Crystal. I took a breath and exhaled. “Mrs. Crowder.”
Looking up, he frowned. “What?”
“I am Mrs. Crowder, not Miss Greene.”
Still frowning, he said, “I don’t care what you call yourself. Have I made myself clear on how you are to behave in this house as an Abishag wife?”
“Very clear, Mister Reid.”
He pocketed his phone. “Excellent. I’ll tell Florence Harcourt you’ll handle yourself with the utmost discretion.”
Wondering if Florence Harcourt had sent him or if he invoked her name as a veiled threat, I kept my head bowed. “Thank you, Mister Reid.” He played casually with the remaining apricot, missing my clenched fists and ironic smile.
“Have a good day, Mrs. Crowder.” He emphasized my name with heavy sarcasm as he purloined the apricot and closed the French door behind him.
“Good-bye, Mister Reid,” I said to the ruins of my breakfast. Forget ogres. Pillaging Vikings could learn from him.
I sat in the iron patio chair, still warm from Donovan Reid’s well-formed rump, sipping coffee dregs gone cold. The door clicked open again, and Dog peeked out. “The day shift aide is here, and I gotta run. Kat will be here at 10. You okay for now?”
“I’m fine. Thanks, Dog.”
He hesitated, sensing something had changed, that I wasn’t quite myself.
“Saw that lawyer leave. He didn’t upset you, did he?”
“Not a bit.” I pushed the cup aside and smiled. “He clarified agency procedures.”
Dog’s face cleared, and he sighed with a gust of relief. “Good. So you know what to do today?”
“I know what to do, Dog. Now go.”
He waved and shut the French door so firmly that the panes rattled. I rubbed the lipstick off my coffee cup and said resolutely to my breakfast crumbs, “I know what this Abishag will do. I’m solving a murder.”
CHAPTER FIVE
I peeked into Thomas’s room and found a woman flipping through a magazine on the little writing desk. When she noticed me, she dropped the magazine and sprang to her feet, looking flustered.
First I checked Thomas, studied his monitors, most of which I didn’t understand and gently smoothed the sparse hair from his brow. Then I turned to the hospice care worker. Feeling a surge of empowerment after the encounter with Donovan Reid, I smiled. “I’m sorry for startling you. I’m Thomas’s wife.”
“My colleague Douglas Kovic said they’d hired an Abishag…” She stopped, confused. “Is hired the right word?”
“My sociology professor said that all societal changes require a modification to its language.”
Her confusion deepened.
I adjusted Thomas’s pillow. “I am his legal wife. Mrs. Crowder will do.” Typically, Abishag wives retained their maiden names, which Donovan should have known. I sensed that Mrs. Thomas Crowder would wield more power than Miss Leslie Greene, and I needed all the power I could get.
“You are the day shift, correct? Hillary Lattimer’s replacement?”
She winced. “Yes, ma’am.”
It felt weird having a middle-aged woman calling me “ma’am,” but it strengthened my position.
“I’m Vicky Sellars.”
“Mister Kovic said he briefed you. Do you have any questions?”
I could tell she had a host of questions about Abishag wives, but she looked at her medical supply catalog shoes and shook her head.
“I plan on reading to Thomas for an hour later this morning and spend two more one hour sessions with him this afternoon.”
She slid me a sideways look. “Is that an Abishag thing?”
“Abishag wives have found that talking to their husbands soothes them, relieves anxiety.”
“How do you know?”
Not all hospice workers have much medical training. Not that an Abishag does, but I nodded at the monitors surrounding Thomas.
“Those tell me. Even for the comatose, brain waves, heart rhythm, and blood chemistry change with the patient’s environment.”
“So sleeping with him…”
Impatient with her ignorance and avid curiosity, I reminded myself again that I hadn’t slept for more than twenty-four hours and needed to be polite. I moved away from the bed.
“Lying with our husbands is therapeutic, Miss Sellars. An Abishag wife doesn’t sleep—her husband does.”
I watched Thomas’s even breaths, his chest cresting and sinking. “We had a difficult night. I’ll be resting in the room next door and will be back before 11. I need to speak to the gardener, a new girl, at 10. You okay till I return?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
There was a bathroom between Thomas’s room and the bedroom where I would nap. I’d taken my duffel with me and decided to leave some of my things in that bathroom and in the bedroom. My flannel nightgown and the lavender cream I’d worn for lying with Thomas, I left in his bathroom.
Exhausted, I set the alarm, hoping to wake refreshed. Solving this case would be like solving a mathematical proof. At least I hoped it would be.
* * *
The alarm woke me at 0945. I’d fallen asleep on a pad of paper, the pencil leaving a dent in my cheek.
After only 90 minutes of sleep in the past 24 hours, I felt befuddled, but no problem—in two years of college, I’d operated on less. What I needed was food. The red-haired lawyer had eaten my breakfast. As I dragged myself to the bathroom, a couple of brain cells sparked.
I brushed my pale, feathery hair till it crackled and swiped on apple-flavored lip-gloss, then headed into Thomas’s room and kissed him quickly on the cheek. Apple scents are supposed to refresh.
“All’s well here, Nicki?”
“It’s Vicky, Mrs. Crowder. There’s been no change with Mister Crowder.”
“I’ll be back in less than an hour, Thomas.” I smoothed away the glisten I’d left on his cheek. “Be good.” I smiled. “Thanks, Vicky. An early lunch okay with you?”
She nodded, and I sped down the stairs. The study was empty. I fired up the Keurig and chose Kona coffee. While the cup filled, I extracted the five disks I’d found at the back of a desk drawer—I had plenty of time while sequestered in the study after Hillary’s murder—and squirreled them away in a cabinet in the foyer.
The breakfast things had been removed from the dining room, but I grabbed a fragrant peach from the fruit bowl. Taking a deep breath, I headed for the kitchen door, then stifled a shriek when it opened revealing a stout, frowsy-haired woman in black slacks, a white shirt, and a black apron. We gaped at each other.
She recovered first. “You are Mister Crowder’s new wife?” She had better manners than the detective, but something like disapproval glinted in her cloudy eyes.
“I am. Are you Mrs. Timmons? Tina told me you’ve been with Thomas for ages.”
“Fifty-seven years.” She spoke softly, but I heard the steel of authority.
My mom hadn’t even been born fifty-seven years ago. “That’s a long time,” I said lamely.
Tina had told me that Mrs. Timmons generally worked from 7 to 4 Mondays through Fridays but had agreed to work this weekend. Apparently Tina had contacted her the night before and told her to come late, not wanting to distress her with the blood in the kitchen.
She flicked a quick look from my t-shirt to my bare feet. I shuffled in embarrassment. I don’t know what she thought about Abishag wives, but I suspected she’d found me wanting.
I lifted my chin. “Tina told you about Hillary Lattimer?”
“Yes.” Her eyes flicked downward. I suspected Mrs. Timmons hadn’t been a fan of Hillary’s. “The cleaning crew did a fine job. Is there anything I can get you?”
I’d obviously been headed for the kitchen but now felt awkward entering. As I hesitated, she spotted the peach in my hand. “May I bring a plate for that, Miss? Would you like some cheese or yogurt to go with it?” Without waiting for an answer, she added, “I’d planned to offer you and the hospice aide a lunch salad in an hour.
Perhaps you’d prefer to wait?”
Subtleties are often lost on me so I knew that Mrs. Timmons was being very clear. First, she viewed me as no more than a hospice care worker. Second, I must not mess with her way of keeping house.
My grandfather used to say, Choose your battles. Even the elves of Middle Earth knew when to withdraw. I squared my shoulders. “A salad for lunch sounds delightful, Mrs. Timmons. I’m spelling the aide at 11, so I’ll take it to Thomas’s room myself if that suits you. May I trouble you for a napkin?”
I’d seen my mother lift an eyebrow at caterers just so, and they immediately sprang into action. I tried it on Mrs. Timmons.
Expressionless, she fished a cloth napkin from the sideboard and handed it to me. “I’ll bring your lunch to Mister Crowder’s suite, Miss.”
I didn’t mind Mrs. Timmons’ boundaries as I had Donovan’s. She was old. Her boss of many years lay dying upstairs, someone she knew had bled to death in her kitchen last night, and a woman probably younger than her grandkids had the run of the house.
“Thank you, Mrs. Timmons.”
I’d heard a clock chiming 10 while Mrs. Timmons was taking my measure. I walked out the front door, waiting till I reached the porch before biting into the peach. Dabbing at the juice running down my chin, shaking peach droplets on the manicured lawns, I searched for Kat.
I found her clipping a hedge along the driveway. She wore a camouflage cap on her blonde dreadlocks, and a skimpy tank top showed off her many tattoos. She was very tanned and, even with the ocean breeze, sweated under the cloudless sky. Through the gate at the end of driveway, I could see the canted mast of the shipwreck in Portuguese cove, and a security patrol car slowly cruising past the house.
“Hey.” She nodded at my peach. “Bring me one?”
“There’s a whole orchard in the back. Go for it.”
“The help’s not allowed.” She took a swig from a canteen she’d stashed under the hedge. “Lotta rules here.”
I smothered a grin. Of all the housemates, I was considered a stickler for following rules. The rest of the housemates occasionally fudged a bit. But Kat? Kathmandu never followed rules. Never. She’d grown up around the globe, her parents being administrators of a foundation that distributed microloans in impoverished countries. Her siblings also bore the names of the places where they’d been born—Salvador, Kampott, Zanzibar.
She was an odd match for Dog, and I didn’t expect their marriage to last. He was the staying type; she was the leaving kind.
Of all the housemates, she had street-smarts. She knew people. People perplexed me, so I decided I needed her help to figure out who killed Hillary.
Studying me, she tore open a nut bar. “You’re planning something.”
See? She knew people. I tossed the peach pit over the fence and wiped my hands on the napkin. “Will you promise not to tell anyone at the house?” She knew I meant our housemates, not the Crowder household.
“Maybe.”
Good enough. “Dog told you about the woman killed last night?”
She nodded.
“I’m going to find out who murdered her.”
She took another swig of water. “Why?”
It seemed petty to say I wanted to annoy Donovan Reid, “She was a relative of Thomas’s. I’m doing it for him.”
“Your geezer husband? The vegetable?” She said it matter-of-factly. Kat never dressed up the truth.
From her, I could accept it. “Yes.”
“But he’ll never know.”
“We can’t know exactly what he…”
She waved her hand. “What’s the real reason?”
“That is the real reason.” When she kept chewing, I added, “The agency lawyer told me to stay out of it.”
Her eyes sparkled. She dropped the hedge clippers and sprawled comfortably on the lawn. “You usually do what you’re told, so why do you wanna fight him?”
“I don’t want to fight him.” When she smirked, I knew I’d spoken too quickly. “Maybe I’m trying to figure out what kind of wife I’m supposed to be. I’m Thomas’s final wife. Seems like if I can help him, help his family, then I should.”
She cocked her head. “Nothing to do with the lawyer then?”
“He just clarified my thinking.”
“What do you want me to do?”
That’s the other reason I wanted Kat’s help. She might needle me a bit, but she was always game for adventure.
I opened my iPhone and showed her the picture I’d taken of the kitchen. She studied it clinically, zooming in and out.
“From something Thomas’s daughter said, I think Hillary Lattimer, the dead woman, was into something nefarious. I’d like to find out what.”
Her lips quirked at “nefarious.” “I’ll check out her place and run her finances.” Kat had mad skills for getting information. I didn’t bother asking how.
“What’s that?” She’d zoomed onto the counter.
“The killer left a note.” I swallowed, thinking of that bleak sprawl of words penciled below a border of purple pansies and the words SHOPPING LIST.
“I can’t see it clearly,” she muttered. “Maybe Zeke can blow it up.”
I didn’t bother asking who Zeke was—undoubtedly part of what Dog called her Westwood Irregulars and I called her Nefarious Crew. I did like that word.
“I memorized it.”
She extracted a grimy notepad from her cargo pants. “Spill.”
I closed my eyes, picturing the note, again feeling the horror of seeing Hillary lying in all that blood.
FOR ALL THE INNOCENT LIVES SHE RUINED, SHE DESERVED WORSE.
Kat frowned. “Sounds like blackmail, but you don’t usually blackmail innocent people.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said dryly. “While you look into Hillary’s past, I can go through some stuff about the family I found in Thomas’s study.”
She sent the photo to her email and returned my phone. Stuffing the notepad and the nut bar wrapper in a pocket, she retrieved the clippers. “I’ll make a few calls and let you know what I find out. I’m off at two and can swing by Hillary’s place then.”
“Thanks, Kat. I…”
She waved me silent. “Don’t thank me. I should be thanking you. Most excitement I’ve had since that explosion at Prati’s Tuesday.” She shot me a speculative look. “You gonna be okay here?”
I nodded, trying to look confident. “Thomas’s daughter’s arranged for more security, just saw a patrol drive past, and there’s always people around.”
Kat didn’t say anything, but I could read her thoughts. Where was everyone last night when someone killed Hillary? I added quickly, “Dog will be back at ten. Thomas’s other aide stays till then.”
“Not too creepy with the geezer?”
I shook my head. “He’s very sweet. Dog says he’s doing better with me here.” Kat rolled her eyes, but I ignored her.
I left her filling up her canteen with the hose, talking on the phone, and filching blackberries from the hedge.
CHAPTER SIX
I relieved Vicky at 11. A few minutes later, Mrs. Timmons set up a tray at the writing desk. Besides a massive Greek salad, she’d included pita bread with hummus and custard for dessert. She filled a glass with lemonade from an icy carafe, dropped in a sprig of mint and a raspberry, straightened a fork and nodded at me before leaving the room. Not once did she look at Thomas.
“Did you break her heart?” I whispered to Thomas. Why else wouldn’t she look at him? I settled at the writing desk and dove into lunch.
I hadn’t been caught sneaking the disks from the cabinet in the foyer to my bedroom where I tucked them in my computer case. I put the Crowder family video—Tina gave it and a fat photo album to me at the signing ceremony—in my computer case too. Saving the custard for later, I put the tray in the hallway, leaving the door cracked open. I’d hear someone coming up the stairs long before they reached the door, but no need for them to see me poking through Thomas’s files.
I pulled up a chair next to Thomas’s bed and took his dry, cool hand.
“Thomas, I’ve some sad news. Your niece, Hillary, is dead. Tina says you weren’t close, but she was family. I know family meant everything to you.”
On our wedding night, I had put the thick photo album on the nightstand next to a picture of his first wife Carol. Tina had compiled it, along with the 90-minute video compendium of family movies. After the signing ceremony when I should have been studying for my linear algebra final, I’d watched the video. Twice. He’d been a short man full of presence with a laugh like a sea lion’s bark. He obviously adored his first wife, holding her hand in most of their footage together, leaning close whenever she spoke. Carol was taller than Thomas, but he drew attention like a tornado, filling each frame, diminishing everyone around him.
He doted on Tina. On my laptop, I replayed her third birthday party with its scratched video about six times to hear Thomas sing Auld Lang Syne to the toddler in her highchair, her face smeared with yellow icing. Not a kid’s song, but Tina clapped in delight, bits of cake flying.
I rubbed Thomas’s wrist. No one from those days would recognize him now, and that made me feel closer to him. Besides the jolly father, that man had been a fierce baron of industry, Carol’s faithful husband.
That man had never been part of me. This frail husk, this motionless gnome was mine. I gently tucked the blankets around him. An Abishag wife’s contract vows are different from those of other wives, but as a tremor ran down his neck, I cherished the remains of his fragile life and whispered Rule Number 1: Till death ends the Abishag bond, she will watch over her husband.
I hadn’t found a computer in Thomas’s study. Either he didn’t own one or Tina had it. The five CDs, each labeled in Thomas’s bold printing, contained decades of personal finances.
While on a family vacation at a Colorado dude ranch when I was nine, I spent the entire week reading the ledgers of an 1800s pioneer family. The costs of grain, seed, sugar, caskets, shoes, train tickets, and farriers had been recorded in a careful, cramped hand. Through the entries and numbers, I deciphered despair, joy, and everyday tedium. It was the best summer of my life.
Sinking Ships: An Abishag's First Mystery (The Abishag Mysteries Book 1) Page 4
