“But it makes you look like a suspect. Can she do that? Isn’t that libel?”
“I doubt it, but I’m talking to Abe Edelman on Monday.” His lawyer.
“Then you are worried.” Tears stung my eyes.
“Sis, don’t get upset. It’s just a precaution.” He took the stairs to my deck two at a time and went to work on my swamp cooler.
Chapter 10
I had been up Sunday morning just long enough to make coffee and fetch the paper when my phone rang. For the first time in days, the Beardsley case was not on the front page. A brief story in the local section recapped earlier accounts and quoted the chief of police saying that all leads were being pursued. The phone rang again, and Bosco, the unhinged cockatiel, responded with an ear-splitting squawk. I guessed the caller would be Amah, checking in from Idaho.
I picked up the phone, trying to shush the crazy bird while I faked a cheerful tone.
Just as I said “Hello,” Bosco uttered one of his favorite quotes. “Go ahead, make my day.” As usual, he nailed his Dirty Harry impersonation.
The caller wasn’t Amah.
“Hey, lady. Was that Bosco, or are you dating Clint Eastwood these days?”
“Nick?” Disoriented, I lost my breath for a moment. Then anger came to my rescue. “What do you want?”
“It’s been eight weeks since Paris. I understand why you were upset, but I think you owe me a chance to explain. I thought we might get together and talk things out.”
Tears threatened, but I was determined that he wouldn’t hear the pain in my voice. I swallowed, took a beat. “What’s the point? Aren’t you and Rella back together?”
“Look, this is too complicated for the phone. Can I see you?”
“I don’t think so, Nick. It’s best if we both move on.”
I hoped that would be true one day. With Harry in jeopardy and a new job to protect, I didn’t have the emotional energy to deal with Nick. I couldn’t afford the distraction until the Beardsley case was solved and Harry was in the clear.
“I’m not giving up on us, Aimee. We had something worth fighting for.”
“I used to think so.” I used to think Nick was the love of my life, but not anymore.
“Then think again. You know where to find me.”
Bosco squawked again and boomed out his other favorite epithet in a gravelly voice no one in the family recognized, “Hit the floor, asshole!”
I heard Nick’s soft laughter in my ear as I hung up.
If it hadn’t been for Harry and Jack, I would never have met Nick. They had talked me into taking a gun safety course a few months after I moved home from New Haven. Even Amah was on their side; she’d taken the course several times.
Nick had been one of the volunteer instructors. That’s why my lie to Arnie Palmer had come so easily. It might have been the truth if Nick and I were still together.
I’d had misgivings about dating a pilot, but Nick’s expertise soon conquered my fear of flying. He conquered the rest of me with hands that could do no wrong and kisses so right that I still missed him every day and every night. We lived together for six months, but things changed between us after Nick’s boss, Buck Sawyer, hired Rella Olstad.
Buck, a billionaire philanthropist with a small fleet of airplanes, needed another experienced pilot who could fly jet aircraft. He asked Nick, his chief pilot, if he had any suggestions. Nick recommended Rella, but he neglected to tell me they’d been a couple. Rella filled me in at a company picnic at Buck’s house. The Nordic blonde looked down from her six feet in height and, fixing me with her steely blue eyes, assured me she was “no longer hot for Nicky.” I’d seen the way she looked at him, and I wasn’t sure I believed her. They shared an intimate past and a present that involved putting their lives in each other’s hands in the cockpit of a jet plane. How was I supposed to compete with that?
Soon after Rella came on board, my relationship with Nick began to deteriorate. Our last three months together were like hiking up a long, steep trail with blisters on both heels. My twin blisters were jealousy and insecurity. Rella and Nick flew opposite shifts most of the time, and I believed Nick when he said he had recommended her only because she was the best pilot available. Flying together cross-country or overseas, Nick wanted a co-pilot he could count on.
It was Buck Sawyer’s week-long trip to Paris that finished things off. Nick and Rella flew Buck there together, but they had nothing to do for a week except wait around in the world’s most romantic city until Buck was ready to come home. While Nick wandered Paris with his ex-fighter pilot ex-girlfriend, I sat behind the Reference Desk at the Timbergate County Library answering questions about water levels in a sand slough and praying the hospital library job would come through.
Nick called from Paris every night, but on the last night, he didn’t call. I got worried and called his room near midnight Paris time. Rella answered in a whisper clotted with alcohol and sex and told me “Nicky” was asleep and she didn’t want to wake him. I hung up in shock. Until Nick, I had never been deeply in love. That phone call had fractured my heart.
I moved out of his apartment and into the llama barn the next day. Within a month I had pulled myself together, but I vowed never to put my heart and soul in the hands of another man the way I had with Nick. Harry told me Nick deserved a chance to explain, but I said it was pointless. No matter what story he came up with, I would have to decide whether I believed him. I wasn’t ready to take that chance and risk that kind of pain a second time.
Nick’s call derailed my Sunday morning game plan, but with a heroic effort, I put thoughts of him on hold. My love for him was history. My love for my brother was unconditional and forever.
I fed the cat and the bird, then poured a cup of coffee and walked out on the deck to do a head count. Six llamas grazing peacefully, a dozen turkeys pecking and strutting.
Whatever Harry had done with the cooler seemed to be working, even though his repair was makeshift. My original plan for Sunday had been to sleuth out Arnetta Palmer. My run-in with Arnie Palmer at the museum had convinced me that the only person in Sawyer County with a name similar to Arnetta’s was a guy. The real Arnetta’s whereabouts were still a mystery, and the Internet had been no help. That left a long shot—Milton Palmer himself. I tried the phone book first. There were a lot of Palmers, but he wasn’t listed.
I called Vanza Vonderhausen, a friend who wrote romance novels under the pen name, Vanza Von. I remembered Vanza saying that she and Milton Palmer had dated a few times after Bonnie Beardsley dumped him. They had been paired up by a computer dating service for busy professionals. I asked her what she thought of Palmer.
“He was nice,” she said, “but no sparks.”
“Do you have his phone number?”
“Sure, but why do you want it? You and Nick were great together. And Nick is so hot. If I were you, I’d take him back in a New York minute.”
“Nick’s too hot for his own good,” I said. “I got tired of the competition.”
“I think you’re nuts, but it’s your life.”
She read off Palmer’s home phone number. “He’s kind of sweet if you can get past the toupee. Just don’t ask him about his ex.”
“Why not?”
“He’s not supposed to talk about her. Some privacy thing in their divorce agreement.”
“Okay. I appreciate the heads-up.”
Intrigued, I considered Vanza’s warning. Palmer couldn’t talk about his ex, and he sure wasn’t going to confess to murdering Bonnie Beardsley, so how was I going to pry any information out of him? I’d have to get creative. I made a few notes so I wouldn’t get off track and trip myself up. When I had a workable script, I picked up the phone. Was I calling a killer or a jilted lover with a vengeful ex-wife?
“Palmer residence.” The voice that answered on the first ring was young and female. Oops. That wasn’t in my script.
“Hello,” I said. “May I speak to Mr. Palmer?”
“Who
’s calling?”
“Ingrid Wiggins.” I couldn’t keep track of more than one alias.
“Just a minute.” I heard a muffled, “Dad, it’s for you.” His daughter. Back to the script.
More muffled words. “It’s a woman. Wig-something.”
“Milton Palmer, can I help you?” I recognized the mellow tones from the evening news.
“Mr. Palmer, I hope you won’t find this incredibly forward of me, but I’m interested in computer dating, and a mutual friend suggested I call you to get your opinion on what service to try.”
“What friend was that?” He didn’t sound annoyed, just curious.
“I’m afraid I promised I wouldn’t say. I hope you understand.”
“Well, I suppose I do. What is your name?”
“Ingrid Wiggins. I’m new in the area. I was working as a lingerie model in San Francisco, but city life got too stressful. I’m looking for a career change.”
“Model? That’s … what kind of career change?”
“I’m thinking of opening a massage parlor. I’m very good, and I’ve saved up quite a bit of money from the modeling.”
Milton cleared his throat. “That’s wonderful. Did you say you’re looking into computer dating?”
“Yes. I’m all alone in new surroundings, and it’s so lonely, so difficult to meet someone simpatico.”
The throat clearing again. “Perhaps we should get together for coffee. Computer dating can be complicated. I could explain some of the things to watch out for. Wouldn’t want to see you get involved with the wrong sort.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. Would your friend mind?”
“Friend?”
“The woman who answered your phone.”
“Oh. No. That was my daughter. She’s visiting from Miami.”
“Miami?” I was about to ask if her mother was in Miami when I remembered Vanza’s advice. Don’t ask him about his ex. “Is it difficult for her? Being so far from family?”
“Not really. She’s busy with college. She’s attending the University of Miami in Coral Gables. Making her old man proud.”
Nice, but it wasn’t helping me find Arnetta. I needed an exit line. “Oh, I think I hear someone at my door, Mr. Palmer. I’m afraid I—”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “About the dating service. When can we get together for a chat?”
“Soon. I’m going out of town for a couple weeks. May I call you when I return?”
“Please do. I’ll be looking forward to it.”
“So will I, Milton. Nice talking to you.”
Okay. Now I knew the Palmers’ daughter was in college in Florida. Maybe her mother had moved there after the divorce. That put her a continent away from the Bonnie Beardsley scandal.
I kept busy until mid-afternoon washing my car and doing my laundry at Jack and Amah’s house. Then I did the only thing I could think of to keep my mind off the Beardsley case and Nick’s sudden reappearance. I went to the dojo and worked out with anyone who would spar with me. Four hours later, I was tired enough to limp home, shower, and zone out in front of the television with a glass of wine and Amah’s peevish cat, Fanny.
Chapter 11
My second week at Timbergate Medical Center was my first week as a company spy. Simple, really. Observe Beardsley without being too obvious. Report anything suspicious to Jared Quinn.
Orrie Mercer was at his post at the employee entrance when I arrived Monday morning, but he was engrossed in conversation with Maybelline Black. Trading gossip, no doubt. Mercer turned his back and studied the tips of his shoes when he caught sight of me. I breezed by with a quick wave to Maybelline.
A dark, empty library greeted me. Veronica, the orphaned violet, seemed to be thriving on the corner of my desk. The room had an expectant look, like the set of a play before the first act begins. I needed to fill that stage with TMC’s doctors and other health professionals, and soon.
I used the first quiet minutes at my desk to make notes: 1. Work up list and budget for core forensic component. 2. Log all library visits and services. 3. Find Arnetta Palmer.
I couldn’t help feeling sorry for poor Milton Palmer. After his nasty divorce and Bonnie Beardsley’s shabby treatment, he had definitely paid his relationship dues. That didn’t mean he hadn’t killed Bonnie, but the guy didn’t seem like the murdering kind. His shadowy ex-wife, however, moved up a notch on my suspect list.
I looked up from my notes to see Maybelline walk in wearing a smear of persimmon-colored lipstick across her two front teeth.
“Good morning, Miss Machado. Did you have a nice weekend?”
“It was fine. And you?”
“The usual. Bingo on Saturday. Senior brunch at the smorgy on Sunday. I had Swedish meatballs and two helpings of tapioca.”
“How nice.” Pitiful. I figured that would be my fate in a few years if I didn’t start working on my social life.
Maybelline pulled a small mirror from her pocket and checked her makeup. I was about to mention the lipstick on her teeth, but she discovered it for herself and attacked it with the tip of her tongue. Satisfied, she put the mirror away.
“Is there anything I can do for you before I start my rounds?”
“Not a thing,” I said. “You go ahead.”
She began loading her delivery cart with reading material. She had just disappeared with the cart when Dr. Beardsley entered, looking grim. He approached my desk with a wary expression, as if he thought I might be afraid of him, potential murder suspect that he was.
I took the initiative. “Dr. Beardsley, welcome back. I am so sorry for your loss. Please let me know if I can help.”
I saw genuine gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you. I’m happy to be back. So sorry about all this uproar. Your first week here and all. It has been … it’s been gruesome.”
“Are you sure you’re ready to come back to work?”
“I must come back. Staying home doing nothing would drive me insane. I’m not scheduling surgeries yet, but I will catch up on my committee work.”
He asked if I was happy with Maybelline’s help, and I assured him she was doing fine. We compared notes on my progress, and he left for his plastic surgery office across town.
My observations so far were of a man with strong professional values. Vane Beardsley was not only the hospital’s chief of staff, he also chaired its Continuing Medical Education Committee. The committee responded to reports of weak areas in the care of hospital patients by providing opportunities for upgrading the doctors’ skills. This was usually done by scheduling on-site continuing medical education programs. As was the case in most hospitals, TMC’s health sciences librarian served a dual role as coordinator of the medical staff’s continuing education department. Quinn had confirmed that among my other duties, I was to help Dr. Beardsley facilitate the CME Committee’s efforts.
Some of the minutes I had reviewed led me to believe Vane Beardsley took his work seriously. That was a plus. As for his dark side, the only vice I’d observed was a weakness for pretty young women.
An hour passed without interruption before my phone rang. Jared Quinn wanted to get together. Beardsley was back at work, and Quinn wanted a report. He suggested lunch at Casa Loco.
Before Nick’s call on Sunday, the thought of another lunch with Quinn might have set my pulse racing. Now it just depressed me. The only attractive men in my life were off-limits. I saw my future in line behind Maybelline at the smorgy, hoping for second helpings of tapioca. No, that was wrong. Even Maybelline might have a man in her life. She and Orrie Mercer had seemed engrossed in each other when I noticed them earlier.
Maybelline returned from her book delivery run with letters and newspapers she’d retrieved from the hospital mail room. The library subscribed to half a dozen newspapers, including the Timbergate Times-Record, which carried a new headline: SEARCH WARRANTS ISSUED IN BEARDSLEY CASE. The article didn’t name names, but warrants had been issued for searches of the homes and vehicles of at l
east two individuals.
I called Harry’s cellphone. He didn’t answer, so I left an urgent message: Call me.
Next I called Hannah. Because of her forensic sketches, she knew people on the inside. I had to learn more about Bonnie Beardsley’s autopsy. What had prompted the warrants? I asked if she’d seen the newspaper. She had. I told her we needed to talk, and she suggested we meet for lunch.
“I can’t. I’m supposed to have lunch at Casa Loco with Jared Quinn.”
“Who’s Jared Quinn?”
“TMC’s administrator.”
“Oh. The big boss. Then do lunch with him at Casa Loco, but come by my office first.” She sounded worried.
I called Quinn, saying I needed a bit of exercise and wanted to walk the three blocks to Casa Loco. He agreed to meet me there at twelve thirty. Hannah was waiting for me in her basement office when I arrived at noon.
“You can never, ever tell anyone about this.” Her voice was low, her blue eyes intense.
“Of course not.”
“If it was anyone but Harry, I’d never do this.”
“What is it?”
“I overheard some talk about Bonnie’s autopsy. Apparently there was evidence of recent sexual activity.”
“She was raped?”
“That wasn’t clear. Apparently it could have been consensual. Even the bruises on her neck might have been caused during rough sex play.”
“Her death might have been caused by rough sex gone wrong? Why are you telling me this? Surely you don’t think Harry—”
“Of course not, but there is something worrisome about the bruises.”
“What about them?”
“The medical examiner thinks they were inflicted by someone left-handed.”
“Oh, God. Harry’s—”
“A lefty, I know. Don’t panic. Think of all the left-handed people we know.”
“Is one of the search warrants for Harry?”
“I don’t know. All I know is the theory about the bruises. You’ll have to ask Harry about the warrant.”
Due for Discard Page 7
