I struggled to sit. Nick braced my back. I brushed Zorro’s dog hair off my shirt and wiped dirt from my face and hair. “Water, please.” My mouth felt as grainy as sandpaper.
Nick rose, poured a glass for me at the sink, and returned. He helped me take small sips.
Detective King strode into the kitchen. “Nick, a neighbor said she saw a black SUV in the neighborhood earlier.”
“Was she sure it was black?” I asked. “Blue could look black. So could dark green.”
“Did you see it?” Nick touched my shoulder.
“No, but Vaughn Jamison drives a blue SUV.”
“He’s locked up.”
“Right. You said that. I think Tom Regent drives an SUV. A green Navigator.”
“Nick.” Hernandez signaled from across the room.
Nick took the glass from me and set it in the sink. While he talked with Hernandez, I saw a tech retrieve the glass and dust for prints. I shivered.
When Nick came back, I said, “Am I a suspect?”
“I think I can rule you out.” He offered a crooked smile. “The cut to Camille’s throat appears to be right to left, indicating a left-handed assailant, and—” He rolled his eyes up, averting my gaze.
“Are you weighing whether you should tell me what else you discovered?”
He peered at me. “You know me too well.”
“Not well enough. Spill.”
“The restaurant at Ambrose Alley delivers. They use dark blue Suburbans, and I just learned that a dark-colored SUV was seen in the vicinity of Vittorio’s Ristorante on the afternoon of that murder.”
“Go. Question Finn Ambrose.”
“I’m sending Hernandez. Right now, I want to get you to the hospital. You might have a concussion.”
“Not from a stupid potted plant. I didn’t pass out.” I rose to my feet but teetered. “I need to speak to Candace.”
Nick clasped my arm. “Gwen is already with her. Candace and the dog are fine.”
I could only imagine what Candace must be going through. Did she feel guilty for urging me to help Camille? Would she remind me that she’d wanted to accompany me? I anticipated a flood of reprimands when I saw her and sighed. Just what I needed—a fourteen-year-old bodyguard.
A pair of emergency medical technicians hurried into the kitchen. The taller one checked out Camille. The shorter knelt beside me and ran through the requisite questions and concluded that I had to go to the hospital.
Nick kissed my forehead and said he was following me. “Everything’s under control here.”
I didn’t argue. A jackhammer had taken up residence inside my head. As the EMTs lifted me onto a stretcher, I said, “How’s the dog, Nick? How’s Zorro?”
“The vet is attending to him.”
“If no one steps up, I’ll adopt him.” Owning one dog or two dogs, did it matter?
“We’ll deal with that later.”
Chapter 34
Around three a.m., Nick left me in the care of a frosty doctor at Truckee Hospital and went to convene with his team. Finn Ambrose and Tom Regent were on his main list of suspects. He added Beau Flacks because of the connection between Beau’s sister and Kristin Fisher.
The doctor, while clucking his tongue, inserted a dozen stitches. I presumed he was disapproving of how I’d suffered the injury. If he only knew that my ego was more bruised than my partially shaved head.
At nine, a nurse wheeled me, bed and all, into a recovery room. “The doctor says you’re fit to go home, and you can drive.”
“Not without my car.”
“It’s in the lot. Someone from the sheriff’s office delivered it. Your key is with your possessions. By the way, a few friends are here to see you. When you’re through talking with them, I’ll get a wheelchair and take you out, okay? Hospital protocol. Oh . . .” She offered a wry smile. “I almost forgot. The doctor said to apply ice to that hard noggin of yours every hour or so.”
As the woman departed, Gwen, Owen, and Candace entered the recovery room. Gwen was pale. Owen looked honored to be included in the visit.
Candace, her face pinched with worry, skirted past both of them and clasped my hand, stroking me as if I were an injured kitten. “It’s my fault.” She sniffed back tears. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if something happened—”
“It’s not your fault.” I knew exactly whose fault it was. Mine. “Where’s Cinder?”
“Outside in Gwen’s car. He’s got water and the windows are open. It’s cool enough for now.”
Gwen wedged in beside Candace and glowered at me. Then to Owen she said, “Darlin’, I warned you about my pal Aspen, didn’t I? She’s Miss Save the World. Geez, but she drives me to drink. Thank heaven I own a bar and get the liquor for free. Well, not for free, but I can charge my liquor to overhead.”
Owen chuckled.
“Give me some room,” I said and threw back the sheet. I dangled my legs over the side of the bed and sat up, feeling no dizziness, which was a good sign.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Gwen demanded.
“They’ve released me. I’ve got work to do.”
“Are they nuts?” Gwen snatched my chart and scanned it. She clamped the chart back in place. “Aspen, you are so darned impulsive and bullheaded. And now bald.”
I gave her a sour look. “I’m not bald. I’ve got a bald patch.”
“This is your third visit to the hospital in three months. What does it take to get through to you?”
I’d had a couple of minor emergencies, all work-related events, including cutting myself in a garbological expedition, twisting my ankle as I ran from an angry subpoena recipient, and receiving my first black eye, compliments of a client’s ex-wife. But they were minor. As a therapist, I’d been slapped, choked, and pinned to the floor. Wounds of life, I’d christened the events.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you most certainly are not. You’re coming home with me. I’ll feed you and fend off creditors.”
I wasn’t up to arguing, but I wasn’t going to be easy prey. “Read my lips. I’m fine.” I scuttled off the bed and grabbed my jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt.
“Idiot.” Gwen shook her finger at me. Her curls bounced with fervor.
“Mother hen.”
“As stubborn as a mule.”
“Mules live long lives,” I countered.
“Brainless.”
I couldn’t come up with another retort, so I stuck my tongue out. Real adult. Candace giggled and covered her mouth, which pleased me. Gwen’s and my ridiculous exchange was defusing her stress. Mission accomplished. I glanced at the clothes in my arms and at Owen.
Getting the message, he said, “I’ll be outside.”
As he left, Sorcha McRae eased into the room while tapping on the door. She was dressed in black camp shorts, black T-shirt, and black Timberland boots. “Aspen, you’re awake?”
“And brimming with company.”
She quickly introduced herself to Gwen and hurried to me. “I can’t believe it. First the elevator plummeting and now this.”
“What elevator?” Gwen and Candace asked in unison.
I ignored the question. A conversation for another time. “How did you learn I was here, Sorcha?”
“Candace wrote Tripp, who told Jules.”
I gazed at Candace, who worked her lip between her teeth, and returned my gaze to Sorcha. “Why aren’t you at Ambrose Alley?”
“It’s my day off. My brother—I told you I had a brother, didn’t I?—he lives in Truckee. We’d planned to go hiking, but when I heard you were here—”
“You should know that the sheriff is questioning Finn as we speak.”
“They don’t think he killed Camille St. John and assaulted you, do they?”
“What’s his alibi for this morning around one a.m., taking Tripp to another AA meeting?”
Sorcha shifted feet.
“That’s what I thought.” I waved a hand. “He’s got an attorney. Let
the two of them hash it out with the sheriff’s people. Go. Be with your brother.”
Sorcha petted my shoulder. “Take care.” She turned to Candace. “You’re a lucky girl to have her in your life.”
“I know.”
As she left, Heather Bogart breezed into the room. “Oh, Aspen, are you all right?”
I gawked. “How did you know I was here?” Surely Candace hadn’t emailed her, too.
“I’m on a field trip.” She struggled to free her tank top straps from beneath the bands of her backpack, which caused her to drop the notepad she’d been holding. She swooped it off the floor and hurried to me. “I started taking architecture classes, like you suggested. We’re here to study building requirements for earthquake safety. When my teacher was signing us in, I saw your name on the white board. What happened to you? Your head . . .” She grimaced.
While Candace explained to Gwen who Heather was, I told Heather about the attack at Camille’s.
Pain filled her eyes. She blinked back tears. “I can’t believe a serial killer murdered my mother.”
“The sheriff isn’t sure of that.”
A female about Heather’s age poked her head inside. “Girl, c’mon.” She tapped her watch. “We’re moving.”
“I hope you feel better soon,” Heather said. “Call me.” She scribbled her cell phone number on a piece of notepaper, tore it off, and handed it to me. “Let’s have lunch.” Like a breath of fresh air, she was gone.
An hour later, after making a promise to Gwen to take things easy—a promise I hoped I could keep—the hospital released me, and I drove toward North Lake Tahoe. Candace, refusing to leave me, was asleep in the passenger seat with Cinder curled at her feet.
I adjusted the ice pack I was holding to my temple to ward off the excruciating headache and reviewed last night’s events. What if Finn Ambrose could account for his whereabouts at the time Camille was killed? What if somebody who knew that Ambrose Alley used dark-colored Suburbans as delivery vehicles was trying to frame Finn Ambrose by using a similarly colored vehicle?
I flashed on Tom Regent. He had the most to gain from Camille’s death. Where was he?
I reached the office, parked, woke Candace, and we strode into the bungalow. The cats were sunbathing in the anteroom. One hissed at Cinder. Smart dog, he found a spot near the door to lie down.
“Max?” I yelled.
My aunt emerged from the kitchen and glowered at me. “Nick warned me that you were determined to get back to work. He’s not happy. Neither am I. Nice hairdo.”
My hand reflexively flew to my head. The injury throbbed but I would survive.
Max drew closer and assessed the dressing. “Looks decent. You need to eat.”
“Stop. Please. Gwen and Candace have doled out all the mothering I can take for one day.”
“I could eat,” Candace said.
Max fetched two glasses of milk and two blueberry muffins. She handed them to Candace. “Make her eat one of these.”
“You make her,” Candace teased.
I grinned. How I enjoyed her spunk. I took a seat at the computer and logged on to the Internet.
Candace set the food to my right and pulled a chair close. She nibbled on her muffin. “It’s delicious.”
To appease my aunt, I took a swallow of milk and a bite of the muffin. Both tasted wonderful, but I would never admit it.
“By the way, Aspen,” Max said, “Yaz went to Ambrose Alley. He’s not sure he got the straight scoop. The technician can’t pin down why the elevator plummeted that day, but he assures Yaz the elevator has been repaired.”
“Good to know. And Darcy? Did she find anything about the Vittorio financials?”
“Not yet. She’s doing a deep dive.”
I clicked the search bar on the computer screen. “Max, how many SUVs do you figure look similar to a Suburban?”
“Go to Google and type in: Images of SUVs.”
I did and an array of choices materialized. SUVs from small to large. A couple of luxury SUVs resembled a Suburban, including the Lincoln Navigator, which made me think of Tom. I’d bet anything the Navigator I saw at the bowling alley was his. Tom would have had access to Camille’s office. Did he order flowers for Gloria using Camille’s credit card? Was that why she’d circled the charge on the invoice? Maybe she rang Tom after my visit and lit into him, and Tom, having had enough of Camille’s tongue-lashing for a lifetime, drove to her house and slit her throat. The gritty dirt on Camille’s kitchen floor could have come from caves Tom explored. Was Nick checking that angle?
Leaving Cinder with my aunt and taking Candace with me—she wouldn’t let me out of her sight—I climbed into the Jeep and sped toward KINC. Camille’s caveat that I never set foot in the studio again was no longer valid.
Chapter 35
The circus of television trucks and crews camped outside KINC didn’t shock me. Camille’s death was big news. I pushed through the crowd with Candace.
Inside the foyer stood half a dozen reporters, each with a microphone thrust forward, each shouting questions about the SUV seen in the area.
“Mr. Flacks will not meet with any of you, nor will Miss Morning.” Marie, the receptionist, aimed a pen at them. The remainder of her lunch, a quarter of a Big Mac and French fries, sat on the desk.
A matronly reporter tapped her clipboard with a pen. “Where’s Tom? We’re old friends. He’ll speak to me.”
“If you know him so well, you know where to find him.” Marie rubbed under her nose.
“Get Gloria Morning out here,” a big-nosed reporter yelled.
Marie shoved a French fry into her mouth.
“Her boss is dead,” the guy continued. “She needs to make a comment. Camille St. John was one of our own.”
Marie withdrew a nail file from a drawer and smoothed her burgundy nails. “No comment.”
I’d bet she had been waiting all morning to say that line. During the onslaught of invectives that followed, I glanced at the door that led to the studio. The reporters, although intent on getting their stories, weren’t trying to sneak in. Perhaps their reluctance had something to do with integrity. I, on the other hand, had no compunctions. I held a finger to my lips to Candace and steered her toward the door. Locked. Dang.
At the same time, Rick Tamblyn pushed through. His pants were perfectly creased, his white shirt starched. No tears stained his face. “What’s going on out here?” He glared at me as if I was causing the ruckus.
“Reporters,” I murmured. “They want to see Gloria. Let me see her first.”
He held the door open and signaled Marie. “Take a break.”
She didn’t hesitate. She tore into the bathroom.
Rick yelled at the mob, “Everybody, gather around. I’m ready to make a statement on KINC’s behalf.”
A salvo of who are you? followed, giving Candace and me enough time to squeeze through the door unnoticed.
We sped to Gloria’s dressing room. The door was ajar. I nudged it open.
Gloria sat hunched in the chair in front of her makeup mirror dabbing tear-swollen eyes with a tissue. When she spotted us, she shrieked. “Oh, heavens. Aspen, what happened to your head?”
“I’m fine.” I filled her in.
“You are so brave to have gone there. You could have been killed. Poor Camille. The sheriff said—” Gloria shuddered with convulsive sobs. Tears dripped onto her blue silk dress as she ripped the tissue into shreds. “The sheriff said it was horrible.”
“They’ve been here?”
She nodded meekly. “Detective Hernandez. He questioned everyone. Me, Beau, Rick. And he scoured Camille’s office.”
Someone burst through the door, grabbed my shoulder, and growled, “No reporters.” He yanked me away from Gloria.
“Beau, you dope, it’s Aspen,” Gloria said. “Let her go. She’s hurt.”
Candace moved toward Beau.
I blocked her path with one arm. “Sit.” She did.
Beau let go
of me, but the damage was done. My arm began to smart something fierce, which sent shooting pains into my cerebral cortex. And then my knee and shin throbbed.
“Sorry,” Beau muttered. “What happened to you?”
“Camille called Aspen for help,” Gloria said. “The killer hit her and escaped.”
“Why’d she call you?” Beau asked.
“Because she’s like Switzerland,” Candace said, repeating her earlier claim to me, “neutral.”
“Camille didn’t know who she could trust,” I said.
Gloria sniffed. “Meaning me.”
“Any of you.” I shot a look at Beau.
Beau threw up both hands. “I didn’t do it.”
Gloria sucked back a sob. “Oh, Aspen, I’m scared. And sad. And worried. This monster . . . killed again.”
Beau crossed to her. “Babe, don’t think about this any more today. You should go home and rest. We’ll cancel tonight’s show. Your fans will understand.”
“I can do the show.”
“Not when you’re this vulnerable.” Beau caressed her shoulder. “You’re in no shape to go under a barrage of hot lights.”
Gloria was relishing his attention. Why shouldn’t she? With Camille out of the picture, she could have Beau all to herself. I forced the nasty thought from my mind. Gloria did not kill Camille and slam me upside the head. Beau, on the other hand . . .
“Did you receive a note, Gloria?” I didn’t mention the partial note found at Camille’s. Nick or his people would want that information kept under wraps.
“No.” Her eyes widened. “Does this mean it’s a separate incident? Camille didn’t want to hurt me.”
“Of course she didn’t.” Beau brushed a single strand of hair off Gloria’s face.
Rick burst into the room. “Reporters are carnivores.” His shirttail was pulled free; his shirtsleeves were grimy. “Every last one of them.” He pointed at Gloria. “Except you, of course.”
“It’s their job,” she said.
“I gave them the basic response—the sheriff’s office is investigating—and told them to leave, but they want more.” He tucked his shirt into his trousers.
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