An Equal Measure

by Bliss Addison

  Chapter Thirteen

  Trish and Jackson.

  Jackson and Trish.

  In cahoots.

  Man, didn’t I call it.

  I hadn’t forgotten about Madeleine Fairweather, either, and wondered how she fit into their scheme.

  My hands trembled. My heart beat erratically, and my legs turned spongy. But I forced them to carry me from the suite.

  At the door, I heard an astonished Jackson ask, “Josie, where are you going? What’s the matter?”

  I didn’t stop.

  In the corridor, strength returned to my legs. I sprinted toward the stairwell.

  Jackson entered the hall and called out to me. I didn’t stop that time, either.

  I yanked open the stairwell door and ran down the steps two at a time, never once fearing a misstep. I knew what I wanted – freedom. I also knew what I didn’t want in my life – Jackson or Trish.

  I ran to Amy, the one person who wouldn’t betray me, use me or frame me for murder. On the four-block jaunt to the hospital, I drew curious stares from pedestrians. I could only imagine the picture I presented.

  Before I entered her room, I took a moment to regain my breath and compose myself.

  “Hi, honey,” I said, smiling. I didn’t need to ask how she was feeling. Amy looked the picture of good health. She wore floral lounging pajamas and OluKai Paniolo flip-flops, a pink ribbon holding her ponytail in place. I suspected she cut the hole through her gauze skull cap to accommodate the hair-do. Only Amy.

  “I hope you’re here to tell me I’m being released tomorrow,” she said, throwing aside the glamour magazine she was flipping through.

  “No, I’m sorry.” I noticed her face was a bit flushed. “You’re not overdoing it, are you?” Amy wouldn’t like me hovering, but I couldn’t stop myself. A few days ago, she was comatose with no hope for recovery. That something equally health threatening would result from her not taking proper care of herself horrified me. Amy had always respected her body and what she put into it, which I suspected had contributed tremendously to her rapid recuperation. Still, though, she shouldn’t take unnecessary chances.

  “Please, no lectures,” she said, crossing her eyes. “Dr. Coville’s amazed with my recovery. Did you talk to him about releasing me earlier than Friday?”

  I shook my head. “Did you?”

  “Yes, and he won’t budge. I even put on my pouty face.” She grimaced and rolled her eyes.

  “And still he said no?” Her pouty face never failed to win me over. But then the matters I gave in to Amy weren’t about anything which might jeopardize her life.

  “All my tests are coming back good. What more does he want?”

  “To know for certain you’ll be okay when he releases you. You should want that, too.”

  She bit her bottom lip. “I do, but I want to get on with the rest of my life.”

  “Releasing you too soon may result in a set-back and land you back in here. You don’t want that.”

  “Four whole more days, though. Five more sleeps.” She threw herself back against the pillows. “He’s keeping me prisoner. I want out of here, Jos. Now.”

  “Amy.” I injected the right amount of reprimand in the tone.

  She looked at me, then hung her head. “You’re right. I’m behaving like a spoilt child.”

  “A teensy bit.” I used my forefinger and thumb to measure a fraction. Keeping a spirited young woman like Amy tethered, bordered on inhumane but in this case, the reasoning was just.

  “But you’ll talk to Doc Grumpy?”

  “Yes, I will. Don’t hope for too much. I’m not his favorite person.”

  “Good Lord, why not?” Amy laughed.

  My sister knew my outspoken ways well. My sincerest efforts at diplomacy sounded like condescension, and politeness usually turned into sarcasm. I couldn’t win. Long ago, I realized in order for me to lead a happy life, I needed to be myself. For those who didn’t like it, too bad.

  “Sure, make fun of me.” Seriously, I agreed with Dr. Coville. Amy would overdo it once she was released. I knew it and likely so did he. She lived life, which was more than I could say for the multitude. Pessimists, pragmatists, romantics, you name them, all live their lives ruled by something or someone. I hoped Amy would find someone to share her life, someone who could understand and enjoy what she treasured, someone devoted to her and only her.

  My cell rang. I let it ring.

  “Aren’t you going to answer?” Amy asked.

  “Nope.”

  “It could be work.”

  “It’s not.” I knew who was calling. Jackson wanted to diplo-talk the truth. I wasn’t interested.

  Amy frowned.

  “What?”

  “You never dodge anything or anyone.” She narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t give me that. It’s me. Amy. The one who knows you better than anyone.” She made herself comfortable on the bed and said, “Kibitz.”

  Amy wanted me to dish and would keep at me until she knew everything. So much had happened in a short while, I couldn’t remember what she knew and what she didn’t. Thoughts, details, facts and lies spun in my mind like a wheel.

  “I told you I was having dinner with Jackson tonight?”

  “No. The last I knew of your whereabouts was when you were about to enter the Cathedral. How’d that go, by the way? Communing with God.”

  “Don’t knock it. There’s truth to the saying, ‘the power of prayer’.” I ignored her when she pursed her lips. “We might not be talking right now if not for God.” This was something sitting peripherally in my thoughts, something that would always be there nagging me until I fully believed in God again.

  She mimicked gagging.

  “Amy.” I gave her a stern look. “How do you explain your recovery then?”

  “A miracle worker doctor.”

  “After the surgery, your miracle worker doctor told me you were in God’s hands and you would never wake from your coma. Dr. Coville had given up on you.”

  I could understand Amy’s negativity. After our mother and my stepfather were killed, our faith in God was tested. We believed He’d failed us miserably. A part of me believed we’d be making a mistake turning our backs on Him. Another part of me wondered how He could take our parents from us. Life could knock us down but only if we let it. Amy’s close call with death caused me to reevaluate my priorities, convictions and faith in man and God.

  “You didn’t.”

  “And neither did God.” Before she could brush me off the subject, I said, “All I’m saying is not to close any doors and to keep your mind open to possibilities.” There was a higher power. Amy was a testament to it. When faced with the certainty she might never wake from her coma, I turned to God for help. He was my first thought. He didn’t turn His back on me.

  I noticed Amy’s eyes glazing. Time to get back on subject. “Where was I?”

  “Leaving church.”

  “Right, and I ran smack into Jackson coming in through the back entrance.” From her wide-eyed look, I determined Amy’s level of attention had soared.

  She sat upright and curled her legs under her. “And?”

  “He invited me to his place for dinner, only I don’t think it was his place.”

  Thirty minutes later, parched throat and heady, I came to the end of my story. “Then I ran.”

  “Who do you think this Madeleine woman is?”

  I shrugged. “Mistress, wife...your guess would be as good as mine.”

  “When he invited you to dinner, did he say come to his place?”

  “I believe he did.” I massaged my temples. There was so many details in my mind, I was having difficulty sorting through them. “Maybe not.” I groaned. “I don’t know.”

  Amy grabbed her cell from the table.

  I panicked, thinking she was about to call Jackson. “What are you doing? Who are you calling?”

  “I’m googli
ng her name.” She looked at me. “What did you think I was doing?”

  “I didn’t know. That’s why I asked.”

  She giggled. “You thought I was calling her, didn’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Ha. Okay, here she is. Madeleine Elizabeth Carlisle Fairweather, nee Henderson, born August eighth, nineteen fifty in London, England. Arrived here in sixty-nine, married banker Lewis J. Carlisle in seventy-two. He succumbed to cancer in eighty-one, leaving behind his wife and two children, Jackson and Jessica. Madeleine remarried two years later to Philip Fairweather, insurance for all of your needs Fairweather and Fairweather. My store is insured through them.”

  “Yeah. Old money in Freedom.” I noticed her typing again. “What are you doing?”

  “Googling Jackson.” She opened her eyes as wide as they could open. “He’s a hottie. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Like I believe you.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “Probably nothing you don’t already know. Thirty-two, unmarried, antique dealer, uni grad, St. Xavier’s, marketing...a lot of the same info – ”

  “Where does he live?”

  “It doesn’t say.” She laughed. “You’re worried he lives with his mother.”

  “No, I’m not. Doesn’t matter to me. Not in the least.”

  “Me thinks thou doth protest too much.”

  Wisely, I kept silent. I didn’t want her fired up any more than she was.

  “Let’s see what else is in mama’s boy’s dossier.” Using her thumbs, she hit the keys on the cell. “Hmm. That’s strange.”

  “What is?” Various scenarios flashed in my mind – Jackson in handcuffs; Jackson wielding a tire iron; Jackson washing blood from his hands... But I was the one with blood on her hands.

  “Your Mr. Carlisle is persona non grata where news is concerned. How was the vet killed?”

  “From what I could tell, a blow to the back of the head. In one of the photographs Vail showed me, Thomas was laying face down in the dirt alongside a four-by-four. It looked like he stopped to fix a flat.”

  “Maybe whoever killed him used the tire iron.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Who do you think killed him?”

  “I don’t know.” Jackson entered my thoughts, but I dismissed the idea.

  “Do the police have any suspects?”

  “Besides me and Jackson, you mean?”

  Amy looked at me. “The police can’t seriously believe you killed him?”

  “It’s where the evidence leads them.”

  “That settles it. You have to get me out of here. You need my help to investigate.”

  “Investigate?”

  “Yes. We need to prove your innocence.”

  And if I weren’t innocent?