This blizzard was going to break a few records, and everyone pitched in to help. Ignoring their normal work schedules, workers pulled double shifts or came in on their days off to help. Some of the staff said they’d gladly brave the storm, if need be, to rescue or treat people who couldn’t make it to the hospital, offering up an assortment of winter vehicles, from heavy duty trucks to snowmobiles and four-wheelers. One doctor who bred sled dogs said she could hitch up a team if the roads were impassable. The camaraderie was phenomenal. Still, everyone was stretched pretty thin.
And then the real craziness began. It started with the guy whose truck had gone off the bridge at Eagles Nest Lake. They’d had to use the jaws of life to get him out of his truck, but he’d been dead on arrival. The sheriff intimated it might have been a hit and run, judging by the marks on the dead guy’s left rear panel and bumper. His plates were from out of state.
One of the locals, Matthew Tripp, owner of Twin Loons Resort, came in with an overdose of painkillers. Lots of the staff knew him, and were shocked since he wasn’t a known druggie. More than one person referred to his recent breakup as the reason for his suicide attempt.
But then Matt Tripp had begun coming around and claimed he’d been drugged—by the pastor from his hometown, of all people.
Then, just as the storm was beginning to abate, two snowmobile accidents came in at about the same time, a man and woman, both non-locals. The guy named Vincent referred to Frances as “Foxy” and said she was his wife, but Frances insisted they were not married. His injuries, a fractured fibula and broken ribs, weren’t life threatening. The broken ribs would have to be left alone to heal on their own, and his fibula, broken just above the ankle, required only a brace and ample time to heal before he put weight on it. But he was in pain, and it wasn’t just physical. He kept asking about his wife and finally he’d been sedated because of his anxiety.
His wife, or not his wife, depending on who you believed, was brought in by Dr. Warren, who ordered up three units of blood and whisked her right into surgery. Her injuries were more serious, three broken ribs located just over a ruptured spleen. Someone said she was Matt’s sister, and more than a couple people said they could see the resemblance.
Somehow, in a bizarre turn of events, there had been one more person rescued from the frozen lake, yet another out-of-towner, this one with a dislocated artificial hip. The hip replacement had been recent, and the man was sputtering mad to have to go through the surgery and pain and recuperation all over again. He had a foul mouth on him for a pastor. A police officer who’d been part of the rescue, stuck around just on the other side of the curtain in the E.R.
The receptionist didn’t know what to do with the little dog, a black-and-white thing that must have been some kind of terrier mix. Doctor Warren had brought the dog in along with one of the snowmobile accidents, and told the receptionist to be nice to it until the patient’s friends arrived.
The friends turned out to be two women who were, to no one’s surprise, not from Ely. But once they got there, they didn’t leave, and so the dog stayed with the blonde one while the one with dark hair got blood-typed to be a donor for their friend who was headed for surgery.
Flash, the fireman who’d been first on the scene at Twin Loons, had also brought in the guy who’d crashed his snowmobile. He’d stuck around the hospital until Matt Tripp was stabilized. He came downstairs, talked to the blonde who was sitting with the dog, and then he left with the dog in his arms. After that the two women took turns snooping around, roaming the halls, asking a lot of questions and making a bunch of phone calls. Another cop came in and ushered them into one of the vacant offices. They were there quite a while.
When Doctor Warren came out of surgery, she huddled with the two women in the corner, and they left that meeting looking, if not happy, at least a little relieved.
* * *
After calling Cate one more time with the update, Robin realized how bone-achingly tired she was. The aching in her shoulders that had begun on the drive up came back, this time accompanied by a crushing headache. She’d arrived at Matt’s resort exhausted by the harrowing drive, and had immediately been thrown into drama with a capital D. Now her worry about Foxy and her brother consumed the last of her inner resources.
Grace had fallen asleep in the waiting room chair with her head at an awkward angle. Robin shook her shoulder. “We need to get a motel,” she said. “We can’t go back to Matt’s lodge. The police are protecting the crime scene.”
“Crime scene,” Grace blearily repeated and got up. They enquired at the desk about a where to stay, and the woman blew her nose and rattled off a few names that were only a mile or so from the hospital. When she suggested the Adventure Inn on Sheridan Avenue, Grace turned to Robin. “What do you think? Can we handle any more adventure?”
“The real question,” Robin answered without cracking a smile, “is whether or not we can avoid it?”
In the end, they passed up the chance for more adventure and stayed at the Super 8 just down the road. It was simple and more than adequate as a place to lay their weary heads. Once in their room, they sat at the little table by the windows for a while, talking and watching the stars come out as the cloud cover disappeared. It was amazing to see how many more stars were visible here than what they could see in the Cities, and it was hard for Robin to pry herself away from the reaffirming beauty of the heavens.
But tomorrow would be another big day, even without any new curve balls thrown their way. Stripping down to underpants and a turtleneck, she crawled into bed and fell asleep while Grace was still talking to her.
By morning, sunlight glinted off the sculpted snow. It was beautiful and serene—eerily so. Aching all over, Robin heaved herself out of bed and threw a packet of coffee in the room’s coffeemaker. Grace jerked and twitched in her sleep. Her snoring was downright flamboyant. No wonder she’d been so tired lately, Robin thought as she considered rolling her onto her side.
Grace roused enough to open one eye. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she reached behind her to feel the sore spot just below her shoulder blade where the SUV’s side mirror had left a colorful bruise. “Wow, I had some crazy dreams!” She wiped the corners of her mouth. “Did my snoring wake you up?”
Robin shook her head. “I’m just antsy to get to the hospital.”
She took the Styrofoam cup from Robin’s hands. “But was I snoring just now?”
“Just a little,” Robin lied.
After downing the coffee and eating power bars from the emergency kit from Robin’s car, they quickly dressed and drove to the hospital. None of the hospital staff from last night was in evidence. Grace asked at the main registration desk where Foxy’s room was, and was told Frances Tripp could not have visitors yet.
“How about her brother, Matthew Tripp? Can we visit him?” asked Robin, and they were given a room number and directed to turn right at the nurses’ station. Turning left instead, they saw a uniformed policeman halfway down the corridor, sitting on a chair outside one of the rooms. “Must be the pastor’s room,” Grace whispered. They smiled at him as they passed the closed door, and two rooms later, they saw a mass of auburn hair against the white linens, and ducked inside before anyone could stop them.
Foxy looked pale. A nasogastric tube came out of her nose and cords ran from different parts of her to beeping machines. Initially her eyes were closed, but as her friends whispered about whether or not to leave, she croaked, “I’m awake.” She cracked her eyes open, and suddenly opened them wide. She seemed surprised to find herself in a hospital. When she spoke, her voice was scratchy. “Oh, God, I keep thinking if I go to sleep and wake up again, I’ll find out it was all just a dream, but it really happened, didn’t it? The snowmobile and Vinnie. And Pastor Paul. Did he really try to kill us all?” She looked from one face to another. “And my brother! Is he—?”
&n
bsp; “He’s down the hall,” said a nurse as she came in and began checking the machines. “Your brother is gonna be just fine after a day or two. He’s been asking about you too. Maybe we can bring him down here later for a visit.”
Foxy managed a smile.
“Are you family?” the nurse asked as if she were seeing Grace and Robin for the first time.
“They’re my sisters,” Foxy answered, and asked her “sisters” where Molly Pat was.
“The guy who saved your brother’s life offered to take her home for as long as you need. His name is Flash and everyone around here knows him. We couldn’t bring the dog here today anyway. He can even take her when he goes to work at the lumber yard.”
“He’s a good man,” the nurse said.
Foxy nodded, looking too drowsy to hold her head up. Her lips were parched. “My poor baby brother. What about the freak that drugged him? Did he get away?”
The nurse just shook her head, and typed something into the computer. “I hear you all had this place hopping last night.”
“Someone said the doctor who operated on my pancreas was the woman who rescued me. Is that true?”
“Ya, and she’s a fine doctor. You’ll be back to normal in no time.” She looked at the IV on the back of Foxy’s hand and then inspected her surgical site, commenting how much quicker the recovery would be with those five small laparoscopic incisions instead of one big one.
After the nurse left, Foxy rolled her eyes from Robin to Cate and said, “I put a few things together, but not until . . .” Trying to pick up her water cup, she grimaced. “Can’t twist.” As soon as Grace refilled it with ice water and gave it to her, Foxy sipped through the straw. She handed it back and sighed. “Here’s what I figured out. That creep, my old pastor, is Beau’s father, and I’d bet anything he killed Sierra.”
They both nodded for her to go on, and she did. “It’s my fault,” she said.
“What?” they said in unison.
She told them how, during that visit in November, she’d let it slip to her mother that her old friend Sierra was desperate for money and had some big scheme to get it from someone. She’d said it in Pastor Paul’s presence, believing him to be semiconscious and too addled to understand anyway. “He looked like he was at death’s door. It never occurred to me he was taking it all in. When my mom asked about my old friends, I went through the whole list—Vinnie, Tina, Wylie and Sierra.” She winced and grabbed her belly.
When Grace asked if she should call the nurse, Foxy said, “It hurts when I try to sit up.”
“They have a handy little contraption for that.” Robin handed her the bed control.
“I actually know how to work a hospital bed. I just forgot I can’t move right. I still think my body should work like it used to.”
Grace snorted. “Me two.”
“Me three,” Robin chimed in.
With the bed raised, Foxy took another sip of water and continued. “My mom said he was dead. Well, she didn’t actually use that word, but she used all her other euphemisms for dead. ‘Aloha on the steel guitar’ is what she actually said. And then, all of a sudden a month later he’s at the lodge at Matt’s resort walking down the stairs and talking to us like we’re long lost friends. My God, I thought I was looking at a ghost. After I got over my shock, he said he’d been at my mom’s nursing home recovering from a hip replacement, and that’s when I remembered what I’d said. I put it together. I mean it all fell together in a big rush and I knew Pastor Paul was Beau’s father and I knew he’d killed Sierra before she could blow his cover.”
Robin was about to confirm some of her suspicions by telling her about the paternity papers in the wine bottle and the unsigned letters, when a ruckus erupted in the hallway.
“I’m his son,” bellowed a deep voice.
The three women looked at each other wide-eyed.
“Go listen,” Foxy instructed. “That sounds like Paul’s son Peter.”
Robin stared at her and then stepped into the hallway, pretending to make a call on her cell phone. The racket was coming from a dark-haired man outside of the pastor’s room. He was hectoring the cop for not letting him see his own father. When the man unzipped his ski jacket, holding it open like a caricature of a flasher, Robin saw he wore a clerical collar.
He stood tall, puffing out his chest in a male display of power. “I have clergy privileges in hospitals.”
The cop looked unperturbed. “Tell you what, why don’t you cool your heels in the cafeteria and I’ll check with my superior officer just as soon as he calls to tell me he’s done at the crime scene.”
Paul’s son jerked his head back as if he’d been slapped. “Crime scene? What does that have to do with my father?”
They both ignored Robin as she talked quietly into the dead phone. She saw the moment of dawning realization on Peter’s face. There was a hint of melodrama in the way he took a step back and put a hand to his chest. “I . . . I’ll be downstairs.”
She popped back into Foxy’s room and reported the scene to her and Grace.
Foxy listened, her face grim. “Uh huh, that’s Paul’s son, Peter. He’s a big wig in the church too. Do you suppose he knows how crazy his father is?”
Robin shrugged. “Do you suppose he’s mixed up in this, somehow? What if he found out about his father having another son and didn’t want competition for the family fortune, for instance?”
“I think,” Grace said, “he’s pretty shaken up right now and might be open to talking to a stranger over a cup of coffee. Why don’t you see what you can find out.”
“Do it!” Foxy grinned.
But Robin shook her head. “Not me. He’s seen me. Besides, I know someone who’s perfect for the job. What do you think, Gracie? Want to chat him up?”
Grace’s eyes lit up. “Sure!”
“Before you go,” Foxy said, “I want to know something. They said one of you donated blood for a transfusion, so I want to know whose blood they put in me.”
Grace rolled up her sleeve, showing the bandage in the crook of her arm.
Foxy’s eyes filled with tears. “I guess we’re blood sisters now, huh?”
Chapter 34
Grace, as Robin had said, had a gift for putting people at ease and getting them to talk. She was concerned though that Peter, as a man of the cloth, was trained to hold confidences, and would be naturally reticent to open up to a stranger. The idea hit her on her way to the cafeteria. She stopped in the bathroom and tucked her white turtleneck under so only an inch-wide band showed above her sweater.
Peter Niemi sat with his hands clasped in front of him on the table. His glasses lay off to the side. His eyes were downcast and it looked like it took too much effort for him to keep his head upright.
Grace grabbed a cup of coffee and a gooey cinnamon roll and headed for the small table next to his, sitting so they were almost facing each other. When he looked up, she smiled. He did a double-take, his eyes grabbing onto the white band around her neck that looked not too different from his own.
She grinned and he nodded back.
He sipped his tea.
Pointing to her plate, she said, “This roll is more than I should eat. Will you take half?” He looked like he was about to decline, and so she said, “Please. At least remove the temptation.” She slid the plate over and he took a piece, setting it on a napkin in front of him.
“What’s your trick getting in to see patients?” she asked. “I drove up from Virginia just to visit one of my people, and they won’t let me see her. They must have a pretty strict policy.”
He looked weary. “I just had the same experience. I came all the way from Minneapolis.”
“That’s tough.” When he didn’t answer, she said, “They must think clergy have a cushy job. You’d think people have figured out by no
w that it’s not just an hour or two on Sunday morning.”
His chuckle was void of humor. “It’s not even one of my flock I came to see. It’s my father!”
She frowned. “Good heavens! The hospital doesn’t even allow family members? I’ve never run into that.”
He hesitated, his eyes darting once more to her white collar. Sucking in his breath, he looked away. “It’s not the hospital. It’s the police.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Oh! Well, that is a touchy situation. I won’t ask, but I’m here if you want to unburden yourself or want me to pray with you.”
Rolling his lower lip between thumb and forefinger, he said nothing.
“People just don’t understand how stressful this calling can be.”
He bobbed his head. “No quarrel there.”
“My own son had a run-in with the law a couple years back, and I know the strain it put on me. My husband and I both got some counseling to deal with it.”
He lifted his eyes to meet hers, making a decision. “I’m not under so much stress myself, but Dad is. He’s ordained too. In fact, I took over the pulpit at his church in the Cities when he took a position at the synod. As stressful as it is to be in parish ministry—well, I don’t need to tell you—he’s been under tremendous pressure with this job. This last year has really taken a toll on him.”
“Oh?” Grace used her silence to encourage him to keep talking.
He stared off in the distance and said, “He was always . . . demanding, a real stickler, but he’s gotten more difficult lately. Something’s really eating at him. In my opinion, the responsibility of overseeing the finances for the entire synod is way too much for one man to handle, and now they’re gearing up for a big, comprehensive audit. The worry is getting to him. I’ve been urging him to retire, but there’s no point in wasting my breath. He’s the most obstinate . . .” He stopped and from the look on his face he knew he’d said too much.
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