A search of the two bedrooms and bathroom upstairs also revealed no bogeyman. The upstairs bath was the hardest room to search, as the music from Psycho and Jaws both played in my head at the same time.
Satisfied, I re-locked the door and slowly walked across the back lawn to Gus and Georgianne’s.
Clancy greeted me in the expected way, with disdain. How dare I leave her overnight, even with someone as nice as Gus? Not to mention forcing the indignity of Georgianne on her.
I whispered, “I’ll make it up to you,” and thanked Georgianne for her kindness. She harrumphed, but grudgingly said I was welcome.
Gus insisted on escorting me to my house. I didn’t let him know that I’d already checked it for goblins.
Clancy ran around smelling every piece of furniture and hidey-hole, just to make sure everything was okay in her fiefdom. As she bounced around, Gus whispered, “Do you think it’s wise to stay here by yourself?”
“There’s no need to whisper, Gus. I don’t have secrets from Clancy. Besides, I’m not alone. Clancy’s here and remember, she saved my life yesterday. I’ll be fine, I promise. And you’re just a back yard away. I swear I’ll call you if I need help.”
Gus finally agreed and listed several ways to contact him. He talked about bells, whistles, lights, signals, and finally agreed that the phone would be adequate until he could install an alarm which would buzz in his home if I punched a panic button that would be hooked up in several places in my house. As he turned to leave, murmuring about watts, wires, and what not, he appeared livelier than I’d seen him in years.
“I may be wrong, Gus, but you seem to be feeling a lot better. Lots of energy.”
“Well, it’s surprising, but with Dr. Burns dying and you almost dying, it’s kind of exciting around here. I don’t want to miss anything.” With that he hugged me and exited.
I wanted to crash for awhile, but thought I’d check my messages. I wasn’t surprised to find the message light blinking frantically.
Beep. “It’s Jen. Jill told me what happened. If you need anything let me know. Love you.”
Beep. “Sam, Ed. Glad you’re okay. Angie sends her love. Talk to you later.”
Beep. “I’m praying for you.” Pete. “Call me when you can.”
Beep. “I know I just saw you a few minutes ago,” Jill’s maternal voice made me smile, “but I wanted to make sure you were all right. Don’t forget to come into the office on Monday.”
Beep. “Sam. Rob. Glad you’re okay. Don’t worry about Dr. Burns’ killer. We’ll get him soon. And if someone did sabotage your gas line, we’ll find him too. Take care.”
Beep. “Hey, Mom.” Sarah. “Aunt Jill told us you were okay, so we’re not worried. We both want to know how you get yourself in these messes. Sometimes I feel like the Mom instead of the kid. Adam sends his love too. We’ll call again later. Get some rest.”
Two final messages.
Beep. “Sam, this is George Lansing.” B.H. “I’d like to come by your place around three if that’s okay. I want to talk about a few things. See ya then.”
Beep. “Hello. This is Michael O’Dear. I hope you’re feeling better. I’d like to stop by later today to see you. Maybe we can have dinner. Give me a call when you get a chance.”
It looked like I would be spending as much time with B.H. as with Michael. Yuck. Maybe I could make an appointment with the honorable detective and then not show up. Fitting revenge after all these years.
Clancy kept looking at me, as if I weren’t keeping my end of the bargain. “I promise we’ll walk later, Clancy. Georgianne said that she hired someone to take you for a long walk and you were gone over an hour. So don’t try to make me feel guilty for not going. We’ll go out later. I need to rest.” She halfheartedly accepted this compromise, but I had a feeling I’d pay for it later.
Before climbing into bed, I left a message for B.H. saying that 3:00 would be convenient. Same message for Michael, although with more warmth in my voice, and a different time. I told him to come by around 7, and we could go to dinner. Then, last but not least, I left an email through my on-line service for most of my sibs and my kids—the most common way we stayed in touch. Confident that I had tied up the loose ends of my life, I turned up the heat, removed all my clothing, and climbed into bed. One of the nurturing things in my life was Grandma’s quilt, guaranteed to make the scary things disappear.
When I woke up two hours later, I was famished. There were still a few more hours until B.H. would arrive to interview—or interrogate—me, so I decided to go to the market for some groceries. I put on my gray sweatpants and navy St. Francis U. sweatshirt, pulled on my boots and parka and was ready to roll. The nap had soothed my soul; now I needed something to soothe my stomach.
Clancy climbed in the car too, temporarily satisfied. This did not count as a walk, but at least it was an outing. Backing out into the alley—a horrible term for this upscale neighborhood—was always a precarious chore at best. It was difficult to see in either direction because of the many trees and bushes and because of the carriage house itself, built flush with the alley. When the trees were winter-bare I could see a little better, but not much. So I did my usual back-up, glancing in both directions and then flooring it. It had snowed and then warmed up a bit, so the asphalt road was slick, and I slid around a little.
Clancy yelped.
“Hey, leave me alone. You’re the one who wanted to come along.”
I’m a confident driver. That doesn’t mean I’m competent, just confident. I drive with alacrity, with aplomb, with speed. Normally I drive quickly through the alley, because other than the occasional garbage truck, traffic is sparse. There was no problem as I accelerated toward Sixteenth Street. The problem was stopping.
I saw the garbage truck a split second before I heard it. I stepped on the brake and felt the pedal depress all the way to the floor. I don’t remember which I said first—”Oh shit,” or “Sorry, Clancy.” Then blackness.
This was getting pretty old and so was I. My body felt like it had been run over by a truck. Not far from the truth. I opened my eyes and saw Jill’s face looking down at me.
“We gotta stop meeting like this, Dr. Jill.”
“Sam, just relax. You’re okay. Your car hit a garbage truck in the alley. The truck driver is fine too. Any more questions?”
“Yeah, but I can’t talk now…” I slept.
When I woke up she was still there.
I continued the conversation, “Yeah, I do have one question. Who in the hell messed up my car? I bet if you look you’ll see the brakes lines are cut or something.”
A grunting sound came from the corner. I tried to move my head but it hurt too much. Sooner than I would have liked, B.H. sauntered into view.
“You okay?” He actually looked like he cared. Good actor.
“Yeah, I’m fine, if you don’t count the sledgehammers going full bore into my brain. Where’s Clancy? She okay? Did you check the brakes on my car?”
“Clancy’s fine. Gus has her.” He looked a bit sheepish. “And actually we didn’t check your brakes. We didn’t suspect foul play, so we arranged for your car to go to the body shop. Well, anyway, I thought I’d help and I had the body shop pick up your car.” He had the good grace to stop talking when I gave him the look.
“Damn it, B.H., someone sabotaged my car. The brakes didn’t work. It wasn’t just the ice and I wasn’t speeding. Well, not much anyway. You can just tell the difference. Somebody screwed with my car and now we won’t be able to tell.”
“I’ll call the shop right away, Sam. And remind me not to do anything nice for you.” With a meager grunt, he left. I’d have to tell Georgianne to give B.H. “harrumphing” lessons. He wasn’t nearly as talented as she was in that regard.
I looked at Jill. “If he didn’t suspect foul play, then what in the hell was he doing here?”
“He heard the ambulance call over the radio and came in to see how you were. He was here as a friend, Sam, not
as a cop.”
That motherly tone crept into her voice again. Hell, I was the older sister, why did she always use that tone with me?
The doctor persona replaced the motherly/sisterly one. “I want to keep you overnight. I don’t think there’ll be any complications, but this wreck, coupled with the gas incident yesterday, has really assaulted your body. You need a night of uninterrupted sleep.”
Of course, I didn’t like the idea. Damn it, I wanted my date with Michael and I was going to have my date with Michael.
“I’m sorry but I just can’t stay. I’ve got too much to do.”
“You’re staying and there’ll be no discussion, argument, or whining. You were unconscious twice in less than twenty-four hours. That’s hard on anyone, but at your age…” She was smart enough to stop before she finished the sentence.
“Okay, okay.” I knew when I was licked.
“Oh, by the way, that Michael guy called and said he’d drop by later to see you.”
Satisfied that she’d cowed me into submission, Jill left to tie up some loose ends on her shift. That gave me time to think about what was going on. What was going on? First, I got the job I wanted. Then immediately after hiring me, my boss was killed. Two people basically confessed, Gwen and her brother, and I was convinced neither one of them was guilty, although Gwen was sitting in jail. Then the next day, I went to Dr. Burns’ house and met his wife, Carolyn. My bodily reactions convinced me she was the killer. I fainted, went home, inhaled gas, went to the ER, spent the night at Jill’s, came home, got in a wreck, and ended up at the hospital again. Gee, what’s wrong with this picture?
Someone had killed Burns and now, for all intents and purposes, someone had almost killed me. Were these things related? Or was this a completely different murder scheme? All of this was severely trying my patience, not to mention my mental capacity. So I did what any sane woman would do. I forgot about “whodunit” while I tidied up for Michael’s visit.
TEN
My face was bruised, my mouth felt like Clancy’s smelled, and I was tired, tired, tired. I grimaced at the mirror in the sterile hospital bathroom. Combing my hair was a real chore. Each brush stroke caused my teeth to grit, causing my head to hurt, causing my teeth to grit, causing my head to…I was getting dizzy from even thinking about the cause and effect of the situation. Luckily, I kept my hair short—I kept it blonde, too—so I didn’t have to spend much time on it. I decided against makeup, as I didn’t want to look as sluttish as Mrs. Burns. Today, slamming her didn’t feel as good, but I couldn’t stop.
I had just finished gently brushing my teeth and maneuvering my way back into bed when Michael peeked around the door. The sight of him brought with it lightheadedness. Ah, romance. He had a grin on his face, a bouquet in one hand, and champagne in the other. As his grin broadened, he motioned to someone in the hallway to follow him into the room.
As I sat dumbfounded, a waiter walked in pushing a table laden with food. I’d forgotten how hungry I was, but soon remembered as he lifted the lids off trays of pasta primavera, antipasto, garlic bread, and salad. One of my favorite meals and it was catered by one of my favorite restaurants, the Rectory.
“I figured the hospital would be trying to force feed you a bland diet, so…” Michael grinned, as proud of this maneuver as if he had executed a perfect “10” on the parallel bars. And he deserved to be proud. A fantastic coup—he captured my heart and my stomach with the same feat.
I watched as the waiter, with a goofy grin on his face, took the covers off the platters and set up the table.
This was virtually a dream come true for me. A man, handsome and intelligent, actually liked me. A man, romantic and kind, sat on my bed and was about to kiss me. Women have killed for this scenario. I moistened my lips, closed my eyes, prepared for the pucker, and wouldn’t you know it—the dizziness intensified.
“Michael, help.”
He leaned toward me. Just in time. The good part was that I didn’t have far to fall.
This scenario could have come straight out of a romance novel. I actually swooned. Michael did give me a nice place to land though.
“Are you all right? Should I call the nurse?” He helped me lie back on the pillows.
I tried pathetically to sound romantic, “No, I’m fine, just a little lightheaded. Probably from the accident.” I smoothed my hair and puckered my lips again.
Michael didn’t succumb to my womanly wiles. “Guess I better go if you aren’t feeling well. Should I leave the food?”
I didn’t know which I wanted more—Michael or the pasta. After a brief internal struggle I knew I wanted both. “Michael, don’t go. We can still enjoy the food. I can’t believe you did all this for me. I’d really like you to stay.”
He reddened a little and said, “I hate to admit this, but I don’t like hospitals. Don’t take this personally, but I think we ought to postpone this date until you’re better.”
Drat. There I was, reclining in bed and I still couldn’t get a kiss out of the guy. Of course, I was bruised and had on the hospital-gown-from-hell, but I wanted him to stay.
Michael spoke to the waiter, “How about leaving the food for an hour or so?” He handed the young man a folded bill.
“Sure thing, Mr. O’Dear.” As he turned to leave, I swear the waiter winked at me.
I batted my eyes at Michael, but it didn’t work. He took both my hands in his and said, “I’m sorry you don’t feel well. But it was good to see you just the same.”
Michael leaned over; I closed my eyes and prepared for the inevitable. Instead of giving me the passionate kiss I’d fantasized about, he planted a light one on my forehead. Right on a bruise.
The dizziness returned, but I didn’t tell Michael.
Before he left, Michael pulled the table over to my bed, and he helped me sit up with my feet dangling over the side. His smile as he exited gave me almost as big a thrill as the feast before me.
As I ate I pondered my latest calamity. Why in the world was my equilibrium in such a state of upheaval around Michael? I really liked this guy, although I hardly knew him. And I desperately wanted to know him.
It seemed strange that every time I was near him I got dizzy. Maybe I was just scared of a relationship. Maybe I had Meniere’s disease. Maybe I was allergic to Michael. Maybe I was obsessing again. So I pushed the tray aside and slept.
It had been years since I’d been in a hospital for an overnight stay. It was almost comforting that so much of the routine was the same. A smiling, nurturing nurse woke me up to give me a sleeping pill. Something clanging in the next room woke me again. Although the plastic bedpans were quieter than the old metal ones, I pictured some sadistic person in white making them clang anyway. Then a much too perky nurse roused me as she checked my blood pressure. I needed to get home so I could rest.
When I woke up the next morning, the restaurant table was gone. The waiter must have been much quieter than the nurses.
It was Sunday. I told the charge nurse I wanted to go to Mass. An aide helped me dress and insisted on delivering me to the chapel in a wheelchair. I insisted that I walk. I won.
Over the years, there’d been many changes in my life, but attending Mass wasn’t one of them. Our parents had instilled that faith in us, and I felt connected when I was in church. Connected not only to people all over the world, but also to my ancestors.
As I walked into the chapel, I noticed Pete was already there, arranging things on the altar. He was on the night shift this weekend and was just coming off duty. Pete was still a priest in good standing, but was on a temporary leave from his priestly assignment. He was allowed and even encouraged to use his “priestly faculties” and often helped out at the hospital with Mass and bringing Communion to bedridden patients. I dearly loved going to Mass when he was the celebrant. What a blessing to have a brother who was a priest, and a friend, too.
“Father Brother.” I smiled when I thought about how he got that name. When Pete was ordaine
d, Rob was on the verge of adolescence and didn’t like the idea that everybody was calling his brother “Father.” Mom tried to explain, but Rob started crying. When we asked him what was wrong, he said, “I don’t want him to be my father, I want him to still be my brother.” At that, Pete put his hand on his little brother’s shoulder and told him, “I’ll be your brother and I’ll be Father, too. You can still call me Pete, okay?” And Rob said, “Hey, you can be my Father Brother.” That’s how he got the name. And it stuck.
Pete hugged me gently during the sign of peace and flashed a grin when he gave me Communion. The Chapel only held a handful of people, so the service was short.
During the closing hymn—which Pete led in a booming, slightly off-key baritone—he looked toward me and raised an eyebrow. That was the sign he wanted to talk.
After another gentle hug Pete said, “You’re looking pretty energetic for someone who’s been gassed and hit by a truck.”
I thanked him, took his arm, and asked if he’d walk me back to my room. The bravado I’d shown by coming here without a wheelchair had been replaced by a painful exhaustion. I ached everywhere.
Pete adjusted his pace to mine. “What’s up with the murder investigation?”
“Nothing much. I know Carolyn Burns killed her husband,” I looked at Pete to see if he would make fun of me, “but I think she had an accomplice.”
Pete didn’t say anything, but he placed his hand on top of my own.
I continued, “There’s something about her books that bugs me. They’re good; maybe they’re too good. I mean, she’s not in the mental health field, but she writes as if she is. And Dr. Burns didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would have helped her with those details. I looked and the acknowledgements in her books didn’t thank anyone for helping.”
Who Killed My Boss? (Sam Darling Mystery #1) Page 8
