Last Whisper

by Carlene Thompson

  Brooke looked at Vincent reprovingly. “Those were what my mother used to politely call ‘fibs.’ Nice try, Vincent, but I have eyes. I can tell my presence and all the uproar surrounding me is making your father nervous. And you, too, for that matter.”

  “I’m not nervous!” Vincent burst out. Elise barked in fear of his loud voice and drew nearer to Brooke, who raised an eyebrow at Vincent.

  No, you don’t sound a bit nervous, he thought. You’ve been cool as a cucumber all day—unable to write, yelling at those policemen outside, treating that delivery boy as if he were dropping off a bomb instead of a pizza.

  “Okay. I am a little hyper today. But after all that’s happened, I think there would be something wrong with me if I were ‘cool as a cucumber,’ as you put it.” Vincent stepped into the room. “Brooke, you aren’t safe in your apartment.”

  “I’m not safe anywhere.” Brooke folded her nightgown and stuffed it into the tote bag. “Last night a message was left at my apartment, so I came here. And who should wake me up in the middle of the night looking in my window? Zach Tavell. Then he had a rose and another message delivered here.”

  Vincent would expect himself to put up an argument—he wouldn’t want to see any young woman put in jeopardy. But he recognized that he was deeply upset at the thought of Brooke leaving—more upset than he would have believed possible even this morning. He should just cool it and let her do what she wanted, he told himself. After all, she was an adult. And who said he knew what was best for everyone? He was acting stupid and it was time to stop, to back off, to let her do what she damned well pleased. But he couldn’t stem the words of protest streaming from his mouth.

  “Brooke, in your apartment, you’re alone. Here, you’re with two men.”

  “One of whom is . . . not up to peak capacity; the other I’ve known for twenty-four hours. It’s unfair and selfish for me to expect you to protect me.” Brooke stopped packing, looked at Vincent, and sighed. “You don’t know how much your concern means to me, especially since you hardly know me. And I’m not being polite—I’m being totally sincere. But you have your father to look after. Good heavens, he’s why you came home in the first place. As for me, I’m a lot tougher than I look.”

  “You just think you are.”

  “Don’t contradict,” Brooke said firmly. “Look, Vincent, I lost my father when I was eight, my grandmother wasn’t well even then, and my mother was emotionally immature—far too immature to be taking care of a child. God, on a whim she married a man she knew nothing about, a man with an assault record, a man who killed her when I was only eleven!”

  Brooke hated the tears she felt rising in her eyes and quickly blinked them away. “Vincent, I am not a little girl, even though I seemed like one yesterday after Mia’s murder. I am levelheaded, strong, and able to take care of myself in ways you probably can’t even imagine.” She looked unflinchingly into his deep green eyes. “I am largely responsible for Zach Tavell getting a life sentence in prison. He’s going to pay me back for that. If I run, he’ll just follow me. So, instead, I’m going home, to go on with my life and let him try to destroy me. And I do mean try because he can’t do it. Somewhere deep inside, I’ve always known this time would come. And I’ve prepared for it. But I’ve prepared to fight the battle here, in Charleston, on my turf.” She paused. “Vincent, I won’t let Zach win again.”

  Vincent stood quietly for a long moment, staring at a female he’d thought of almost as a vulnerable girl until five minutes ago. Now he realized she was a woman, and a forceful one at that. Still, he was certain she was getting carried away with her strength. But she wasn’t in the mood to take orders, especially from a near stranger.

  “Okay. I can see that arguing with you is useless. I just hope you win this battle, Brooke,” he finally said in a calm voice, although inwardly he was more disturbed than he could have imagined. “I hope more than anything that this time, you win.”

  3

  Elise seemed happy to enter the familiar apartment and ran immediately to her doggie bed to squeeze one of her squeaky fuzzy toys. Vincent was obviously not so happy. He commented that the apartment door felt flimsy, the window locks looked small and inadequate, and from the corner of one he could see the fire escape, which was close enough for a stalker to break in without breaking a sweat or pulling a muscle.

  “This is my home and I’m staying in it,” Brooke told him firmly, never flinching from his disapproving gaze.

  “Do as you please. I’m not saying anything.”

  “You’ve just made several criticisms of the place and you’re looking at me like I’m a dope for coming back here.”

  “I’m not looking at you like you’re a dope.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  He sighed gustily. “Have it your way.”

  “She should stay here if she wants to,” Stacy said from the doorway. “Did you miss this place, Brooke?”

  “I thought my coming back was best for several reasons.”

  “And Vincent doesn’t agree.”

  Vincent gave Stacy a long, cold look. “My opinion wasn’t solicited by Miss Yeager because, as she has told me in no uncertain terms, she does what she pleases.” He glanced at both of them. “Good night, ladies. Enjoy your evening.”

  He slammed the door behind him. Stacy looked at Brooke and grinned. “Looks like you’ve made quite an impression on the world-famous writer.”

  “A bad impression.”

  “Oh no. A very good one or he wouldn’t be so upset that you’ve deserted his presence.” Stacy frowned. “That’s what makes me worry about him. He just met you yesterday and already he’s obviously attached to you. I’m afraid you’ve attracted another Robert.”

  Brooke dropped her tote bag on the couch and shook her head. “He’s not at all like Robert, Stacy. I sensed something off about Robert’s romantic interest in me from the beginning, which is part of why I could kick myself for continuing to date him. I should always listen to my instincts. But I don’t sense anything from Vincent except concern.”

  “And attraction.”

  “I didn’t notice any particular attraction to me on his part.”

  “Then you’d better sharpen up those instincts, kiddo.” Stacy walked toward her, arms crossed over her substantial chest. “So why did you decide to come home tonight if it wasn’t to get away from Vincent?”

  “Because his father has Alzheimer’s and my presence was disturbing the routine that helps keep him on course. Besides, Zach Tavell knew I was staying at the Lockhart house anyway. Last night he was at the window, and today he sent a rose and a message.”

  Stacy’s arms dropped and her eyes widened. “What rose and what message?”

  Brooke turned back to her tote bag and began unpacking. “Oh, a florist delivered a white rose today,” she said casually. “Flowers for You was the name of the shop.”

  “The message, Brooke. What did the message say?”

  “ ‘Say hello to your mother for me.’ ”

  Stacy’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  “Zach wanted to freak me out.”

  “And did he?”

  “I was a bit shaken at first,” Brooke returned offhandedly, determined not to mention her craven flight to the refrigerator for a beer-gulping episode after reading the note. “But when you think about it, the message wasn’t particularly clever.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “No. It didn’t show a whole lot of imagination.”

  “Well, either you’re a good actress or you have a cooler head than I do,” Stacy said. “I would have been a wreck if I’d gotten that note with a rose.”

  “Jay would have calmed you down.”

  “My husband is strong and smart, but he’s not omnipotent.” Stacy paused. “At least I really know him, though. Vincent Lockhart, however, is an unknown quantity. When you think of the kind of books he writes—”

  “Which you love. And you’re certainly too bright to think that if people write about
murder, they want to commit it.” Brooke stifled a yawn. “I’m tired although I’ve done exactly nothing today. I even had a nap.”

  “It’s the strain. You need a good night’s sleep in your own bed with Jay and me nearby. As a matter of fact, I hear Jay opening our door now, finally home from work.” She patted Brooke on the cheek. “I’ll get out of your hair. You do whatever it is you do to relax and I’ll bet you’re having sweet dreams in a couple of hours.”

  But at midnight, after Brooke had taken a long, soothing bath and a couple of aspirins for a headache that had thumped dully ever since the flower delivery, she lay wide-awake listening to sounds floating up from the street. Traffic was light for a warm, dry summer night. She heard a couple of teenagers yelling at each other on the sidewalk until a man opened a window and told them to shut up or he’d call the police. After the shouting stopped, Brooke rolled onto her side, tensed, waiting to hear her front doorknob turning or stealthy footsteps on the fire escape, or an evil little peck at her bedroom window. When the phone rang, she nearly screamed.

  Brooke looked at the caller ID readout: White Willows Nursing Home 555-7333. She picked up the handset on the extra base by her bed. “Hello?”

  “Miss Yeager?” Before Brooke could answer, the familiar voice of Mrs. Camp, a registered nurse at White Willows, rushed on. “It’s your grandmother. She’s just had a stroke. I happened to be passing the room, thank goodness. She’s alive, but I don’t know how severe the stroke was. We’re rushing her to Charleston Area Medical Center as we always do when a patient suffers a serious incident. You need to get there now.”

  Brooke jumped out of bed, stripped off her nightgown, and slid into jeans and a T-shirt. She grabbed her purse and keys to her rented car, stepping into the hall, and dropped everything with a clatter. As she scrambled on the floor gathering the contents of her purse, running her hand around a shadowy corner where her keys seemed to be purposely eluding her, Stacy’s door opened. Jay stood tall and formidable, wearing only pajama bottoms, his short, sandy hair sticking straight up. “What’s going on, Brooke?” he asked sleepily.

  “My grandmother has had a stroke. She’s at Charleston Area Medical Center. I’m on my way.”

  Jay grew instantly alert. “Not by yourself. Come in here and wait. I’ll throw on some clothes and be ready to take you in five minutes.”

  By now Stacy had appeared, half-dressed. “I heard what you said to Jay.”

  “My keys,” Brooke said on the verge of tears. “I dropped them. I don’t trust that flimsy door lock, and I can’t shut the dead bolt from the outside without them.”

  “Go in our apartment and sit down for a minute,” Stacy said firmly. “I’ll find them and lock up. Then I’m going with the two of you.”

  “It’s late and you both have to work tomorrow—”

  Stacy stepped into the hall, took hold of Brooke’s arms and pulled her to a standing position. “You are not going to go out by yourself and Jay and I can each make it through tomorrow without a full night’s sleep. Now take a couple of deep breaths, stop thinking the worst, and wait for us to drive you to the hospital. That’s what friends are for.”

  After what seemed to Brooke like an eternity, they traveled through the nearly empty streets of Charleston, wound through a tangle of hallways at the hospital, and finally arrived at Greta Yeager’s room. Jay insisted on standing outside the hospital room while Stacy waited at the nurses’ desk. A nurse had said she would get the doctor immediately, but according to Stacy, “You can’t let up on these people for one minute or they’ll leave you waiting here half the night. You go see your grandmother and I’ll keep nagging until I get some action.” And so she would, Brooke thought with amusement in spite of her anxiety. These nurses had no idea exactly how maddeningly relentless Stacy Corrigan could be.

  Brooke entered her grandmother’s room slowly, her heart pounding, her forehead damp with perspiration. Greta lay motionless on the narrow hospital bed. Brooke had expected to see her wired to a tangle of tubes and wires, but only a clear tube leading from a saline solution bag had been inserted into her arm. Her white hair was brushed back from her round face, that had always been healthily pink until the last stroke, three months ago, which had left it almost as white as her hair. Her breathing was shallow, and Brooke saw that tonight’s stroke had drawn down the left side of her face.

  She took her grandmother’s cool hand. “Grossmutter,” she said softly. “It’s me. BAnI.”

  Her grandmother’s right eye opened slightly and shifted toward Brooke. She squeezed Brooke’s hand with her right hand. Apparently her right side had been unaffected by the stroke. “BAnI Brooke,” she managed in a slurred voice.

  “Yes. BAnI. Bunny Brooke. Are you in pain?”

  Greta slurred out another word that apparently started with an n, which Brooke accepted with relief as “no.” “I’m so sorry this happened,” she said lamely.

  Her grandmother muttered a few unintelligible words, then shut her mouth and her eye from the strain. Brooke squeezed her hand again as she felt tears pressing against her own eyes. She would not cry, she told herself. If Grossmutter opened her eye to see the tears, they would only alarm her. Holding back her grief and fear was hard, though. Greta had suffered several strokes over the past two years, and even to Brooke’s untrained eye, this one appeared worse than the others had.

  At last, Jay walked in and hovered above Brooke. “Stacy just told me the doctor would be here in a minute. She’s raised so much hell he’s afraid not to come as soon as possible.” He gave Brooke a tiny, tentative smile. “You know how tough my girl can be.”

  “I’m so glad both of you came with me,” Brooke said. “I don’t think I could have handled this alone.”

  “Neither of us would have dreamed of letting you come alone, even if there weren’t all this Zach Tavell business—”

  Greta’s right eye snapped open. The right side of her face—the mobile side—jerked and contorted. Her hand gripped Brooke’s. “Z-Zhach,” she muttered in agitation. “Zhack Ta . . . Ta . . .”

  “Jay was talking about Zach Tavell, Grossmutter, but Zack isn’t here,” Brooke reassured Greta.

  The right side of Greta’s face twisted into a grimace. “No, not . . . h-here. Nurshing home.”

  “No,” Brooke said. “Zach wasn’t at the nursing home.”

  “Was!” Greta insisted, her right eye filled with terror, her grip strong. “Come to my r-room. Zhack. Never forget him. Teufel!” Brooke ran through her rusty German vocabulary. Teufel—the Devil. “S-shaid . . . s-aid he come for you, BAnI,” Greta ground out. She gulped air and finally managed, “S-said he want you!”

  eight

  1

  Zachary Tavell had managed to break into White Willows Nursing Home to get to Greta, darling Greta who took care of me since I was eleven, and even before, Brooke thought. He’d done it to threaten me again, and look what he did to Grossmutter.

  Brooke took a shaky step away from the bed. I am so frightened, she thought. I cannot allow myself to get so frightened. I might faint, whimper, or do something further to upset Grossmutter, who’s barely holding on to life. I must lower my horrified eyes, force my hand in hers not to tremble, and keep my voice steady. “I think you had a dream, Grossmutter,” Brooke said kindly.

  That awful, fierce look blazed into Greta’s right eye again. “N-no. No d-d-dream. Real.” Saliva trickled down the right side of her chin and Brooke gently wiped it away. “Zhach real. Real!”

  “Okay, okay,” Brooke said robotically. “He was real. Is that what made you . . . sick?”

  A tear ran across the creases on Greta’s cheek. That was definitely a “yes.”

  “Well, you’re not at the nursing home now,” Brooke said soothingly. “You’re in a different building with people all around. Even a policeman. The man standing beside me is Jay Corrigan. Do you remember him? My next-door neighbor, the detective? You can’t get much safer than having a detective in the room by your beds
ide. You just close your eyes and rest. We won’t leave you. Not for one minute.”

  Slowly Greta’s grip on Brooke’s hand relaxed. Brooke took two steps back from her grandmother and turned to Jay. “Zach caused her stroke,” she said softly but urgently. “He was in the nursing home!”

  Jay frowned. “Not necessarily. At White Willows do unfamiliar visitors have to sign in at a reception desk?”

  “No. They lock the doors at eight in the evening. If anyone tries to enter or exit any one of the doors, an alarm goes off.”

  “Do they conduct a bed check at night?”

  “Yes. Even if a patient is well, they look several times an evening, and always around eleven, when it’s time to turn off the lights. A nurse just happened to be passing my grandmother’s room around twelve thirty and saw her having the stroke.”

  Jay glanced at his watch. “It’s ten minutes ’til one and your grandmother was rushed here immediately. If the doors were locked at eight, someone checked on her at eleven, and she was obviously fine. Do you think Zach managed to hide in the nursing home from before eight until after midnight when that nurse saw Greta having the stroke?”

  “He must have. Jay, they have a large and vigilant staff at White Willows, but Zach is a clever man. For heaven’s sake, he escaped from the penitentiary days ago and the police haven’t been able to catch him, even though he’s right here in Charleston. He came to Sam Lockhart’s house, and they still lost him!” She paused, realizing her voice had risen with her agitation. She said in what she hoped was a calmer tone, “Jay, I’m certain my grandmother did see Zach!”

  “I wouldn’t be absolutely certain she saw anything,” said a slight, balding man entering the room, Stacy hot on his heels. “I’m Dr. Morris and I assume you are Mrs. Yeager’s granddaughter,” he said, extending a hand to Brooke.

  “Yes. Brooke Yeager. And this is Jay Corrigan. He’s a homicide detective with the Charleston police. And the woman behind you is—”