by Lucy Kerr
“There’s always paperwork,” I replied, and tried to smile. It was the truest fact of hospital life—everything required paperwork, electronic or hard copy. Everything was documented, down to the last bandage.
My smile turned genuine. Somewhere within the pages of Clem’s chart lay proof of my innocence—and someone else’s guilt. All I had to do was follow the paper trail back to the killer.
* * *
I stayed with Rowan and Charlie until after lunch, mulling over how I could get my hands on Clem’s chart again. Strack certainly wasn’t going to hand it over. Despite my insistence that Laura wasn’t behind the lawsuit, it was possible that she blamed me for Clem’s death now that she’d had time to process it. I considered asking Garima, but what would an obstetrician need with an elderly man’s chart?
“Earth to Frankie,” Charlie said. “You still thinking about the patient? The one who died?”
I hesitated. “Kind of.”
“Go home,” she ordered. “Riley will be coming home from school soon. You can help her with her homework.”
“I thought Mom was watching her.”
“She is. But it’ll get your mind off your patient, and it would make Riley feel good to have some special aunt time, too.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone,” I said, spurred on by something more fearful than sisterly devotion.
She gestured to the nurse working nearby. “Someone checks on us every fifteen minutes. More often, if I sneeze or change position. Besides, Matt’s done with classes for today, so he’s on his way.”
“I can stay till he gets here.”
“We’re fine. This way Mom can run by the store before she visits.”
Quit worrying about the store, I wanted to say. But that was well-covered ground, and I didn’t want to spoil the mood—Charlie would only reply, as always, that someone had to, the implication being that I didn’t worry enough. Judging from the frown lines bracketing her mouth, there was plenty to worry about. Confronting her would only make it worse, so instead I went for the casual approach.
“How’s business, anyway?”
“Fine,” she said shortly, arms tightening around Rowan.
“Was it a good summer?”
“I said it was fine.”
True—but she hadn’t meant it. I wasn’t the only Stapleton with a tell, and right now Charlie was rubbing her wrist, the same one she’d broken falling off the swings when she was eleven.
Summer was the busy season, with do-it-yourselfers flooding the aisles and making return trips for “one more piece,” families looking to buy Dad the perfect tool or new grill for Father’s Day, and lawn-obsessed retirees looking for the latest weapon in the war against crabgrass. A lousy summer meant a tight winter, especially with hospital bills piling up. The store had weathered lean years before, but I’d never seen Charlie this tense about it.
Then again, I’d made it crystal-clear I wasn’t interested in the store. Why should she confide in me now?
“How about I bring Riley over after dinner?” I asked, deliberately bright. “She’s missing you.”
Charlie’s expression softened. “I’m missing her.”
“Sounds like a plan.” A plan that dovetailed nicely with my own: avoiding Walter Strack. He didn’t seem like the type of administrator who stayed past five, and I’d already seen how lax evening security was at the hospital. I suspected that my presence at Stillwater General wasn’t particularly welcome, which is why I’d stayed huddled in the NICU, sniffing Rowan’s delicious baby scent all day. Out of sight, out of mind—I hoped.
I stood and stretched, easing the soreness in my back. My muscles were unaccustomed to sitting for so long, but pacing the NICU made Charlie—and everyone else—nervous. I brushed a kiss over Rowan’s tiny head. “Back after dinner, then.”
“Bring me dessert,” she called.
Garima caught me by the elevators. “Sorry! I meant to catch you earlier, but we had twins and then a full schedule at the office. I heard about Strack. Do you want to get coffee?”
“Wish I could—I’m taking care of Riley this afternoon, then bringing her over for a visit with Charlie.”
She considered, then shrugged. “What about later tonight? We can go to Crossroads.”
“Is that place still around?”
She nodded. “I know it’s not a fancy Chicago cocktail bar . . .”
Like the ones I’d gone to with Peter. No, Crossroads was a bar on the outskirts of town, run-down, wood-paneled, with peanut shells on the floor and animal heads on the walls. In Wicker Park, it would have been considered the height of irony, an excuse to charge ten dollars for a can of beer. In Stillwater, it was a place to grab a cheap drink and shoot a round of pool.
“Sounds perfect,” I said, just as her phone buzzed.
“Nine o’clock?” she asked, frowning at the text. “I need to run. And Frankie . . . you need a lawyer.”
* * *
On my way out, I checked the hospital directory. Alexander Hardy, the doctor who’d treated Clem, had an office in one of the sleek new buildings on the perimeter of the hospital. He’d offered to talk to Laura—maybe I could convince him to help me find out what had gone wrong.
I crossed the manicured grounds, marveling at how Stillwater Gen had grown. There was nothing else like it for a hundred miles; you’d have to cross state lines to find the nearest comparable hospital. If Garima was right, and the board was looking to sell, they were in an excellent position.
Dr. Hardy was with a patient, according to his receptionist, so I settled in with a year’s worth of women’s magazines, each promising to transform my home, my career, my relationships, and my diet in twenty-one days. In the last seventy-two hours, I’d had enough transformation to last me a lifetime, however, and I tossed the magazines aside.
Then again, hadn’t I wanted a change? A chance to get out of town and get myself together? Figure out what I really wanted? Stillwater wouldn’t have been my first choice—or even my fiftieth—but it wasn’t exactly boring. Once I found Clem’s killer and got Charlie back on her feet, I could go back to Chicago and my old life . . . if I wanted it.
Assuming, of course, I didn’t lose my license.
Garima’s words came back to me. Like most nurses, I had a union rep—but that was through my own hospital, not Stillwater Gen. I had no idea if they would fight for me in this situation, and it seemed unfair they should have to. Whether I’d violated hospital protocol or not, I’d been trying to save a man’s life. Someone else was responsible for the taking of it.
The hospital wouldn’t report me until they’d completed their investigation, but it was obvious Strack had made up his mind about who was responsible for Clem’s death. If I wanted the truth, I’d have to find the killer myself.
“Miss Stapleton?”
Alexander Hardy stood in the doorway of the main office. As before, he was wearing a bow tie and French-cuff shirt under his doctor’s coat, his spare, angular height reminding me of a whooping crane.
“Call me Frankie,” I said, approaching him with my hand extended. We shook, his skin surprisingly clammy. As discreetly as possible, I wiped my palm on my jeans. “I was hoping I could talk to you about Clem Jensen.”
“Oh?” His eyebrows lifted and he gestured toward his office, tucked at the end of the hall. It was decorated in English manor wannabe, all dark wood and rich leather furniture, the walls covered in brocade wallpaper and oil paintings of fox hunts. A cut-glass decanter of amber liquid and matching tumblers rested on an ornate sideboard, while built-in bookshelves held an array of medical journals and several back issues of Wine Spectator. Suddenly, my holey jeans and fleece jacket made me feel painfully underdressed.
“I was wondering if you could tell me a little more about his case.” I gave him my most winning smile, the one I usually reserved for Peter’s endless work parties and fundraisers. My VIP smile, he’d named it one night after a bottle of very expensive champagne. “Or even . . . i
f you could let me see his chart?”
“That would be a violation of privacy laws,” he said, settling himself behind the desk. “Which I suspect you already know. As I said before, we did everything we could to resuscitate Mr. Jensen, but there was simply too much damage to his heart.”
I chose my words carefully, not wanting to throw Marcus under the bus. “According to his daughter, Clem was managing his heart condition. Considering the medication he was supposedly taking, it seems strange he would throw a clot.”
“Supposedly?” He said, as if the suggestion was a personal affront. “Are you implying he wasn’t taking his medication?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m asking if you noticed anything strange about his blood work.”
“Discussing Mr. Jensen’s case with you would be unethical,” he said shortly. “Furthermore, I doubt the hospital would appreciate me interfering in an active investigation.”
My VIP smile dropped away. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
His expression cleared, and he reached across the desk to pat my hand, the gesture dripping with condescension. “Then the investigation will prove exactly that, my dear. Is that all? My schedule is really quite full.”
I sank back in my chair, racking my brain for another angle. “Laura Madigan said her father had applied to your drug trial but didn’t get in.”
“Confidentiality seems to be a concept you struggle with,” Hardy said dryly.
“I’m not asking about Clem. Laura already filled me in. But you can tell me about the drug, can’t you?”
He studied me.
“It’s not confidential,” I added. “Everyone at the hospital knows about it, and you’ll have to publish the results of the trial before you can get final FDA approval. What’s the harm?”
“None, I suppose,” he said after a moment. “Cardiodyne is a new class of drug; it improves cardiac cells’ susceptibility to electrical impulses from the nervous system, addressing an area of chronic heart failure that’s been previously ignored.”
“And Clem wasn’t sick enough to make the trial?” Before Hardy could respond, I waved my hand. “I know, I know. Privacy laws. Where are you at in the approval process?”
“We’re in the final stages; Pharmagen should bring it to market within the next year. It has the potential to save many lives.”
“Too bad it couldn’t help Clem,” I said softly. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Hardy.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, escorting me to the door. “Forgive me for asking, but were you close to Mr. Jensen? I’d been led to believe you’d only just met.”
I lifted my hands and then let them fall to my sides. “I found him. I feel responsible—but not for his death, no matter what Paul Costello thinks.”
He frowned. “Paul?”
“He’s the one pushing for this investigation, isn’t he? He’s been out for blood since the minute I brought Clem into his emergency room.”
“I see. Perhaps it’s best you give him a wide berth, then. Paul Costello is not someone to be crossed, Miss Stapleton.”
“Yeah, well . . . neither am I.”
* * *
I pulled into the driveway in time to spot Riley and my mother walking home from school. When had my mother gotten so small? Her gait was slower than I remembered. Could the few blocks to Stillwater Elementary have worn her out? Riley was trailing behind, scuffing through piles of leaves, oversized backpack threatening to topple her over. When Mom caught sight of me, she quickened her pace, gesturing for Riley to keep up.
“How’s your sister? And Rowan?” she asked. She sounded short of breath, and her hands trembled for a moment before she thrust them in the pockets of her wool coat.
“They’re both good,” I said. “So I thought I’d come see my favorite second grader.”
I’d pitched my voice loud enough to carry, and a grin spread over Riley’s face.
“Want to play soccer, Aunt Frankie?” she called.
“Homework,” my mother said firmly. “Someone has a spelling test.”
“On Friday! That’s four whole days,” Riley protested.
“Which means you’ll have plenty of time to practice.” She pointed toward the front door, and Riley resumed trudging toward the steps. “Snack, then homework.”
Before I could protest, my mother held up a hand and said, “Wait for it.”
A moment later, we heard Riley’s squeal of delight, and her head popped back into view. “Ranger cookies!” she cried, clutching one in each fist.
“You still make those?” I asked. Ranger cookies were my mom’s go-to comfort food—chocolate chips, oatmeal, coconut, and cornflakes, crispy outside and cake-like inside. My own stomach rumbled at the memory.
“They’re Riley’s favorite,” she said.
“Good taste,” I said. “I told Charlie we’d swing by after dinner, but she was wondering if you could check in on the store before then.”
Mom made a noise that sounded like agreement but didn’t explain the request.
“Is there a big order coming in? You just picked up the receipts on Sunday, right? She can’t have done that much business on a Monday.”
She leaned against the wrought-iron porch railing. “Francesca, quit prying.”
“I’m not prying.”
“Oh?” She raised her eyebrows.
“Charlie seemed worried, that’s all. Is the store in trouble?”
“Did Charlotte say it was?” she returned.
“She said it was fine.”
She marched into the house, calling over her shoulder, “There you go, then. It’s your sister’s store now, and if she wanted to tell you more, she would.”
“So there is something to tell.”
“Quit prying,” she muttered again, as Riley appeared with cookies on a plate and a glass of milk.
“These are for you, Aunt Frankie. Grandma always says these were your favorites when you were little.”
“Still are,” I said, settled in at the kitchen table to help with homework.
“Hey, Riley,” I said, once we’d made our way through spelling and multiplication. “Is there a kid named CJ at your school?”
“CJ Madigan,” she said promptly. “He’s in my class. He’s sick a lot.”
“That’s too bad. Is he nice?”
Riley considered this. “I guess. For a boy. He wasn’t in school today, because his grandpa died.”
“I heard.”
“I bet he’s sad,” she mused. “He liked his grandpa. They went fishing a lot, out at his grandpa’s cabin. Once, CJ brought a fish they caught together to show-and-share. They mounted it on a board so it still looked alive. It was pretty cool.”
“Sounds like it.” I shuddered. Chickens in the kitchen were bad enough. Taxidermy fish would give me nightmares. “Let’s crank through the rest of this homework. What’s the capital of Alabama?”
While I quizzed Riley, my mom popped lasagna in the oven and ran over to the store for her mystery errand.
“Can I please play soccer now?” Riley moaned when we’d finished.
I put my head down at the table and waved toward the backyard.
She escaped, and moments later came the rhythmic thunk of a soccer ball against the garage door.
“That’s a ridiculous amount of homework,” I said when my mom returned, screen door slapping behind her. “I didn’t even have that much in high school.”
“Never mind the homework,” my mother said, fuming. “You killed a man?”
I lifted my head. “Nice to know the rumor mill still runs full-steam.”
“It’s all over the store,” she said. “Three separate people stopped me to get the details. Georgina Melville says the Baptist church has already put together a prayer chain for your victim. Helen Barker says the Methodists are starting one for you.”
I let my forehead drop back to the oak tabletop.
“Francesca Stapleton.”
“I didn’t kill anyone, Mo
m. I do not kill people.”
“Clem Jensen was a customer! As if business weren’t already—”
“Wait. You knew Clem?” A handyman, Laura had said. It made sense that he’d have an account at the store. “What was he like?”
“Nice enough, I suppose. He paid his bills on time.”
“Did he have any enemies?”
“What kind of question is that, especially from the person who—”
“Mom. I did. Not. Kill. Clem. I found him in the parking lot, gave him first aid, then brought him into the ER. He was alive the last time I saw him.”
“Then what happened? He up and died?”
“Something like that. Do you know anything else about him?”
She shook her head. “He wasn’t from Stillwater. His billing address was in Dover Creek, on the west side of the river.”
“You looked it up?” At least I knew where I got my prying from. “Anything else you can tell me?”
“What’s to tell? It’s not as if I’m in the store as often these days. Charlotte would know more.” She glared. “Not that you’re going to mention it to her. Not a word.”
“Not a word about what?” said Riley, popping back in.
“Nothing,” my mother said. “Wash up for dinner.”
“Nobody tells me anything,” Riley grumbled, and stalked off.
“I’m serious, Francesca. I don’t want Charlotte getting upset over something like this.”
“Something like her sister being a killer?”
“You said he was alive!”
“He was—but if you’re hearing it, Charlie will, too. People talk.”
“I’m aware,” she said dryly. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d gone straight upstairs to see your sister.”
“I went upstairs as soon as I was done. Besides, Charlie wasn’t in crisis—she was checking inventory reports when I came in.”
“You didn’t know that,” she said. “You decided a stranger’s life was more important than your sister’s. Than your niece’s.”
I threw up my hands. “I spent fifteen minutes, tops, in the ER. If I’d left Clem alone, he would have died.”
“He died anyway.”
“Well, he shouldn’t have,” I snapped, and my mother stopped to give me a quick, searching glance before returning to dinner preparations.
