Guaranteed to Bleed

by Mulhern, Julie

  “Or I can come see you,” she offered.

  Hunter cleared his throat.

  “You’re very bossy.” I gave up on glaring; my scowls seemed only to amuse him. Instead I crossed my arms over my chest, donned a neutral expression and stared at Grace’s hospital bed.

  “And you’re a terrible patient.”

  So what if I was? I faked a yawn.

  “The hospital has rules about injured patients wandering the halls.”

  Rules? That was rich coming from a man who made his living finding legal ways to circumvent rules. “Since when do you care about rules?” I might have sounded petulant.

  “Since this one seems designed to guard your welfare. Come on, Ellison.” He held out his hand.

  “You look as if you need to lie down,” said the teenage Judas.

  Grudgingly, I took Hunter’s hand.

  He pulled me to my feet. “There’s a chair waiting in the corridor.”

  A chair? I got rest stops? Then it dawned on me. Hunter had a wheelchair waiting in the hall. “I’m walking to my room.”

  “Fine. You walk out of Grace’s room on your own and we’ll forget the chair.”

  I bent, kissed my sweet Judas on her forehead, stroked her hair and ignored the sudden tilt of the room.

  I made it to the end of Grace’s bed. Three lousy steps, then I grabbed the bottom of her mattress for balance.

  Hunter didn’t smirk. If anything, he looked concerned. “Ellison, you’ve got to let someone help you.”

  No I didn’t.

  I took three more steps before my knees gave out. Hunter caught me, his arms circling me, warm and strong.

  “Get in the chair, Mom. Please.” Worry pitched Grace’s voice too high.

  Fine. I’d ride in his damned chair. For Grace. But I wouldn’t like it.

  He pushed me down the corridor in silence. Lord knows I wasn’t saying anything. I broke one silly rule and the hospital sent a high-power attorney after me. What would they do if I stole a Band-Aid? I grumbled.

  “Did you say something?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? I thought I heard you say something.”

  “Nope.”

  He stopped the wheelchair in front of the elevators. “You don’t want to talk about it?”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Whatever is bothering you.”

  How did he know something was bothering me? I grumbled again.

  “Give me a dollar.”

  “I don’t have a dollar.” In case he hadn’t noticed, I was wearing a nightgown and robe. No handbag in sight.

  The whisper of fine cloth rustled past my ears, then Hunter came into view, wallet in hand. He withdrew a dollar and handed it to me. “Give me a dollar.”

  I gave him the bill. Had he lost his mind, or forgotten that I was the one with the head injury?

  “Perfect. I’m officially your lawyer. Anything you say to me is privileged.”

  The elevator doors opened.

  “What makes you think I want to tell anyone anything?”

  Rather than push me inside, he crouched next to the wheelchair and looked into my eyes. “Because I know you. You’re stuck in a hospital so you can’t paint your problems away. Something is eating you. Tell me about it. I can help.”

  “I need coffee.”

  Hunter stared at me for a few more seconds then resumed his post at the back of my chair. He pushed me into the elevator, leaned past me and pushed the G button instead of three.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Coffee shop.” He’s not all bad.

  He pushed me past India and Donna, both eating slices of coconut cream pie. We nodded, the uncomfortable nods of people who’ve already said goodbye and don’t want to begin another conversation.

  Hunter, bless him, never slowed. He wheeled me to a corner table, ordered two coffees, folded his hands together and waited.

  I glanced around the near-empty coffee shop. No one could hear us. “Privileged?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jonathan Hess killed Bobby Lowell,” I whispered.

  He wore his lawyer’s expression, which meant no reaction.

  “If I tell Anar—” A scowl flitted across Hunter’s face. “Detective Jones, he’ll want to know why. Everything Donna’s been through could become common knowledge. She’s been through enough.”

  The waitress delivered our coffee and I lifted a steaming cup to my lips.

  “At the time of the murder, you told him everything?”

  I nodded. A mistake. The movement of my chin conjured an ice pick in my brain.

  “Don’t tell him. Hess is past justice.” Hunter Tafft, problem solver.

  “Doesn’t CeCe deserve to know who killed her son?”

  “Tell CeCe.”

  “And if she ruins Donna?” I glanced across the coffee shop at the girl whose life I might destroy.

  “Then she ruins Donna. You can’t claim problems that aren’t yours.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I bet CeCe keeps it quiet. After all, Bobby loved the girl.”

  “He did.”

  “Problem solved.” Hunter leaned back in his chair and exhaled. “I thought you knew who killed Jonathan Hess.”

  Holy damn. I put my cup down on the table with enough force to slosh coffee over its rim. I did know.

  Twenty-Nine

  Hunter’s lips moved but I didn’t hear a word he said. The buzzing in my ears left no room for other sounds.

  “Ellison. Ellison! Ellie!”

  Every diner in the shop turned and gawped at us, including India and Donna.

  I blinked.

  Hunter leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You know?”

  I nodded.

  “Not a mysterious assassin from the east coast?”

  “If only.” Life was never that simple or neat. At least not in my experience.

  “Who?”

  “Privileged?”

  Hunter answered with a curt nod of his chiseled chin.

  I too leaned forward. “It was—”

  “You’re supposed to be in your room.” Anarchy Jones frowned at me as if not following the nurses’ directions was akin to murder. Rules are rules. Break a small one and the path toward perdition opens at your feet.

  Hunter reached across the table and claimed my hand. Anarchy’s expression darkened further.

  I pulled against Hunter’s grasp but he held firm. My muscles hurt too much to fight him. If he wanted to hold my hand, let him.

  Mother charged up to the table. Well, why not? When you’ve just figured out who murdered the man in your backyard, the more the merrier. She ignored both men, her sights set on me alone. “Ellison Walford Russell, what are you doing here? Dr. Parker gave up waiting for you. He’s a busy—” She noticed my hand in Hunter’s and the thundercloud on her face gave way to bright sunshine. “Hunter, how nice to see you.”

  A smirk from Hunter. A scowl from Anarchy. And a better-than-Christmas-morning grin from Mother.

  I stared across the shop at Donna and India and my stomach churned. “Mother, as long as you’re here, why don’t you see me back to my room?”

  Her gaze lingered on the table, on Hunter’s and my hands. “Don’t be silly, dear. As long as I’m here, I want pie.”

  Pie? Mother? The woman ate grapefruit for breakfast every day. Pie was an anathema.

  Hunter let go of my hand, stood and pulled out a chair for her.

  She sat. The matchmaking gleam in her eyes didn’t burn. It blazed.

  Oh dear Lord. I looked up at Anarchy. “Please, join us.” Why not? It was rude to leave him standing.

  Mother’s lips thinned but she recovered quickly. “Isn’t that India Hess and her daughter?” Her stage whisper was
loud enough to fill a coliseum.

  Both India and Donna looked up from their pie.

  “They came to see Grace.” My voice sounded as if I’d been sniffing helium. I drew a breath. “They brought her flowers.” That at least sounded passably normal.

  “The whole town is talking about her late husband. He was some kind of con artist.”

  Anarchy turned in his chair. “What have you heard, Mrs. Walford?”

  For the first time ever, Mother favored Anarchy with a smile. “He scammed any number of people—smart people.” Her gaze shifted from Anarchy to me. “Ellison found him pushy.”

  Anarchy’s brows rose. “Oh?”

  I’d also found him dead. “It hardly matters.” Now my voice sounded gritty, dry, brittle.

  “What kind of pie, Frances?” Hunter, bless him, waved at the waitress. “Coconut cream? Ellison, pie? How about you, Detective Jones?”

  “I couldn’t eat a bite.” Truer words were never spoken. My stomach pirouetted like Pavlova and those few sips of coffee threatened a grand jeté. I stared across the room at India and Donna. What was I going to do?

  “Ellison.” Mother’s voice was so sharp that everyone in the restaurant swiveled to look at us, including India Hess.

  From across the room, our gazes caught. She paled.

  She’d complimented Grace on my hostas. The hostas in the front yard were long since cut and covered with mulch. They shared earth with impatiens. No one would ever guess a perennial border lurked beneath the rioting annuals. India had been to my house once. At night. In the living room at the front of the house. She’d never seen my backyard, so how did she know I had fabulous hostas?

  There was no one on earth with more reason to kill Jonathan Hess. If someone hurt Grace the way her husband had hurt Donna, I’d be a murderess too.

  I dropped my gaze to the table. “Is murder ever justified?”

  Anarchy’s eyes narrowed. “Never.” Of course he’d say that. Rules are rules. Absolutes.

  “It depends.” Hunter caught the tip of his chin between his thumb and index finger and pondered. For Hunter, rules were fungible and could be molded to suit his purposes.

  Mother rolled her eyes. “Why would you ask such a thing?” Her meaning was also clear. Stop worrying about abstract ideas and snag Hunter Tafft.

  “Hunter?” My voice was hardly more than a whisper.

  He looked at me expectantly.

  “You know that dollar you gave me?”

  He nodded.

  “I have a friend who might need it.”

  His gaze traveled to India and Donna’s table and his face took on a lawyerly look that was frighteningly similar to Anarchy’s cop look. No nonsense. All business. Wheels turning. “I can’t make you any promises on the results.”

  “Ellison, what are you talking about?” Mother’s displeasure with me manifested itself in flared nostrils and an even straighter spine. “I think we’d better track down that neurologist.”

  Anarchy pinned me with his gaze. “What do you know, Ellison?” No nonsense. All business. Wheels turning.

  Rules are rules.

  Rules are bendable.

  Rules are secondary to finding a husband.

  If I discounted Mother’s opinion, I was still left with two impossible choices. Take Donna’s mother away from her or let a murderess walk free.

  Everyone at the table stared at me.

  India stared at me.

  Even Donna stared at me.

  Waiting.

  My skin prickled and the adrenaline coursing through me dried my mouth and thickened my tongue.

  Did I believe in rules as absolutes? Murder was wrong. India committed murder. India had to face justice.

  Those absolutes didn’t take into account a teenage girl who’d already suffered far too much.

  I reached for the tiny glass full of crushed ice and water next to my coffee cup and sipped. The ice hit me in the nose.

  Anarchy Jones could find Jonathan Hess’ murderer without my help. That was an absolute I could believe in.

  I smiled round the table. “The only thing I know is that I’ve changed my mind. I do want pie.”

  Despite cajoling, threatening and tears, the neurologist decided to keep me in the hospital for observation. Maybe he was just scared of Mother. She’d decided I needed a few days’ rest.

  There’s no place less restful than a hospital.

  I was lying in bed with a sketchpad and a bad attitude when India Hess knocked on the open door to my room.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  I picked at the bandage circling my wrist. The one I’d worn since Bobby’s murder. “Fine, thank you.”

  With that, we ran out of conversation.

  She fiddled with the handle of her purse.

  I put the pad down on my lap.

  “What are you working on?” Her voice was new penny bright.

  I turned the pad and showed her a drawing of blooming hostas.

  “Oh.” The word slipped through her lips like a whoosh of air.

  She sat in the ugly armchair next to the bed.

  I fingered the nurse’s call button.

  We both stared at the institutional beige walls. It was easier than looking at each other.

  “You know?” she asked.

  “I know.”

  “What are you going to do?” The skin on India’s face looked stretched, too tight, hardly up to the task of covering her skull.

  “I don’t know.”

  She folded her hands in her lap. “I should turn myself in.”

  “What about Donna?”

  “She’s the reason I haven’t.” India shifted her gaze to the ceiling. “I got home that afternoon and I was so furious. Jonathan was nowhere to be found.” She patted the dark circles beneath her eyes. “I went through his drawers and I found…” She shuddered. “I should have confronted him when he got home but he was so, so angry. He scared me. He said you were hiding Donna and then he left.” She lowered her gaze and looked directly at me. “I followed him to your house and…”

  He deserved it. The words struggled to escape my lips. I swallowed them.

  “When we first met, I thought he was interested in my money. I told him that everything was held in trusts.” She shook her head. “Donna and I get a generous allowance, but major expenditures must be approved by a trustee. Despite the house and the cars, marrying me wouldn’t make him a rich man. He kept calling. I thought he wanted me. I never dreamed he wanted Donna.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I was…” She covered her eyes with a shaking hand. “I was a fool. But he seemed so nice.”

  Donna had said the same thing—well, about his seeming nice.

  We resumed our study of the beige walls.

  “What should I do?” Her words barely qualified as a whisper.

  A tap on the door saved me from telling her I had no earthly idea. “Come in.”

  At first I saw only an enormous Swedish ivy. Then I saw who carried it.

  CeCe Lowell deposited the plant on the window sill, offered India a polite smile, and said, “Ellison, how are you?”

  I’d been in a car accident. I was bruised and battered and a trip to the bathroom required a follow-up nap. I still looked better than either of my visitors. “Have you two met?”

  “I don’t believe so,” replied India.

  “India, this is CeCe Lowell.” Unbelievably, the skin on India’s face tightened further. I waited until CeCe claimed the second chair, then said, “CeCe, this is India Hess. Bobby was in love with her daughter, Donna.”

  The two women stared at each other across the expanse of my hospital bed.

  Finally, CeCe spoke. “She made him very happy.”

  I bit my lip. Tell her. Yo
u have to tell her.

  Somehow, India heard me. “There’s something you should know.” She told CeCe everything—about Jonathan and Donna, about her refusal to believe, about shooting him.

  When she was done, we all stared at the walls.

  Minutes passed. Hospital minutes—which means each one felt like an hour.

  “Your husband killed Bobby?” CeCe’s voice was quiet, strangled, dry.

  “Yes.”

  “And you killed your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then justice has been served.”

  I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

  Tears welled in India’s eyes, overflowed, then ran down her cheeks. “Thank you.”

  “I’d like to meet Donna.” Now tears ran down CeCe’s cheeks as well.

  I might have brushed some wetness from my own face as well.

  They stayed for a few more minutes, but we had too much to say to actually talk.

  I breathed a sigh of relief when they left.

  A moment later, Mother and Grace walked in.

  Grace grinned. “You look better.”

  “That thing I was worried about…It took care of itself.”

  “So you don’t have to lie to Detective Jones?”

  Mother looked suitably scandalized. “You were lying to the police?”

  She would have done the same—to protect me, or Marjorie, or Grace. “I wasn’t exactly lying. I just didn’t tell him everything.”

  She looked slightly mollified. “I have exciting news.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re being discharged.”

  That was exciting.

  “And Hunter Tafft is coming to dinner.”

  I guess mothers never stop trying to fix their daughters’ lives. Thing was, I didn’t blame her. Not one bit. I even managed a smile. “Thank you, Mother. That sounds lovely.”

  Then I scratched my nose.

  About the Author

  Julie Mulhern is a Kansas City native who grew up on a steady diet of Agatha Christie. She spends her spare time whipping up gourmet meals for her family, working out at the gym and finding new ways to keep her house spotlessly clean—and she’s got an active imagination. Truth is—she’s an expert at calling for take-out, she grumbles about walking the dog and the dust bunnies under the bed have grown into dust lions. She was a 2014 Golden Heart® Finalist.