Guaranteed to Bleed

by Mulhern, Julie

  I couldn’t argue with that. “Did Bobby know about her stepfather?”

  Grace stared out the window but her chin bobbed.

  I slowed for a red light. Stopped. Thought. Amy’s worries about John were just worries. Alice Standish, with her ribbons and paint, was nothing but an overwrought teenager. And Howard? He could hardly stand up to his daughter; there was no way he had the gumption to kill. “I know who killed Bobby.”

  She whipped her head in my direction. “What?”

  “Jonathan Hess did it.”

  “How do you know?”

  The light turned green and I pushed the accelerator. “CeCe showed me a note. Donna was worried for Bobby.”

  Grace crossed her arms over her chest and stared out the window. “Poor Donna.”

  If I were my mother, I’d point out that Donna left chaos in her wake. “Poor Bobby.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I think Hess lured Bobby under the bleachers with a note then shot him.”

  “I can’t believe no one heard the gun.”

  “Do you have any idea how loud it was in those stands? People were stomping and yelling and clapping. It’s a wonder we’re not all half-deaf.”

  “He could have shot you.”

  We pondered that possibility for a block or two, then I reached across the seat and took Grace’s hand in mine.

  “He didn’t shoot me.”

  Grace squeezed my hand until the bones hurt. It felt fabulous.

  “So, are you going to tell Detective Jones?”

  “If I tell Anar—Detective Jones that Jonathan killed Bobby, he’ll want to know why.” I tilted my head and looked at the roof of the car as if an answer might be written there. It wasn’t. I shifted my gaze to the road ahead. It was straight. The exact opposite of my thoughts. Those twisted and turned like a mountain road.

  If I shared my theory—my certainty—Anarchy would investigate.

  No matter how discreet he was, everyone we knew would speculate as to why Jonathan Hess killed Bobby. Some vicious someone would guess why. Donna’s secret would be known to all and Grace would blame me. The bridge we’d rebuilt would crumble faster than a potato-chip cookie.

  Jonathan was dead. He couldn’t go to trial or prison. Donna—and India—had to live in Kansas City.

  “I can’t tell him.”

  “What about Mrs. Lowell?”

  What about CeCe Lowell? She deserved closure.

  Oh, hell.

  The light ahead glowed green and the road remained straight. My thoughts, not so much.

  “I don’t know. What would you do?”

  Grace grinned at me. “You’re the adult here.”

  Screeeeeech. The sound of brakes failing on wet pavement.

  Light. It flooded our car. Too bright. Too close.

  Then came the horrendous, stomach-twisting sound of metal crunching, collapsing.

  An annoying beep punctuated the white noise and the sharp scent of iodine tickled my nose. I slitted my eyes to antiseptic beige.

  I lay there, obviously in the hospital. Every muscle, every bone ached. A tear-inducing ache. How had I ended up there? I struggled to remember.

  Golf.

  Dinner.

  Grace.

  Grace! My heart stopped and my lungs lost their ability to inflate. I levitated off the hospital bed. “Grace!” One word—a prayer, a plea, my life.

  My gaze flew around the room. No Grace.

  Anarchy Jones sat in the armchair next to my bed; his elbows rested on his knees and he wore a solemn expression.

  He was going to tell me…

  “The traffic officer found my card in your wallet. He called.”

  “Grace?” The question used the last of my oxygen. Complete and utter terror will do that for you—empty your lungs, still your heart, create a buzzing in your ears louder than a chainsaw.

  “Broken arm and a concussion.” Anarchy spoke slowly. He looked into my eyes. “She’s going to be fine. Your parents are with her.”

  My lungs filled and I held the air inside, savoring the overlooked blessing of breathing. “What happened?”

  “Someone blew through a red light and hit you.”

  “I have to see her.”

  “Nope.” He shook his head.

  “No?” I raised my brows and wished I hadn’t. Someone had whacked my forehead with a croquet mallet while I wasn’t looking. I lifted my hand to my forehead and felt gauze.

  “You hit your head on the steering wheel.” He offered me a wry grin. “You won’t scar. Your mother pulled the hospital’s best plastic surgeon away from his anniversary dinner. You’ll be as pretty as ever.”

  Pretty as ever? I stashed that in one of my mental compartments for later consideration. “Who set Grace’s arm?”

  “The best orthopedic.” Anarchy didn’t add of course. He didn’t have to. Mother being the chairman of the hospital board was quite handy. “A neurologist is monitoring you both.”

  Slowly, with every molecule in my body screaming its displeasure, I pushed myself to sitting. “I have to see her.”

  “Just rest.”

  He didn’t understand. If I’d lost Grace…my heart stuttered again just thinking about it. “Who hit us?” I needed the name of the driver who could have stolen my daughter from me.

  “He died, Ellison.”

  I waited for a surge of sympathy for the man who’d lost his life. It didn’t come. Perhaps I could blame my appalling lack of empathy on dizziness. The room seemed to be spinning and maintaining my current upright position grew more difficult with each passing second. “Would you please raise the mattress? I’d like to sit.”

  Anarchy adjusted the mattress and I leaned back against its questionable comfort and closed my eyes. I’d almost lost Grace.

  How must CeCe Lowell feel? She’d lost her son. The mere thought deflated my lungs with a whoosh. A few tears snuck past my eyelids’ defenses. They rolled down my cheeks.

  The rough pad of a man’s finger wiped them away.

  “It’s going to be all right, Ellison.” Anarchy’s voice was as gentle as his fingers. “Grace will be fine.”

  I wasn’t crying for Grace. I was crying for CeCe Lowell and for Bobby.

  I opened my eyes.

  Anarchy still stared at me.

  His brown eyes looked as warm and delectable as the morning’s first cup of coffee. I ought to tell him everything. Instead, I closed my eyes and asked, “When can I see Grace?”

  “In a few hours. Last I heard, she was sleeping.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Three in the morning.”

  Three in the morning and he was sitting at my bedside? My abused heart skipped a beat. “Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

  I heard his smile. “You’re becoming my full-time job.”

  “Is she awake?” Mother’s stage whisper saved me from responding.

  I opened my eyes.

  She stood in the doorway. “Thank God you’re all right.”

  “How’s Grace?” I asked.

  “She’ll be fine.” Mother crossed the room, stood next to my bed, raised her hand as if she meant to stroke my hair, but let it fall to her side. “Worrying about you is going to give me gray hair.”

  This was a worry I hadn’t caused. I could hardly be blamed for other people running traffic lights. Besides, Mother’s hair was already snow white. Monsieur Claude kept it teased in a perfect helmet.

  “So stop worrying.”

  She smiled as if I’d told a joke. “I’ll do that as soon as you stop worrying about Grace.” She reached for my hand and squeezed until the bones hurt. It felt wonderful.

  She loosed my fingers. “You should sleep. Thank you, Detective Jones, for sitting with her. You must b
e very tired.”

  Subtle is not a word used to describe Mother.

  Anarchy’s lips twitched. “Goodnight, Ellison. I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

  Mother scowled her disapproval of regular visits from police detectives. “Have you found out who killed the man in Ellison’s backyard?” Obviously he should be hunting a killer, not visiting her daughter’s hospital room.

  “Not yet.” He glanced at me. “Trouble may have followed him from Connecticut.”

  That was infinitely preferable to John McCreary being a murderer. It was even preferable to Howard Standish.

  Anarchy raised a brow. “We’d still like to know what he was doing there.”

  Mother snorted. “I imagine he was looking for his no-count stepdaughter.”

  Anarchy’s fondue gaze hardened to chocolate chips. Chips that had been stored in the freezer. “She was still missing when Mr. Hess was shot.”

  “Maybe he thought Ellison was hiding her.”

  “Why would Ellison do that?”

  Mother stood straighter. Nice to have good posture when you’ve jumped down a rabbit hole.

  I moaned, a low, pitiful sound, and they both shifted their gazes to me. “I’m very tired. I’d like to sleep.”

  “Of course you would, darling.” Mother leaned over as if to kiss me but stopped and wrinkled her nose. “We’ll get you some shampoo in the morning.” She directed a dragon gaze at Anarchy. Her meaning was crystal clear. She wanted Anarchy out of my room. Now.

  With a small wave and a smaller smile, he complied.

  “Why was Jonathan Hess at your house?” Mother asked.

  “I assume he was looking for Donna.”

  Mother drew herself up to her full disapproving height. “People will think—”

  “I know.”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “You can’t let them—”

  “I know.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  I didn’t know.

  What had Grace said? You’re the adult here. Maybe I should act like it.

  Twenty-Eight

  Whoever said things will be brighter in the morning didn’t wake up in the hospital.

  The light—far too bright—wasn’t doing my aching head any favors. I oozed out of the hospital bed, limped to the bathroom and squinted in the mirror.

  Blood caked my hair. A bandage traversed my forehead. A bruise the exact color of nightshade blossomed on my cheek. The rest of my skin looked gray. And that was just my head.

  No wonder Mother wrinkled her nose rather than kiss me. I couldn’t go to Grace’s room looking like a cast member from Night of the Living Dead.

  I turned on the shower, stepped inside and let warm water wash the blood from my body. Raising my arms to wash my hair hurt like hell. I did it anyway. I slid down the wall. There’s no rule I knew of against sitting while you shower, and if there was—well, the shower police could give me a ticket.

  After a few minutes of sitting, I climbed out of the tiny stall and dried off with a towel only slightly larger than a postage stamp.

  I glanced at the blood-stained hospital gown. I wasn’t putting that back on. There had to be something in the room I could wear.

  I opened the door and froze.

  Hunter froze too.

  We stared at each other. Hunter—suave, debonair and a walking lesson in sartorial perfection. Me—wet, bruised and naked.

  My muzzy brain made the connection between thought and action. I stepped back into the bathroom and slammed the door. “What are you doing here?” My tone mirrored an outraged screech owl.

  “Aggie thought you might want…clothes.” The last word sounded strangled. “I brought a bag.”

  Did he expect me to open the door and thank him? “Leave it,” screeched the owl.

  I waited for the sound of a door opening and closing, then I cracked my own door. A small suitcase sat on the floor. The room was empty.

  Hunter Tafft had seen me naked. At least he hadn’t yawned. He’d looked…stunned. Probably he’d never seen so many bruises on one body before.

  I dashed—a relative term given my aching body—into the hospital room, grabbed the bag and retreated to the bathroom. Aggie had packed me a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. God bless her. She’d also packed clean underwear, a silk nightgown, peignoir and slippers. I dug into the bag, desperate for real clothes. There weren’t any. Just a brush, a bag of makeup, deodorant…

  Damn it.

  I donned the nightgown, slipped my arms into the robe and jammed my feet into the slippers. I didn’t have time to worry about my lack of actual clothes. I had to see Grace.

  I scuffed my way to the nurses’ station and asked for Grace’s room number. One of the nurses, probably out of school for all of five minutes, had the temerity to suggest I should be in bed. I gave her my best Frances Walford don’t-you-dare-cross-me look.

  The girl paled. “Room four-thirteen.”

  I thanked her and shuffled to the elevator. It would have been too easy, too convenient, for Grace and me to have rooms on the same floor. Instead, I had to wander an entire hospital in nightclothes. At least I wore shell pink Dior and not a standard issue gown that gaped in the back.

  I rode the elevator to the fourth floor, stepped out, and leaned against the wall. Since when did riding an elevator make me tired?

  I waited ’til my legs felt strong enough to put together a string of steps then walked down the hall.

  I paused again when I reached Grace’s door. There was no need for her to see me looking as if I might pass out from the effort of walking. I closed my eyes and borrowed uprightness from the wall.

  A voice from inside the room snuck into the hallway.

  “Of course we came. Donna insisted.” India Hess was visiting my daughter. “You’ve been a good friend to her.

  Donna murmured something I didn’t catch.

  “Still, I know this must be a very difficult time for you. Thank you for coming and for the flowers. They’re lovely.” Grace’s voice sounded strong. And polite. The latter would make her grandmother ecstatically happy. It was Grace’s strength that pleased me—she didn’t sound as if she was suffering.

  I pushed away from the wall but a wave of dizziness washed over me. I leaned again. One more minute and I’d go in.

  “These are for your mother.”

  “She’ll love them. She’s really into flowers and gardening.”

  “I thought so. That zebra plant in your living room is gorgeous, and so hard to grow. I’ve never had one I didn’t kill. And her hostas are fabulous.”

  Were fabulous. My hostas were now compost, and the blame for that lay clearly with India’s husband.

  I pushed away again—slower this time—then crossed the threshold into Grace’s hospital room.

  “Mom! Oh my God, you should sit.”

  That sounded like an excellent idea.

  Donna vacated the chair next to Grace’s bed and I collapsed into it.

  “Should I call for help?”

  “I’ll be fine. Just let me sit for a moment.”

  “Let me push the button for the nur—”

  “Don’t. I just need a moment’s rest.” That and I needed to see with my own two eyes that Grace was whole. Her face was bruised, her arm was in a cast, but her skin was the color of skin, whereas mine looked like wet newspaper.

  “We’ll let you two visit.” India pulled on Donna’s elbow. “Let’s go, dear.”

  “Call me,” Grace said. She even mimed talking into a phone with her unbroken arm.

  Donna nodded. “Okay.” The girl looked subdued. I would have expected dancing munchkin happiness. The monster was dead. But Donna looked as if…she looked as if her best friend had nearly died in a car crash.

  “Thank you for coming,” I sai
d.

  “Let us know if you need anything,” said India. Kind of her to offer given what she had on her plate.

  They disappeared into the hallway and I leaned back in the chair and drank in the sight of Grace. “You’re all right.”

  She lifted her arm and made a scrunchy face. “I will be. What about you? You don’t look as if you…”

  “She looks as if she should be in bed.” Hunter stood in the doorway looking far better than any man had a right to. “I went back to your room and you were gone. I figured I’d find you here.”

  “Hi, Mr. Tafft.” Grace sounded almost chipper.

  “Call me Hunter.”

  Grace grinned.

  Oh dear Lord. It was there, burning in my daughter’s eyes—the light of a matchmaking flame. I’d seen that exact expression often enough in Mother’s eyes.

  “Thank you for bringing my bag.” That sounded more civil than asking why the hell he’d entered my hospital room without knocking first. I really ought to mention the skimpiness of the towels to Mother. She’d have the problem fixed in hours flat.

  “That nightgown suits you.”

  I scowled at him.

  “The nurses on your floor are fluttering around like demented hummingbirds.” Hunter picked an invisible speck of dust off his immaculate sleeve. “You’re not supposed to be out of bed.”

  I crossed my arms. “No one was prepared to stop me.”

  He chuckled. “No one is prepared to come get you either.”

  What do you know? Channeling Mother had an upside. I’d fill out the discharge paperwork from where I sat.

  “They sent me to get you.”

  Liar. I bet he offered.

  Grace’s gaze bounced between us as if we were rallying a tennis ball.

  “I have no intention of returning to my room.”

  “There’s a neurologist who wants to shine a light in your eyes. He’s waiting.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “I’ll help you get up.” He stepped toward me, apparently unaffected by the scathing look I sent his way.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Go, Mom. See the doctor. You can come back later.”

  Et tu, Grace? I’d raised a Judas.