of the house, the cat alerted me.”
“You don’t say.” The corners of the sergeant’s mouth twitched up as he made a final note. It’s what I get, she thought, for telling the unvarnished truth. He moved toward the dining room door. “I’m through here now,” he said. “I’ll be at the hospital, see when I can interview the patient.”
Brandy’s voice wavered. “I only hope you can interview her.” She stood and laid a hand on John’s arm. “I’ve got my car here. Will you wait for the techs while I go to the hospital?”
“You’ll be all right driving?”
“I can’t just sit here. I’ve got to find out what’s happening for myself.”
“Bran, how often do I need to tell you to stop your everlasting meddling?” His voice rose. “Now it’s almost gotten your grandmother killed.”
“I know,” Brandy said miserably. “All the more reason to go to the hospital.” Hope had felt guilty when Brandy was attacked. Now it was Brandy’s turn.
While she rummaged through a hall closet for her grandmother’s raincoat, John saw Noble out.
“I’ll call back,” she said. “Will you feed the cat? Her food is in the lower right hand cupboard. If it hadn’t been for Patches, I would never have checked.”
In her car at last, Brandy switched on the windshield wipers, laid her bag and notebook on the passenger seat, and turned onto
441. She tried to fit the attack on Hope into the scenario she had been working on.
It fit, except for two key elements: why now? And what was the motive?
TWENTY
Once more Brandy drove onto the sprawling University of Florida campus, where Shands functioned as the area’s chief teaching hospital. When she pulled up before the towering medical center, lighted windows on each wing glowed like welcoming beacons. Brandy handed her car over to valet parking, asked for directions, and after navigating a few corridors, arrived at the emergency waiting room. After a few minutes, she finally persuaded the attendant at the admittance window that she was indeed a granddaughter and eligible to see the patient or the attending physician. After another delay, she pushed through controlled double doors and stood before the nurses’ station.
A supervising nurse with short gray hair and firm mouth sat behind the desk. When she stood, she rose an imposing six feet in her white rubber-soled shoes. “Your grandmother’s been taken upstairs for tests,” she said. Her voice showed concern. “She’ll be here until we can free a room for her.”
Brandy’s fingers gripped the edge of the counter. “I’d like to speak to the doctor.”
The nurse nodded. “I’ll ask the emergency room physician to see you. Mrs. O’Bannon’s with a throat specialist now.”
Brandy waited on a metal folding chair next to Hope’s empty hospital bed, listening to soft voices in the adjoining cubicle and aware of the slightly antiseptic smell of all hospitals. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. Why were emergency rooms always frigid?
The busy physician turned out to be another bolt upright woman but stockier and with a more severe expression that contrasted with her initially gentle tone. “Mrs. O’Bannon’s condition is serious,” she said. “A case of ligature strangling. A cord or material damaged her throat.” She looked down at Brandy, her lips tightened, and her voice grew harsher. “The authorities need to be notified.” Brandy wondered if she saw the granddaughter as a suspect. Most elderly abuse cases were, after all, domestic.
“My husband and I already spoke to a detective,” Brandy said. “He needs to interview Grandmother when she’s able to talk. I’m the one who found her.”
The doctor’s face relaxed. “Her larynx is damaged. She’ll have difficulty speaking. She’s still in pain. Enough pressure was put on her carotid arteries to cause unconsciousness. Fortunately, she wasn’t deprived of oxygen long enough to be fatal. If she gets past this stage, she’ll have to stay several days for observation. I’ll send word after she’s thoroughly examined.”
Brandy sunk back down on the chair. “You think she’ll be able to talk?”
“She’ll be hoarse,” the doctor said. “We don’t know yet precisely how the oxygen deprivation affected her mentally.”
“Poor Grandmother,” Brandy said. “I feel responsible.” She didn’t want to leave the wrong impression. “Of course, I didn’t do this to her. It’s just too complicated to explain.”
“She tried to speak,” the doctor said more kindly. “But I worry about her mental condition. She kept trying to say something that sounds like ‘box.’”
Half an hour later Brandy finally saw the throat specialist, a rotund figure in his sixties who wore trifocals low on a prominent nose. He only repeated the information she already knew, but he did say Hope was being moved to a private room. If they were brief, her grandmother might see Brandy and the detective. Then he paused and gazed down his long nose with faint disapproval. “Don’t I remember you were here yourself recently? Same complaint?”
Brandy didn’t want to take time to explain to him either. “Runs in the family,” she said.
He frowned. “Whoever strangled your grandmother intended to kill her. He used enough force to do the job. He was probably interrupted.”
Bless you again, Patches, Brandy thought. When she arrived, she remembered a car driving away in the next street.
As the doctor continued on down the hall, Brandy wound through the corridors to the elevator. Upstairs an aide directed her to a waiting room where John hunched in a chair.
He stood and put an arm around Brandy’s waist. “You look bushed,” he said. “You should go home and go to bed.”
Brandy shook her head. “Not until I’ve seen Grandmother myself, but they seem to think she’ll be okay.”
He released her and glanced out the door and nodded toward the hallway. “You might like to know,” he said, “that old Savage Wilson’s in the hospital, too. Heart acting up again. Isn’t that his daughter?”
The last thing Brandy wanted was another confrontation with Aunt Liz, but Grant’s robust aunt was indeed striding down the corridor. She had started to pass the waiting room, until she looked their way. Then she halted and swung her thick body around to face them. She had spotted Brandy.
“Well, so you’re here, too, gloating, I reckon.” The woman moved quickly toward Brandy, biting off each word, pale blue eyes bright. “The stress of all your digging for gossip—dragging up the marshall’s old files and old cases, old ugly talk—brought on another of Papa’s attacks. He can’t stand many more.” Her voice bristled with sarcasm. “You pleased with yourself? He’s been here a week already. He may not get out for the naming ceremony, thanks to you!”
Brandy sat mute, unable to think how to divert the tirade. All she needed now was for Caleb Stark’s muscular grandson to make an appearance. Liz pushed back a strand of gray hair that had escaped from the severe knot at the back of her head and went on venomously. “Someone said your old grandmother’s here, too, barely alive. Well, she won’t be at the ceremony either and neither will you. I promise you that.”
John stalked toward her. “If that’s a threat, you’ll answer to me!”
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The two glared at each other until the sturdy figure of Detective Noble strolled into the room. The sergeant’s slacks and shirt looked rumpled and damp, but his shock of thick gray hair was brushed back in a neat wave above his forehead, and he now wore a tie. He shook hands with John and looked quizzically at Liz, who bridled for a few seconds more, then wheeled, and clomped back into the hall. “What’s got her knickers in a knot?” he asked.
Brandy said, “It’s complicated, but she’s someone who hates me and my grandmother both.”
The sergeant scribbled in his pocket notepad. “Thought you’d like to know,” he said, “that the fingerprint tech picked up a blurry print high up on the screen door frame.” Brandy sent an elated glance at John. Maybe they could prove someone was there who should not be. “Both of you stop by the Sheriff’s Office tomorrow and give us yours. I’ll take care of getting Mrs. O’Bannon’s.”
When a nurse stepped into the doorway, Brandy recognized her as one she had seen at the nearby desk. “Mrs. O’Bannon’s family member can see her for a few minutes,” she said.” She turned to John. “Only one.” She also glanced at the detective.
He rose from his chair and flashed his badge. “I need to talk to the lady, too, nurse. I’m the investigator.”
The nurse frowned. “You can come, too, but not for long. Mrs. O’Bannon mustn’t strain her voice. But she is eager to communicate something. I’m afraid she won’t rest until she does.”
Noble turned to Brandy. “You got to remember, being strangled can blot out her memory. Lots of times the victims can’t remember much.” He ended with the comment Brandy had come to expect. “Can’t be helped.”
Hope lay in the bed, her silver hair a halo on the pillow, her magnificent eyes dulled and sunken, and the angular planes of her face in sharp relief. She had aged years in one day. She looked fragile and bony, unlike the vigorous eighty-four year old who tore around Micanopy in her pickup truck. When Hope saw Brandy, her eyes widened. Slowly, she stretched a frail hand toward her granddaughter, fingers trembling, and rasped, “They say I’ll make it.”
Brandy perched on a straight, bedside chair. She smelled an antiseptic odor again and thought, they have bathed her already. “You certainly will,” she said, “but talk as little as you can. A detective’s here to see you.”
Hope gave a slight nod.
Noble stepped forward, mouth grim. He edged closer to the bed and leaned forward. “Do you remember anything about the attack? Anything that might help us identify who did this?”
Hope targeted him with those large gray eyes. The muscles of her face tensed. Finally she managed to say, “Didn’t see. Came from behind. No warning.”
Brandy laid a steadying hand on her arm. “Take it easy.”
“Anything at all you can tell us, M’am?”
Hope reached again for Brandy’s arm and murmured: “Box.” She could hardly force the muted words. “Box on table. Locked.”
Brandy took her cold hand. “There was no box on the table,” she said. “Not in the kitchen. Not in the living room or dining room.”
Hope gripped Brandy’s fingers and rocked her head from side to side. “Yes, yes!” she gasped. “Stolen!”
Brandy glanced at the detective. “You examined everything carefully. The fingerprint technicians dusted. Could anyone have come into the kitchen or porch before I got there?” She remembered the light rain, the muddy grass.
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Hard to tell. So much walking in and out. There’s the fingerprint we haven’t yet identified.” He looked back at Hope. “Miss O’Bannon here told me you threatened your business partner with the law. I checked with the Captain in Operations. They’ve had Treasures & Trinkets under surveillance for quite a while.”
The well-dressed, middle-aged customer Brandy had seen several times in the store—was he an officer on stake-out?
The detective went on quickly. “Operations suspects the store is a front for drugs. Haven’s contact worked out of a crooked estate sales outfit in Tampa. Hid the stuff in shipments of furniture and glassware. Cocaine and crack, they think. The Sheriff’s Office was ready to pounce anyway. But it’s good you reported it. We figured you weren’t involved.”
A wry smile curved the corners of Hope’s lips. “Great,” she croaked. She fingered the blanket, apology in her glance at Brandy, and whispered, “Shouldn’t have threatened him. Look at me.”
Before Hope strained herself further, Brandy said, “I’m almost certain he didn’t do this to you. I’ll explain later. But Snug will be forced to sell now. He’ll need money to pay an attorney.”
Her grandmother’s lips drew tight in her effort to make them understand. “Don’t forget box.”
Brandy patted her hand and tucked it back under the covers. “You rest, now,” she said. “We’ll check for a box, I promise.”
Back in the waiting room, she sank into an upholstered chair beside John and drummed her open palm on its padded arm. “I know just one person who could attack us both. And kill poor Shot Hunter, as well. But I can’t work out the reason.”
The detective zipped up his jacket, ready to leave. He hadn’t learned much to record in his notepad.
“Look, Bran,” John said. “The strain’s beginning to tell on you. Go on home, too, please. I’ll stay a while, if you like. I care about your grandmother, too, you know.”
Suddenly Brandy felt wearier than she had ever been in her life. Her legs were weak; her head ached. The muscles in her shoulders and back were so stiff they cramped.
“I should listen to you for a change.” She dragged herself out of the chair, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, picked up her canvas bag, and followed the detective down the hall. At the elevator she punched the ground floor button, relieved Hope would recover but feeling defeated and helpless. She and the detective didn’t speak. Nothing more to say. There hadn’t been a box in Hope’s kitchen, or the entire house. Where else could they look? Brandy thought of the folder that disappeared from Hunter’s kitchen, too.
Downstairs, she scarcely noticed the volunteer manning the marbleized counter or the few wan relatives slumped in lobby chairs. Outside, beyond the front doors, the night looked hazy, the pavement wet. A few people pushed their way in, one or two shaking raindrops from their umbrellas. A gust of chill, moist air swept through the open door, bringing with it the clean smell of freshly scoured sidewalks. Brandy turned up her jacket collar and felt for its hood, ready to step outside and ask valet parking for her car.
She began to brush past a slender woman in a smartly tailored navy raincoat and matching hat when she heard the rap of spike heels on the tile floor beside her. A familiar voice chirped, “Why, I declare! How precious to find you here. I didn’t know where to look. Your sitter—that darling little Kyra Gibbons—told me to check Shands.” Lily Lou Irons teetered toward Brandy. “I have something here I believe belongs to your grandmother.”
Brandy’s lips parted in amazement. With both hands, Lily Lou thrust toward her a medium-sized wooden box, the metal lock hanging open.
Brandy had almost forgotten about the detective. Now Noble pressed forward and reached for the box. Lily Lou stepped back, eyes wide, fingers clenched around her prize. “I really don’t believe I know you, sir!” she said.
Quickly Brandy intervened. “It’s all right, Lily Lou.” Her energy revived at the sight of the box. “This is Detective Sergeant Noble, Alachua County Sheriff’s Office. He’s investigating the attack on my grandmother. And this,” she added to the officer, “is Lily Lou Irons, wife of Montgomery Irons. My husband’s his architect.”
The detective moved closer to Lily Lou. “Mrs. O’Bannon says someone took a box like that from her house.”
Lily Lou’s huge blue eyes grew even wider. “Is she going to be all right?”
“We think so.” Noble tried to
control his impatience. “We think the contents of that box may be important to the case.”
“Oh, goodness.” Lily Lou glanced around the lobby. “Can we go somewhere and talk more privately?”
The detective strode to the counter, flashed his badge, and said a few terse words to a woman in a pink uniform while Brandy jerked her cell from her bag and punched in the number of the waiting room upstairs. When John picked up the phone, she said, “You’d better go on home, check on Brad and Kyra. Something’s come up with the detective here. I’ll be delayed.” She shut the cell phone off before he could object.
The volunteer at the desk rose and led the three of them into a small, unoccupied room adjoining the lobby, closed the door, and left. Lily Lou chose to sit in a cushioned chair opposite a sofa, tucking the box beside her. She seemed to be collecting her thoughts. She removed her dripping, soft-brimmed rain hat, folded it, and laid it on the other side. Then she unzipped her raincoat and opened it to reveal a white acetate-spandex tunic and pants, trimmed in lace. “This is harder than I thought. I didn’t know a police detective would be here.” She turned on him her high voltage smile.
Sergeant Noble’s calm tone was reassuring. “Just start at the beginning, Mrs. Irons. Take it slowly.” He slipped his small spiral notebook from an inside pocket, but as she glanced at it and hesitated, he thrust it back.
Brandy tried to imagine the languid Lily Lou sneaking up on her grandmother from the rear, strangling her, and grabbing the box. The image simply would not come clear, although she suspected Montgomery Iron’s wife was not nearly as delicate as she made herself appear. But the lock had been cut. Would the contents still be there? Perhaps Lily Lou was returning an empty box.
Lily Lou seemed to make an effort, her voice low. “It happened like this. Goodness, this will be so hard.” She locked her slender fingers together, great blue eyes imploring. “One of the men working in the hall, a carpenter’s helper—you know, at the house—came into the parlor where I was sitting. I sometimes go over there, looking for Monty or out of curiosity. I don’t know the man’s name. Someone the contractor hired. He had this box in his hands. He said, ‘Mrs. Irons, I found this when we were taking down the closet wall. It was in a hidden panel that just popped open.’
