Greta. The memory of her grandmother’s stroke washed over her. Grossmutter could have died between the time Brook left the hospital last night and now. She could have died, alone, while Brooke slept.
Shaken by the thought, she headed for the phone. A call to the nurses’ station on Greta’s floor assured her that her grandmother was alive, but the nurse refused to give details about the woman’s condition. “That’s up to the doctor,” she said crisply. “He makes rounds between nine and eleven in the mornings. You’ll have to come in and wait for him.”
Brooke hung up the phone and groaned. All she knew was that her grandmother was alive, not whether she was better or worse. The hospital staff acted like the woman’s condition was a state secret, to be kept even from her own granddaughter. But Brooke knew getting frustrated over stupid rules was useless. She would simply go to the hospital and be waiting for the doctor when he drifted in between nine and eleven. If he didn’t show up until late afternoon, she would still be waiting.
Brooke passed down the long hospital corridor to her grandmother’s room. She was glad she’d thrown on a light sweater. Even though it was in the midseventies outside, the hospital thermostat seemed to be set on sixty degrees. Over the years, Greta had spent a lot of time in hospitals, so Brooke had known what to expect.
Behind her walked one of the policemen charged with her surveillance. Brooke wished he would walk with her, but he insisted on marching along at least two steps behind, constantly looking left and right, like a Secret Service man guarding the president. He made Brooke feel conspicuous and silly.
Greta lay still as a corpse in her sun-washed room. Oddly enough, Brooke would have been reassured by seeing tubes and monitors attached to her grandmother. Brooke knew the sight would have given her the feeling the equipment was helping sustain Greta’s life. But the woman had experienced a stroke, not a heart attack. She didn’t need the impressive paraphernalia. Brooke had learned this when her grandmother had suffered her last two strokes over a period of fifteen months.
Brooke leaned over the bed and kissed her grandmother’s cool forehead. Greta’s skin looked and felt like white clay. Brooke’s heart seemed to jump when Greta’s blue eye snapped open. The woman blinked rapidly three times before she apparently recognized Brooke. “Hello, Grossmutter,” Brooke said, forcing a smile at the frail woman on the bed. “I’ve been up for ages, but I had to wait for visiting hours before I could come and see you.”
“Eyes,” Greta said in a dry, raw voice. “You . . . eyes.”
“Eyes? My eyes?” Brooke remembered her tumble out of the bed. “I fell out of bed this morning like I always did when I was a kid. No one hurt me. My eyes are just darkened by the fall. I meant to put on concealer, but I forgot. The shadows will fade by tomorrow. Thank goodness I didn’t break my nose like I did when I was thirteen!”
“B-blue eyes. Like mother.”
“Yes, my eyes are the same color as Mom’s. Daddy’s were darker.” A tear ran down Greta’s cheek. Brooke pulled a tissue from her pocket. “ ‘Thistle-colored eyes.’ That’s what color Daddy always said Mom’s eyes were,” she said as she dabbed the tear away from Greta’s dry skin. She pulled her chair closer to Greta’s bed, then removed a small bottle of lotion from her purse and began gently applying it around Greta’s cheeks and forehead. “Mom always said her eyes were Dutch iris. She thought that sounded prettier.”
“Remember,” Greta said almost clearly.
Brooke finished with the lotion, put some lip balm on her grandmother’s wrinkled lips. “Do you need another blanket?” she asked, taking Greta’s hand.
Greta shook her head and squeezed Brooke’s hand. “Z-zhack. Find him?”
“Not yet, but they will soon. He was wounded the other night. He’s likely to get treatment. Every hospital, clinic, and private practice in the area has been alerted about him. He can’t stay on the loose much longer.”
The right side of Greta’s mouth quirked. Brooke hoped it was her attempt at a smile. She continued to hold her grandmother’s hand and chattered about everyday things for half an hour. Then she couldn’t resist asking, “Grossmutter, are you sure you saw Zach in your room at White Willows? I don’t mean to doubt you, but the police seem to think it was impossible for him to have been there. I wondered if maybe after you’ve had more time to think about it, you realized you’d seen an orderly or a janitor or—”
Before she could finish, Greta squeezed her hand with tremendous force, given her condition. She wrenched the right side of her face into a grimace. “N-no! Zhack!”
Brooke squeezed her grandmother’s hand in return. “You’re sure.”
“Y-yes.” Greta’s right eyebrow drew toward the middle of her forehead. “M-ole.”
“Mole?”
“M-mole. His mo-mouf.”
“A mole near his mouth?” Brooke looked away from Greta at the window. Suddenly, Zach’s face flashed in front of her. Zach Tavell had a small mole beside his mouth. Through the years, Brooke had completely forgotten it.
She leaned over her grandmother. “The man who came into your room had a mole?” Greta blinked rapidly. She might remember a mole even if I didn’t, Brooke thought. But is that all she remembered? Brooke pointed her finger at the upper left side of her own mouth. “It was here.”
Greta grimaced again. “N-no.” Slowly, she raised her right arm and, after several jerking attempts, put her finger on the lower right side of her mouth—exactly where Zach’s mole had been.
The doctor seemed convinced Greta hadn’t seen Zach Tavell. He’d spoken of her altered thought processes, but for someone with impaired thinking processes, Brooke thought grimly, Greta certainly had an amazing memory.
An hour later, Brooke entered the beautifully maintained grounds of White Willows Nursing Home. As she drove over the curved driveway leading up to the main building, she looked around at the perfectly kept beds of pansies, petunias, marigolds, and impatiens.
In the middle of the grounds spread a large pond full of ducks, many of them the common white ducks, quite a few the vividly colored wood ducks and the male mallards with their beautiful emerald heads. And everywhere were white willows, for which the nursing home had been named. The few people Brooke had brought to the nursing home to visit Greta, such as Stacy and Jay, had commented on the beauty of the willows in summer. They’d been surprised when Brooke told them that salicin used in aspirin was derived from the bark of the willow. Stacy had actually laughed about the wit of the founder who’d named the nursing home after the tree that supplied ingredients for one of the most common drugs used in the place.
After Brooke left the hospital, she’d decided to stop by the nursing home to speak to Mrs. Camp, the nurse who always seemed to pay the most attention to Greta and the one who might know more about the possible entrance of Zach Tavell into Greta’s room than anyone else. After all, it was Mrs. Camp who had been on duty and called Brooke when Greta had the stroke.
Brooke entered the double doors and stood for a moment in the sunny foyer. To her right spread a large room filled with furniture covered in vinyl that looked remarkably like leather sitting on thick blue carpet. A bay window allowed sun to spill over well-tended plants, a white brick-faced fireplace, and a rack filled with recent magazines from Vogue to Field & Stream. A number of elderly people sat around talking with friends and family. In the corner, two men who looked to be in their late eighties hunched close to a television, squabbling about whether to watch the news or a game show with a sexy hostess.
Two administrative offices with doors closed sat on Brooke’s left, and straight ahead stretched the long admittance desk. She approached it to see four people talking while they worked on forms and answered phones. A young brown-eyed woman looked up at her.
“Hi,” she said, beaming. “May I help you?”
“You’re new,” Brooke blurted, suddenly suspicious of any employees who were unfamiliar.
The young woman looked slightly taken aback but said s
moothly, “Yes. I’m Miss Johnson. Rhonda. I just started yesterday.”
“Oh. Well, I was looking for—”
She broke off when Mrs. Camp walked up behind Rhonda, looking concerned. “Hello, Miss Yeager. Were you looking for me?” Brooke nodded. “How is your grandmother?”
“Holding her own so far. May I speak with you privately, or are you too busy?”
Mrs. Camp smiled. “Lucky for you, I’m on my lunch break. Let’s go to the cafeteria for some of their elegant cuisine.”
Fifteen minutes later, Brooke sat in the incredibly loud cafeteria with a piece of overcooked fish, peas as hard as BB pellets, and a cup of tapioca in front of her. “They give the good food to the patients and save the dregs for the staff,” Mrs. Camp said, the wrinkles around her hazel eyes deepening as she laughed. During the four years Greta had been in the nursing home, Brooke had never seen a drop of makeup on Mrs. Camp’s middle-aged face or a sign that she’d done anything except wash her curly salt-and-pepper hair. Her hands looked dry and reddened, as if they’d been scrubbed a dozen times a day for years.
The first thing Mrs. Camp wanted to know was everything the doctor had said about Greta’s condition. Brooke repeated it all as accurately as possible. “Her left side is paralyzed,” she added. “Do you think there’s a chance the paralysis could improve?”
She couldn’t help noting how absorbed Mrs. Camp became in chasing one of her peas to the edge of the plate. “There’s always a chance,” the nurse said. “After spending over twenty years in this field, I’ve learned there are few absolutes in medicine.”
Brooke waited for the woman to meet her gaze. After ten seconds, she said, “Mrs. Camp, I’m not a great believer in miracles. I have a feeling you aren’t, either, no matter what you say to the families of the sick people. All I’m asking for is your opinion, not a pronouncement carved in stone.”
Mrs. Camp dallied with her tapioca, then finally looked at her. “I think Greta is reaching the end, Brooke. You should prepare yourself, not over the next year, and not over the next few months.”
“Over the next few weeks.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Camp hesitated. “Or sooner.”
“Days.”
The woman nodded, then added, “But I could be wrong. I don’t have all the answers. I can’t predict—”
“She’s going to die within days.” Brooke’s voice was dull with hopelessness. “You really didn’t have to tell me. I felt it. I knew it—” She placed her hand over her heart. “I knew it here.”
Mrs. Camp seemed to retreat behind her hazel eyes as if she was searching for something comforting to say.
“Don’t feel bad,” Brooke uttered. “I didn’t come here for reassurance about my grandmother’s health that you can’t possibly give. I came to question you about what caused her stroke. Or rather, who caused it.”
Mrs. Camp’s expression morphed from guarded to shocked. “Who caused it? You think someone at White Willows did something to throw your grandmother into a stroke?”
“Not someone from White Willows.” Brooke ran the tip of her tongue over her suddenly dry lips. “You know my family history. You know about my mother’s murder, my testimony at my stepfather’s trial, his life sentence—”
Mrs. Camp reached across the table and patted Brooke on the arm. It was then Brooke realized her voice had begun to tremble.
“I know all about it, dear. You don’t need to go into details.”
“Do you know that my stepfather, Zachary Tavell, has escaped from Mount Olive Correctional Center and come to Charleston?”
“I knew he broke out and came to Charleston—it’s been on the news, although I made certain Greta never saw any of the newscasts and that no one mentioned Tavell’s escape to her—but I didn’t think he’d stay here. There must be a massive police hunt for him. It seems he’d want to get as far away from Charleston as possible.”
“There is a police search, but they don’t think Zach has left Charleston. He was wounded when he tried to get to me at a friend’s house night before last, but he still escaped and he hasn’t shown up for medical treatment. Apparently he’s not only elusive; he has a strong physical constitution,” Brooke said sourly. “Yesterday, he used a Charleston florist to send me a flower. A white rose. He gave my mother white roses. She died with her blood spilled all over a dozen of them. That’s why the case became known as ‘The Rose Murder.’ ”
Mrs. Camp’s hand fluttered to her throat. “My God, Brooke! How awful! I know about the blood on the roses when your mother died. Greta talked about it sometimes. But I had no idea Tavell had sent a rose to you. That’s despicable!”
“He’s a despicable human being. He hasn’t stopped with the murder of my mother or the torture of me. He caused my grandmother’s stroke. Literally. Mrs. Camp, he was here, in Grossmutter’s room.”
Mrs. Camp’s mouth opened slightly; then she vigorously shook her head. “No. That’s not possible.”
“I think it is possible. I just wanted you to help me find out how he managed it. After all, you’re closer to my grandmother now than even I am. You see her every day. You take special care of her.”
Mrs. Camp colored slightly. “I try to treat all the patients equally, but I have to admit I’ve always had a soft spot for Greta. I probably spend more time with her than I do with other patients. But that doesn’t mean I know how anyone could have gotten in here and scared her into a stroke. My goodness, Brooke, the doors automatically lock at eight. Afterward, no one can get in or out of here without setting off an alarm. I saw your grandmother having the stroke around midnight. That means Tavell would have needed to get in here before eight o’clock and spend the whole night until the doors were unlocked the next morning.”
“Which isn’t impossible.”
Mrs. Camp hesitated. “No, I guess it isn’t.”
“What I want to know is if you saw anyone or anything unusual that night, before or after my grandmother’s stroke. An orderly who didn’t look familiar? An ambulance attendant? Even a doctor?”
Mrs. Camp looked down at the table and frowned in thought. Finally she sighed and shook her head. “Nothing. I can’t remember anything that seemed wrong. I’m sorry I can’t be of any help, but I just don’t remember anything odd about last night.”
“That’s all right,” Brooke said, unable to mask the disappointment in her voice. “It’s not your fault.”
“Brooke, I know I shouldn’t interfere, but don’t you think you should leave Charleston until this man is caught?”
“Yes, I should leave, but I can’t. Or rather, I won’t. My grandmother means more to me than anyone in the world and I don’t believe she’ll survive this stroke.” She smiled thinly. “It’s another one of those things I feel in my heart. I won’t leave her to die alone, Mrs. Camp. I would never forgive myself.”
“Brooke?”
She looked up to see Vincent Lockhart standing over her. His black hair glistened under the harsh fluorescent lights and his intense forest green eyes seemed to see only her. He wore dark slacks, a pale green shirt, and a perfect golden tan. Brooke thought he looked jaw-droppingly handsome, and the gaze Mrs. Camp fastened on his face told Brooke the nurse thought the same thing.
“What a surprise,” Brooke finally got out, dumbfounded by his presence.
Vincent held up a steaming Styrofoam cup. “I was just taking a tour, asking a few questions, and I felt like I needed a jolt of caffeine.”
“The coffee in the place will give you more than a jolt,” Mrs. Camp said. “Sometimes I think it’s pure caffeine with a little brown water mixed in.”
Vincent looked at the nurse and smiled. She smiled back. Brooke watched them intently for a moment, then jerked back to reality. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce you.” Brooke could feel her face getting pink and she sounded rattled. “Eileen Camp, this is Vincent Lockhart.” The two barely had time to exchange a greeting before Brooke rushed on. “Mrs. Camp has been a nurse for over twenty years and
came to White Willows three years ago, just about the same time as my grandmother. Mrs. Camp, Vincent is from California. He’s an author.”
Mrs. Camp raised her straight eyebrows. “An author? How exciting! I’d like to be able to say I’ve read your books, but I stick to category romances and you don’t look like a romance writer to me.”
Vincent smiled. “No. I write true crime. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea.”
“Maybe not, but it’s quite impressive. I read the little romances because they don’t take a lot of concentration.” She abruptly rose from her seat. “Well, time for me to get back to work. I enjoyed the company, Brooke, if not the food. So nice to meet you, Mr. Lockhart. Wait until I tell my family I talked to a real author today!” She nearly tripped trying to escape and leave the two good-looking young people alone. “Bye, everyone!” she called, rushing out the door still holding her tray, which was supposed to be deposited on a conveyor belt that took it back to the kitchen.
“May I sit down?” Vincent asked Brooke, smiling slightly at Mrs. Camp’s flight from the cafeteria. Brooke wondered if the woman would slink back in with her tray or hold on to it until she and Vincent had left the room. She looked at Vincent and nodded.
He sat down and glanced at her fish. “That looks delicious.”
“I’m sure it would have been last week when it flopped up on the riverbank and died of old age.” She put down her fork and picked up the cup of lukewarm coffee. “What brings you to White Willows?”
“I’m not following you.”
“The thought never crossed my mind.”
“Sure it did.” Brooke colored. It had crossed her mind as soon as she’d seen him. “I’m here because of Dad,” Vincent said.
“He’s all right, isn’t he?”
“Actually, he’s sharp as a tack this morning, which makes me feel guilty for being here. But he’s only sharp half the time. The rest . . .” He shrugged. “He can’t live by himself much longer, and he’d never tolerate having a caregiver, some stranger messing around in Mom’s house. So, I’m checking out places for him. I put White Willows first on my list because you said your grandmother was here and you seemed satisfied with her care.”
Last Whisper Page 12
