by Lucy Kerr
“That’s what I figured,” Charlie replied. “At first. But you’re obviously worried about something, and I don’t think it’s the engagement. You’ve barely mentioned Peter, not even to trash-talk him. You wanted to end it, didn’t you?”
I didn’t deny it. I didn’t need to.
“Dr. K won’t tell me anything, either. I’ve heard the nurses talking about you, but every time I try to listen in, they change the subject.”
“Rude to eavesdrop,” I singsonged. If prying was my besetting sin, eavesdropping was Charlie’s. From the time she was a little kid, she wanted to be in on all the adult conversations. Handy at Christmastime, but now it was a problem.
She shrugged, completely unabashed. “It’s about that patient, isn’t it? The one who died? You’re involved somehow.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I assured her, but I couldn’t quite tell if she believed me. Fair enough; I didn’t believe her about the store. Sad, though, that neither one of us trusted the other enough to confide in. A single visit wasn’t enough time to mend that break, and I felt a pang of regret. “I’m handling it. There’s nothing to worry about.”
She shook her head. “Don’t you get it? I worry about everything.”
“You don’t need to worry about this.”
“Good.” She met my eyes squarely. “We have enough trouble as it is, Frankie. Don’t bring us any more.”
Before I could reply, she looked past me, face brightening. A moment later, Matt ambled in, looking like a giant amid the delicate equipment of the NICU. “How are all the Stapleton girls today?” he asked.
“Good,” we chorused, but Matt frowned as he washed his hands, clearly picking up on the tension between us. That was the thing about families—they knew when something was off, even when they couldn’t put a name to it. I was willing to bet Laura knew more than she realized about Clem’s death.
“I’ll let you three have some family time,” I said, handing Rowan over to Matt. “I need to make a phone call.”
A quick call to directory assistance gave me Laura’s number. She sounded surprised to hear from me but not displeased, which I took as good sign.
“How are you doing?” I asked. “How is CJ?”
“I’m coping,” she said warily. “We both are. I assume you heard about the lawsuit.”
“News travels,” I said, settling into a far corner of the cafeteria and blowing on my scalding-hot coffee. I hoped Stillwater Gen had a decent burn unit.
“I didn’t want Jimmy to file the suit,” she said defensively. “I had no idea he was even planning it.”
“I know.” I didn’t want Laura see me as the enemy—especially when the real enemy was still out there. “It didn’t seem like something you’d do.”
My position in the cafeteria gave me an excellent view of the entrance. I watched as Walter Strack, Dr. Hardy, and Ashley Ritter came in and ordered their food to go. The conversation was animated, brief snippets drifting toward me, phrases like “control group” and “overseas markets” and “approval process.” No doubt Cardiodyne would give the hospital’s reputation quite a boost when it won FDA approval. That kind of prestige could be a lucrative bargaining chip for Strack when negotiating a sale. Would it be enough to offset a lawsuit, though?
“Do you think the hospital was negligent?” I asked Laura.
Across the room, Ashley caught my eye and smiled briefly before refocusing on Strack. He waved away her attempts to pay, said something I couldn’t catch, and then laughed. After a beat, Ashley joined in.
Laura was quiet for a long time, mulling over the question. “I don’t think so. He had heart problems, and his diet was terrible. The only exercise he got was fishing. I kept telling him the medication could only do so much, but . . .” She trailed off, sounding defeated.
“You’re sure he was taking his medication?” I asked gently.
“Every day. I nagged him constantly. I should have spent more time enjoying him and less time nagging.”
“You were taking care of him.” I pressed myself farther into the corner as Strack’s group stopped to dose their coffees with cream and sugar. Thankfully they were too busy chatting to notice me. A moment later, they’d left again. “That’s a good thing.”
She exhaled shakily. “I guess so. But looking back . . . I’m glad I had that last phone call with him, at least.”
I’d forgotten that Laura had talked to Clem after his surgery. “What did you talk about?”
Her voice grew thick and wistful. “We didn’t have long. He was so tired, and weak from the surgery. I wanted to come to the hospital right away, but he wouldn’t let me. He didn’t think it was safe to leave CJ home alone. I told him I could call a friend to stay with CJ, but he was adamant. He didn’t want me anywhere near Stillwater Gen.”
I straightened. “Were those his exact words?”
She paused. “I think so. He could be so stubborn. I stayed home, and the next thing I knew, the hospital was calling to say he was gone.”
“When did Jimmy tell you he was filing the lawsuit?”
“Monday morning,” Laura said, practically spitting the words. “I haven’t spoken to him in months, and the next thing I know, he was on my front porch at the crack of dawn, telling me not to talk to anyone from the hospital, that he’d found a way to make some cash and he’d split it with me. I don’t want the money. It won’t bring my father back, and I don’t want to spend the next year dealing with lawyers and court dates when I should be helping my son grieve.”
Amid the rush of sympathy, I latched onto one fact, the thing Laura hadn’t said. “You didn’t tell Jimmy about your dad?”
“Why would I? He spends every penny he makes, and I don’t have a dime to spare for him—so he’s not interested in us. God forbid he was ever interested in his son.”
The base of my spine prickled, the same ominous feeling I’d had before. “How do you think he heard about Clem?”
“Same as anything else in this town,” she said. “We grow gossip right alongside the corn and beans.”
I tried to smile at the familiar joke, glad Laura couldn’t see my true expression. Even Stillwater’s rumor mill didn’t work that fast. Clem had died late Sunday morning; a day later, Jimmy was in Strack’s office threatening to sue. Either Jimmy had an inside source at the hospital or he’d known Clem was going to die.
The question was, should I tell Laura? She had a right to know that her ex was a murderer, but as Noah had pointed out—twice—I had no proof. It would be easy for her to dismiss my accusations as an attempt to clear my own name. Worse, what if I was wrong and this was all an accident? Laura was already devastated. For once in my life, I decided to proceed with caution.
Now was as good a time to start as any. “You mentioned that your dad was covering CJ’s medication. What was he taking?”
“Apracetim. It’s new—he’s only been taking it for the last six months or so, but it’s made such a difference—he’s going weeks between seizures now.”
“Was it expensive? I know new medicines are usually pricey.”
“It was. My insurance didn’t even cover it,” she said, confirming what I’d told Noah. “Dad’s business was booming, so he insisted on paying for it.”
I thought back over the invoices I’d seen. If Clem’s business was booming, he wasn’t buying his supplies at Stapleton and Sons. His account had shown a steady stream of orders for the last year, not a sudden spike of jobs.
“Dad’s business,” she said, voice trembling. “I guess I have to add that to the list, don’t I?”
“The list?”
“Of people I need to tell. The funeral home, the bank, now his customers . . . I didn’t expect there would be so much paperwork, but there are stacks and stacks in his living room. I don’t know how I’m going to get through all of it.”
An idea struck me, followed by a sharp stab of guilt.
“I could help,” I offered. “Your dad was a customer of ours;
we have all his invoices.” Which was true. They were sitting in my backpack. “We could go over them together, and I could help you notify his customers.”
Technically, I wasn’t lying. And it was for a good cause. If I could figure out where Clem’s newfound riches were coming from, I might also find proof that Jimmy was after them.
“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” she protested weakly.
I let Laura mull it over while I glanced around the cafeteria. Ashley had left her purse by the coffee station. Returning it would give me the perfect chance to ask about the hospital’s investigation. It was obvious she was close to both Strack and Hardy, so chances were good she knew something—and she might be grateful enough to share.
I made my way toward across the cafeteria, saying, “You’re not asking, I’m offering. I can’t hang around the hospital all the time—Charlie’s never been good at sharing, so I barely get to hold my niece. When I’m home, my mom grills me about finding a husband. You’d actually be helping me out.”
“Really? You’re sure?”
I scooped up Ashley’s buttery leather tote. It was big enough that I could probably fit Rowan inside, but heavier than it looked. I slung it over my shoulder, saying, “I’m absolutely sure, Laura. Why don’t you bring CJ over for dinner tomorrow night? My mom always makes enough to feed an army, and he can play with Riley while we go over your dad’s paperwork.”
“That would be wonderful,” she said, and the relief in her voice almost made me forget that I had an ulterior motive. “But all his files are at his cabin. Would it be okay if we drove over and sorted through them together? I haven’t been to his place since . . .”
“No problem,” I assured her. “We’ll have dinner, and my mom can watch Riley and CJ while we go out to your dad’s. How’s six thirty sound?”
We arranged the details, and I hung up, ready to track down Ashley.
Who was standing two feet away from me, cheeks flaming.
“Hey,” I said, slipping her bag off my shoulder and holding it out awkwardly, like I’d been caught stealing. “I was about to come looking for you.”
“Isn’t that always the way? Just when I think those guys are taking me seriously, I flake out.” She shook her head. “I’d better get back before they decide I’m only good for making coffee. Thanks, Frankie.”
“You’re welcome.” Before I could ask her about Strack’s investigation, she’d already spun away and headed out, heels clicking on the linoleum. I’d missed my chance.
All the more reason to make my visit with Laura count. Now I just had to tell my mom we were expecting company.
ELEVEN
As I was heading back to Charlie’s room, I spotted Meg Costello sitting near the cafeteria doors, drawing furiously on a few scattered papers.
“Hey, Meg,” I said, and her head snapped up, eyes wide. “May I join you?”
“I guess.” Hastily, she shoved her papers into her messenger bag.
“Awesome,” I said, sitting in the chair opposite her and tucking my feet under me. “I hope your dad wasn’t too hard on you Saturday night. He knows you were only helping me out, doesn’t he?”
She nodded. A set of colored pencils sat on the table between us, and she scooped them up hurriedly, depositing them alongside her papers. Her gaze flickered to my backpack. “You got your bag back?”
“Oh, were you the one who left it at the nurse’s station?” I’d wondered how it had gotten from the parking lot to a locked floor.
Meg held up the ID badge around her neck. “I have a key card, so I can deliver flowers and stuff. But I didn’t know which room you were in.”
“Well, thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”
A smile ghosted her face, then faded. It transformed her, if only for an instant—but it was long enough for me to see that Meg Costello was a pretty girl, when she didn’t look miserable. Her honey-colored hair was held back with a headband, revealing deep-set hazel eyes behind the thick glasses.
“What are you working on?” I tilted my head, got a glimpse of the paper poking out of her bag. “Comic book?”
She tugged it closer, her round cheeks blushing scarlet. “Graphic novel.”
“Cool.”
But she didn’t look like it was cool. Her eyes stayed downcast, her shoulders hunched, clearly mortified. “Meg, lots of people read comic books.”
“Graphic novels,” she repeated, then paused. “Don’t tell my dad.”
Understanding clicked into place. “Let me guess: God’s Gift to Emergency Medicine doesn’t approve?”
Her mouth trembled. “It’s not going to get me into Harvard.”
“Do you want to go to Harvard?” She didn’t answer. “I see. Your dad wants you to go to Harvard.”
“He says I could be a surgeon,” she said. “He thinks I have the hands for it.”
I studied her hands, noticing the pencil smudges down the side and ink stains on her fingertips. “Looks like you have the hands for drawing,” I said lightly.
She shrugged again.
“I won’t tell him. But Meg . . . if your dad is so crazy about Harvard, he should apply. They’re your hands. They should be doing what makes you happy. Nobody else. It’s your future, sweetie.”
“Quite a statement from someone with no future to speak of,” Paul Costello said from behind me.
“Dr. Costello,” I said, twisting around to face him. “What a . . . surprise.”
“I told you to get out of my ER,” he snapped.
“Good thing this isn’t the ER,” I replied. I leaned back in my seat, propped my feet on a nearby chair, and took a leisurely sip of my coffee.
“Meg,” he said, biting off the words. “You’re about to miss your shift. Go on.”
Silently, she picked up her bag. The pile of papers slid out, spilling dozens of sketches across the floor. Meg bent to gather them up, but Costello beat her to it. “What’s this?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly.
He flipped through them with a scowl. “Another comic book?”
“They’re called graphic novels,” I cut in, but Costello ignored me.
“You have a B in physics. You should be focused on pulling up your grade, not drawing cartoons.” He tossed the stack on the table.
“But . . .”
“We’ll talk about it at dinner,” he said curtly. “Right now, you need to check in at the volunteer desk. Go,” he barked, and she fled, leaving her sketches behind.
He watched her go, his own shoulders slumping for an instant. Then he rounded on me. “Is this what you do for fun, Stapleton? Stick your nose where it doesn’t belong? Leave my kid alone.”
“She’s a good artist,” I said, glancing at Meg’s drawings. “You shouldn’t be so hard on her.”
“Do you have children?”
I nearly spit out my coffee. “God, no.”
“Then don’t tell me how to raise mine. You might have a decent handle on emergency medicine, but you have no idea what it’s like to be a parent.”
True, but I knew what it was like to be the kid who wanted to choose her own path. I knew how much it hurt when your family tried to block the way. I opened my mouth to tell him so, but he spoke over me. “It’s time for you to go.”
“Is that why you went whining to Strack about me?” I gave him a withering look. “I didn’t think you were the type to have administration fight your battles.”
He stiffened. Nice to know I’d touched a nerve. “Walter Strack came to me with a complaint, not the other way around. You think I have time to waste on hospital politics? I’m too busy saving lives.”
“You didn’t do so hot with Clem Jensen, did you?”
“Jensen wasn’t my fault.” His scowl deepened. “We got him to the cardiac cath lab in under ten minutes, which was something, considering how hard he was fighting us.”
Startled, I asked, “Clem tried to decline treatment?”
He eyed me with disdain. “What, you don’t get paranoid patie
nts in the city? He was in and out of consciousness, totally delirious. We gave him a dose of lorazepam and he settled down.”
He was right, actually. It was common for patients, especially those in a lot of pain, to become delusional. They often accused people—staff, family members, total strangers—of trying to kill them. But in Clem’s case, it no longer seemed like paranoia. It seemed like a perfectly rational fear.
“And you didn’t notice anything strange about the case? His meds or any of his symptoms?”
“Maybe you didn’t notice because you were too preoccupied grandstanding, but we were a little busy Saturday night. There was nothing off about the guy. We stabilized him, got him to the cath lab, and they transferred him up to the cardiac ICU. End of story.”
“Then why are you trying to pin his death on me?”
“Are you deaf? Strack came to me, Stapleton. Not the other way around. I don’t give a damn what they decide, as long as it keeps you out of my ER—and away from my daughter.”
He gathered up Meg’s sketches with surprising care, considering how dismissive of them he’d been earlier. Then with a final, ice-blue glare, he stalked off.
For a moment, I stood bewildered, clutching a cold cup of coffee. All along, I’d assumed Costello was behind the hospital investigation. Who else would have a reason to ruin my reputation and my career?
Someone who thought I was a threat. Who was afraid of what Clem might have told me, who needed to discredit me in order to protect themselves?
Clem’s killer.
* * *
“Nice of you to stand up for Meg,” Marcus said, falling into step with me as I walked toward the elevator. “Poor kid needs somebody on her side.”
“Were you there? I didn’t see you.” Hard to believe I’d miss someone as massive as Marcus.
He shook his head. “I was in the hallway. But voices carry—especially Costello’s, when he’s on a rampage.”
“Great. As if I wasn’t already notorious.”
“You aren’t the first nurse Costello’s yelled at, and you won’t be the last. Nobody’s going to hold it against you.”
“Strack will.” I tried to gather my thoughts. “Costello says he wasn’t the one who complained about me to Strack. Do you buy that?”
