Mind Over Murder

by Allison Kingsley

  “Oh, man,” Molly said, shivering. “I had to ride in it when he took me to the station. It’s so creepy.”

  Knowing how much worse it must have been in the backseat, Clara felt bad for her.

  “So, what did he say?” Stephanie demanded.

  “Not a lot.” For some reason, Clara felt uncomfortable talking about it in front of Molly.

  Stephanie didn’t seem to have any qualms about it. “Did you tell him you thought Frannie might be in danger?”

  Molly gasped. “Is she? From what?”

  “We don’t know,” Clara said, giving Stephanie what she hoped was a meaningful look. “She just acts scared, and I thought she might be frightened of something. Or someone.”

  Molly looked disappointed. “Frannie is always scared of something.”

  “That’s what Dan said.” Clara stowed her purse under the counter. “Anyway, I feel better about it now. Did you guys know that a police car’s inside lights can be turned to red at night?”

  She went on to explain why, thankful for having successfully changed the subject. For no matter what Dan said, she couldn’t shake the idea that Frannie knew something about the murder and was too afraid to tell anyone. Maybe Frannie was right in suspecting Roberta. If so, they were up against a formidable foe.

  Apparently the Sense agreed with her, as later that night, just as she was leaving, the word danger kept repeating itself over and over in her mind.

  The day had been unusually cool for September, and the evening breeze carried a promise of fall as it drifted in from the ocean. The sun had already set, leaving just a faint, thin line of purple above the horizon. Even as she watched, that, too, disappeared, and the sea turned black.

  As she walked down the hill, she could see a faint circle of mist shrouding each of the streetlamps. A sure sign that the summer was dying. Soon the nights would be crisp and cool, and the days just pleasantly warm.

  It was her favorite time of the year, especially in Finn’s Harbor, when the trees were bathed in red and gold, painting the hills with glorious color.

  Immersed in anticipation of the approaching holidays, she was smiling as she walked across the parking lot to her car. At the far end she saw a red pickup turn onto the street, its taillights eventually vanishing into the darkness.

  It made her think of Rick, and she wondered if he’d gone to the Pizza Parlor the night before. Maybe he’d taken Roberta.

  Angry with herself, she dragged the car door open and flung herself onto the seat. Forget Rick.

  Good advice, but it was a little tough to do that when he was in her face every day. Roberta’s voice seemed to ring in her ears. It gives me the golden opportunity to be in his face every day, and trust me, eventually I’ll wear him down.

  Clara shook her head as she turned the key in the ignition.

  She had no doubt at all that Roberta would succeed. Any woman who had gone to such great lengths to get her man wouldn’t give up easily. She wasn’t sure whom to feel sorry for the most, Rick or herself.

  There she went again. Irritated, she slammed the car into reverse and shot out of the parking space, only to be brought up short by the thick hedge behind her. Shaken, she gave herself a mental shake. Calm down. The last thing she wanted to do was wrap the car around a lamppost.

  She pushed the gear into drive and pulled out of the parking lot onto an empty street. Her headlights lit up the sidewalk as she started down the hill toward the harbor. She was almost at the bottom, gathering speed, when a cat darted across the road in front of her.

  Her foot automatically smacked down on the brake pedal, and she braced for the screeching halt. The next moment, panic hit her full force. She was still racing down the hill.

  Clinging to the steering wheel, she pummeled the brake over and over, while the car headed straight for the harbor wall and the ocean beyond.

  Her first thought was that she was about to die. Hot on the heels of that thought came the determined vow to live, no matter what it took.

  She shoved the gear into park and shut off the engine. The emergency brake had no affect as she hurtled downward, her hand on the horn. Frantically she looked right and left, hoping to see something that would bring her car to a halt with a reasonable hope of surviving the impact.

  Stores whizzed past her on both sides at an alarming speed.

  Her only hope, she decided, was the vacant lot on the corner of Main and Harbor. It was coming up fast on her right. Praying as she’d never prayed before, she spun the wheel.

  The car bucked and swerved, and for a terrifying moment she thought it would turn over. Then the tires grabbed and she shot over the curb, flying through the air for several feet before she bounced down hard on the uneven surface.

  It was open ground before her and flat, but bordered on two sides by brick buildings. She had little room to maneuver, and she turned the wheel hard, hoping to keep the car moving in a circle until it slowed down.

  She almost made it. The rear end of the car just nicked the corner of a building, sending her fishtailing across the lot. She saw another wall coming at her and threw both her arms in front of her face.

  The last thing she remembered was the awful sound of tearing metal and somewhere in the distance the piercing shriek of brakes. Then nothing.

  Stephanie finished putting the last dish away in the dishwasher and pulled a sheet off the paper-towel holder to dry her hands. Glancing at her watch, she frowned, then called out to George in the living room. “Honey? What’s the time?”

  The babble of voices on the TV faded to a quiet hum. George’s tired voice answered her. “What was that?”

  “I said, what’s the time?” Stephanie poked her head into the living room, where her husband sat sprawled on the couch. “My watch says ten fifteen, but it can’t be that late, can it?”

  “I don’t see why not.” George nodded at the mantelpiece. “Ten fifteen on the dot. Time marches on.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “That time marches on or that you can’t keep track of it?”

  “Very funny.” She made a face at him and walked over to sit down next to him. “It’s just that Clara usually calls me when she gets home to let me know everything’s okay at the shop.”

  “Well, maybe she’s not home yet.”

  “Then where would she be?”

  “Why are you asking me? I’m not her keeper.”

  She stirred uneasily, a niggling worry beginning to attack her mind. In the old days, before Clara moved to New York, they could usually sense when one or the other was in trouble.

  Clara’s intuition was much stronger than hers, of course, but at least where Clara was concerned, she must have inherited just a slight twinge of the Quinn Sense. Or maybe it was just a common old sixth sense, but whatever it was, right now she could feel it, throbbing in the back of her head.

  “I’m going to call her,” she said, jumping to her feet so suddenly that George jerked his head back with a grunt of surprise.

  “What if she’s in bed?” He pushed himself upright on the couch, concern written all over his face.

  “Then she’ll have to wake up to answer.” Stephanie found her cell phone on the kitchen counter and rapidly thumbed out her cousin’s number.

  With the phone pressed to her ear, she walked back into the living room. “She’s not answering. Something’s wrong.”

  “Maybe she’s too tired to answer.”

  “She always answers me.”

  “She could be on a date and . . . ah . . . occupied.”

  Stephanie gave him a scathing look. “We’re talking about Clara here. Even if she did go on a date, which I seriously doubt, she wouldn’t be doing that on the first night.”

  George shrugged. “Nowadays most people do that on the first night.”

  “And how would you happen to know that?”

  “I watch TV, read the newspapers, and go on the Internet.”

  Too distracted to argue with him, Stephanie stabbed out anot
her number on her cell phone.

  “I hope you’re not calling the police,” George said, sounding alarmed.

  “I’m calling Aunt Jessie. She can at least tell me if Clara’s home.” Stephanie waited, heart pounding, while the line buzzed in her ear. “She’s not there, either,” she said at last as she snapped her phone shut.

  “They’re probably out somewhere together,” George said, reaching for the remote.

  Stephanie rolled her eyes at the ceiling, then rushed out of the room.

  George called out after her. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going over there.” She dragged her jacket from the hall closet and struggled into it. “Something’s wrong. I know it. I have to find out if she’s okay.”

  George appeared in the doorway, his face set in a stern scowl that warned her of a forthcoming argument. “I don’t want you going out there tonight. Just because Clara doesn’t answer her phone doesn’t have to mean she’s in some kind of dire situation. She won’t thank you for barging in on her if she doesn’t feel like talking to you.”

  Stephanie headed for the front door. “May I remind you,” she said over her shoulder, “that just a few days ago Ana Jordan was clubbed to death in my stockroom. Don’t tell me I’m overreacting. There’s a killer out there somewhere, and Clara has been asking questions and talking to the police. I’d say there’s plenty to worry about when she doesn’t answer her phone.”

  “Steph, wait a minute.” George started toward her, but just then her cell phone sang out, making her jump.

  “There she is now,” George said, his voice heavy with relief.

  He turned away from her and went back into the living room as she spoke into the phone. “Clara? Is that you?”

  Dan’s voice answered her, filling her with dread. “Stephanie? Sorry to call so late, but I thought you ought to know. It’s about Clara. I’m afraid she’s been involved in an accident.”

  Stephanie uttered a desperate little cry that brought George back to the door.

  “Who is it? Is it Clara? What’s going on?”

  “She’s been in an accident.” Stephanie fought back tears as she spoke into the phone again. “Dan? What happened? Is she all right?”

  Tears already falling, she waited for his reply, praying that he wouldn’t tell her Clara had been badly hurt. Or worse.

  11

  She had to be dreaming. If so, it was a painful dream. Her head felt like it was being split in two by a sledgehammer. Both her knees were held tight in some kind of vice that squeezed so hard the pain was almost unbearable. To make matters worse, Rick Sanders had appeared in her dream.

  He sat beside her, holding her hand. She tried to snatch it away, but for some reason her arm didn’t seem to be working. Whatever she was lying on rumbled and shook beneath her, and there was something covering her nose and mouth.

  She lifted her free hand to touch it and heard someone say, “She’s coming around.”

  “Thank God,” Rick muttered, and squeezed her fingers.

  She opened her mouth to tell him to go away, but the only sound she could make was a soft moan.

  “The meds will kick in soon,” someone said, and a boyish face above a white coat smiled down at her.

  She rolled her gaze back to Rick’s face. He looked awful. His hair was all mussed, and he had a deep scratch down one side of his face. She wanted to ask him what had happened to him, but her head hurt too much to even try to speak.

  “Hi,” he said, with a lopsided smile. “Welcome back.”

  She was beginning to remember. The car careening down the hill with no way to stop it. She was sure she was going to die.

  But it must have stopped because here she was. Unless she had died and this was in the next world.

  No, that couldn’t be. For one thing she hurt too much. Dead people couldn’t hurt, could they? Then there was Rick. If she was dead, then he was, too, because she could definitely feel the pressure of his hand. And he was talking to her.

  Only his voice was coming from a long way off, and she couldn’t . . . quite . . . understand . . .

  She opened her eyes with a jerk that hurt her head again. She couldn’t feel Rick’s hand anymore.

  The bed beneath her had stopped rumbling and rolling, and now she could see the room. Pale green walls, white ceiling with a bright light above her. Curtains pulled around her, and high bars on either side of her. A needle was attached to her arm, fastened there with white tape, and a tube led up to a bottle that steadily dripped from a stand above her head.

  She was in a hospital.

  She turned her head, wincing as pain sliced across her forehead and started throbbing behind her eyes. There was a gap in the curtains near the foot of the bed. Someone sat on a chair outside. She could just see a pair of jeans and brown boots.

  She tried out her voice. “Hello?”

  It sounded weak and raw, as if she had a bad cold. Whoever was outside had heard it, though. The jeans got up and Rick Sanders poked his head inside the curtain.

  “Hi there, Sleeping Beauty.” He walked over to the bed and stood smiling down at her. “How’s the headache?”

  She frowned. Even that hurt and she quickly straightened out her forehead. “How’d you know my head aches?”

  “The doc said you’ve got a slight concussion.” He sat down on a chair close by. “Other than that, you got away with a few bruises. You probably won’t feel like dancing a tango for a while, though.”

  “Just as well, since I’ve got two left feet.” She peered at him through a bright haze that hurt her eyes. “What happened to me?”

  His grin disappeared. “Your brakes went out. You made a rather spectacular entrance onto a vacant lot and tried to turn it into a racetrack.”

  Now she remembered. “I thought I was going to die.”

  “So did I.”

  The stark look on his face surprised her. “You saw it?”

  “I’d stopped off at the post office to mail some bills, and I heard your horn. I saw a little crowd gathering at the corner of Main and I got there just in time to see you charging across the lot. You hit the wall pretty hard. I wasn’t sure what I’d find when I got to your car.”

  She actually saw him shudder. “I don’t remember much after that.”

  He seemed to make an effort to collect his thoughts. “I was there ahead of the crowd and called Emergency for an ambulance. The whole front of your car was crushed. It’s totaled, by the way.”

  A wave of nausea took her by surprise, and she started pulling in deep breaths. Rick didn’t seem to notice, as he went on talking in a voice drained of emotion. “I couldn’t open the door, but I could see you half buried in your air bag. I smashed the window because I was afraid you’d suffocate, but the medics got there pretty fast, and they got the door open.”

  She remembered waking up in the ambulance. “You rode with me to the hospital.”

  “Yep.” Now he looked worried. “I . . . er . . . had to tell the medics a lie. They weren’t too excited about me riding with them.”

  “A lie?”

  “Yeah. I told them we were engaged.”

  “You what?” She started to lift her head, but the pain sliced behind her eyes, and she lay back with a groan.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. It was the only way I could get them to take me. You kept insisting you didn’t want them to call anyone, and I just thought you might feel better if you saw a familiar face when you woke up.”

  She waited for the agony to subside before opening her eyes.

  “You do realize that the news will be all over town by morning? That my mother will think I’m sleeping with you? What were you thinking?”

  “Sorry,” he said again, really sounding it this time. “I guess I didn’t stop to think. You looked so defenseless lying there, and I just wanted to be there when you woke up. I’ll explain everything to everyone. I promise.”

  The curtain swished aside at that moment and a woman in a nurse’s uniform swep
t in bearing a tray. “You’ll have to leave,” she said to Rick. “We’ve got things to do.”

  Rick stood and reached for Clara’s hand. “Have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She met his gaze and held it. “Please, don’t tell anyone. I’ll call my family myself later.”

  “Got it.” He gave her hand a squeeze, nodded at the nurse and disappeared through the curtain.

  The nurse looked after him and shook her head. “Such a charmer, that one. It’s hard to trust a charmer.”

  Clara was inclined to agree.

  “The police chief is outside,” the nurse added, unrolling the blood pressure monitor. “He wants a word with you when we’re done here. I told him it would be okay if you felt up to it.”

  Clara gave her a weak nod. She couldn’t imagine why Dan would want to talk to her now. She could only hope she wasn’t in any trouble.

  “I told you something was wrong. I told you!” Tears streaming down her face, Stephanie pummeled George’s arm as they raced down the highway.

  “Hey! Quit that or you’ll be sending us both to the hospital.”

  Stephanie just cried harder, sobbing into a wad of tissues until they were soaking wet.

  “Come on, Steph.” George released one of his hands from the wheel to give her a quick hug. “Dan said she wasn’t badly hurt. Just cuts and bruises, that’s all.”

  “And a c-concussion.”

  “A slight concussion, which is why they’re keeping her in the hospital overnight for observation.”

  “Oh, George. I should have been with her when she got there. Why did Dan wait so long to call me?”

  “He said Clara didn’t want him to call anyone. She didn’t want to upset everyone. She’s probably mad at him right now for calling you.” George swept onto the off-ramp and turned the corner.

  “Well, I’m glad he did.” Stephanie sniffed and blew her nose on the soggy tissues. “Thank goodness Mom was able to come over and watch the kids, or we would have had to bring them, too.”

  “That would have been fun,” George said, cursing as a red light forced him to a stop.

  “Did Dan say what happened?” Stephanie rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “I don’t remember much after you took the phone from me. I think I was in shock or something.”