Megan was still on the couch, her face screwed up, tears drying on her cheeks. “I guess I’ve done it again. Bad things seem to happen when I’m around.”
Shannon patted Megan on the shoulder. “I’m sure Mark will be okay.”
Megan looked up at her sister. “I’m sorry I’ve caused you and Mark so much trouble,” she said. “Maybe I should load up my things and go.”
“Where?” Shannon asked. She realized how cold her response had been, so she hurried to say, “Megan, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want. Now, why don’t you freshen up. I’m going to treat you to dinner, and then maybe we can take in a movie.” Perhaps a comedy or a musical. Goodness knows I’ve had enough drama recently to last a lifetime.
THE RING FROM SHANNON’S PURSE CAME JUST AS THE WAITER delivered chips and salsa to the table. She nodded her thanks, then retrieved her phone. “Hello.”
“Reporting in,” Mark said. “A couple of Tylenol have suppressed my headache to a dull pounding. No double vision. No problem speaking or moving all extremities. The swelling’s going down after I used ice. In other words, once more my hard head saved me.”
Shannon smiled in spite of herself. “That’s good. So I guess you want me to promise not to check on you every hour.”
“Would you like me to drive back there so you can check me out in person? We could even order in something to eat.”
“We’re already at dinner,” Shannon said. “Afterward we’re headed to the theater for a movie. And I think you’d better stay right where you are.”
“But I’m—” There was a pause. “Remind me not to shake my head. It woke the little men with hammers. Anyway, I guess you’re right. I’ll fix myself a light supper and get a good night’s rest.”
Shannon felt a degree of relief. She almost wished Megan had stayed home as well. What Shannon would enjoy most was sitting alone in a dark movie theater, putting the events of the past twenty-four hours aside. “That’s fine. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She ended the call at the same time the waiter approached with their food. He placed it before them with the warning of waiters in Tex-Mex restaurants everywhere: “Hot plate.” Shannon suppressed the desire she had every time she heard that, the temptation to touch the plate to check its temperature. Instead, she nodded her thanks and took up her fork.
Shannon looked at Megan and the two hesitated. When they were growing up, their dad had always prayed before a meal, even in public, and it embarrassed them both. But he wasn’t here. Megan gave her head a small shake and dug into her enchiladas. Shannon hesitated and formed a single sentence in her head. God, I need some help here. As she chewed the first bite of her chile relleno, she wondered if that counted as saying grace.
THE KNOCKING CAME ABOUT 2:00 A.M. AT FIRST, SHANNON SIMPLY folded the noise into her dream, a scene in which she was standing in the midst of a home that was still under construction. No matter how she urged the carpenters to be quiet, despite her earnest entreaties, the workmen continued to ply their hammers. Finally, she struggled up from her dream to find that the noise represented someone pounding on her front door—someone who apparently had no intention of giving up or going away.
Shannon shoved her feet into slippers, wrapped her robe around her, and stumbled down the stairs. She flipped on the porch light and looked through the peephole, where she saw two uniformed policemen, one male and one female, taking turns banging on her door.
“Just a minute,” she said. She fumbled at the lock and security chain, and eventually swung the door wide. She made no attempt to hide her irritation as she asked, “What is it?”
The woman took a step forward, stopping at the threshold. “May we come in?”
Shannon’s brain kicked into high gear. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be good. The police wouldn’t come knocking on her door at this hour for something routine. Then again she could think of no valid reason to deny them entry. She stepped back and motioned both officers into the living room.
“Sorry to bother you,” the woman said. She looked familiar, but the reason danced just outside Shannon’s memory. “I’m Corporal Daley, and this is my partner, Officer Mikowski.” The male officer nodded. He was almost a head taller than Shannon’s five eight, and his blond hair, what there was of it, was in a buzz cut.
“What’s this about?” Shannon asked again.
“We’re looking for a Megan Frasier,” Daley said. “We were hoping you could help us find her.”
“Megan’s my sister. What do you want with her?”
“We need to ask her some questions about the man she’s been living with—Tony Lester.”
Has something happened to Tony? Did Megan hit him too hard with that bottle? Mark’s words came back to her—“He’ll be okay.” But despite that assurance, she had visions of a late complication, maybe a subdural hematoma or other bleeding into the brain. Was that what this was about?
“Why did you come here to look?” Shannon asked. She didn’t think Megan had told Tony where she was going when she left him. Had Mark let it slip while they were there?
“When we were in Mr. Lester’s house, we found your sister’s address book. Most of the addresses had been crossed out, but yours hadn’t. Same last name as hers, so we thought you could help us. Do you know where we can find her?”
Shannon thought for an instant about pleading ignorance, but she knew the lie would come back to haunt her. “She’s staying here—moved in less than twenty-four hours ago.”
Mikowski spoke for the first time. “We need to speak with her, ask her a few questions. Can you get her?”
“Does she need an attorney?”
Daley shook her head. “This is a field investigation, just a few questions. We can take your sister down to the station and let her call an attorney from there, but it would be simpler if she talked to us here.”
Shannon left the officers on the couch in her living room. Halfway to Megan’s room she remembered where she’d seen Daley before—at the scene of the shooting in her front yard. Was this about that incident? Surely not at 2:00 a.m.
“Do you think Tony would press charges for my hitting him with that bottle?” Megan slipped into a T-shirt and jeans as she talked.
“We’ll know more when we see what kind of questions they’re going to ask.”
When they were settled in the living room, Daley pulled a leather-covered notebook from her hip pocket. She opened it, and Megan said, “Are you going to read me my rights or something?”
“Not for this. Right now we just have a few questions.”
“I guess that’s okay,” Megan said.
“I understand you’d been living with Tony Lester for a while,” Daley said.
“Less than six months,” Megan said. “And I should have gotten out long before I did.”
“When did you last see him?”
Megan looked at her sister, and Shannon could almost read her thoughts. Should she reveal what happened at that last encounter? Megan was an accomplished liar—Shannon knew this from bitter experience—but, in the end, something always happened to trip her up. Better to be truthful. She gave a brief nod. Tell them.
“My sister’s boyfriend took me to the house yesterday afternoon. I’d moved out earlier, but I wanted to get the rest of my things.”
“And what was Mr. Lester’s state of mind at that time?” Daley’s expression revealed nothing. Her tone of voice was neutral. She might have been asking about the weather.
“He’d been drinking. He was really belligerent. Then, as we were leaving, he hit Mark. So I . . .”
Shannon gritted her teeth. Shut up. Don’t volunteer. Apparently Shannon’s extrasensory connection with her sister failed this time.
“I . . . I hit him in the head with a bottle—knocked him out.” Megan dabbed at her eyes. “Has he filed a complaint? Because Mark and I will testify that he attacked first.”
Mikowski shook his head. “No, Mr. Lester hasn’t filed a complaint. He can’t. H
e’s dead.”
FOUR
THE QUESTIONING LASTED ALMOST AN HOUR. FINALLY, DALEY pulled two cards from her pocket and handed one to each of the women. “Call me if you think of anything else. My cell number’s on the back. A detective should be in touch with you soon.”
After the door closed, Megan slumped back in her chair and squeezed her eyes shut. “This is a nightmare. What am I going to do?”
Shannon sighed. She’d been through a number of crises with her sister, but this one was the worst by far. “We’ll get through this. Right now we need some rest. We can talk about what to do in the morning.”
“Should we call Mom and Dad?”
Shannon was already shaking her head. “No. Dad needs his rest. Tomorrow—I guess it’s today now—he’ll be preaching. There’s nothing he or Mom can do tonight. We’ll let them know later.”
“What about calling a lawyer?”
“Think it through, Megan,” Shannon said, working to keep her voice calm. “It’s almost three in the morning. You haven’t been charged with anything. If Tony died from a blow to the head, the police would have taken you in for questioning, maybe charged you. They didn’t—matter of fact, they wouldn’t say much when I asked how he died.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I know I am,” Shannon said. “This probably has nothing to do with you except that you were one of the last people to see him alive. We’ll talk with the detectives when they contact us. If it looks like you need a lawyer, I know a criminal defense attorney who’s married to one of the doctors in the surgery department. We’ll call her when the time comes.”
In her bed, Shannon stared at the ceiling. Megan’s question about their parents made her think. It must be embarrassing for them to have a daughter who was in and out of trouble on a regular basis. Shannon didn’t want to shame them even more. She guessed that was the reason she went to church even when she didn’t feel like it, why she tried to be seen doing the right thing even when she didn’t really mean it. Did she want people to think well of her so they’d think well of her parents? And in the final analysis, was she really nothing more than a cardcarrying hypocrite?
Shannon knew that the Bible told her not to worry about tomorrow, that it would take care of itself. But she couldn’t let it go, so until the first rays of sun struck her bedroom blinds, she worried about the man who’d been shot on her lawn, she worried about the tangled web of her sister’s life, and—try as she might to avoid it—she worried about what was going to come next in her own life. Where would her relationship with Mark ultimately go? Would he propose to her? And, most bothersome of all, would she say yes if and when he did?
God, I need some help here. That was the second time in less than eight hours she’d had that thought. Or was it a prayer? She felt totally at sea. Dr. Shannon Frasier, the confident professional, the cool-as-ice surgeon, didn’t know what to do next. She just wanted to curl up in her dad’s arms and feel safe and secure again.
SHANNON WAS AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, A CUP OF COFFEE COOLING in front of her, when she heard Megan come down the stairs.
Wordlessly, Megan shuffled to the coffeemaker, poured a cup, and eased into the chair beside her sister.
The two women sat in silence for a moment. Then Shannon raised her cup in a salute. “Here’s looking at you, kid.” Her Bogart imitation was far from good, yet it had never failed to bring a smile to Megan’s face. This morning, despite everything, was no exception.
“Of all the sisters in all the world, I had to get one who fancies herself a mimic,” Megan said. Her expression turned serious as she said, “Shannon, I’m so sorry to get you involved in this mess.”
“Let’s don’t go there,” Shannon said. “What we have to do is see where we are and figure out what we need to do next.” She finished her coffee and shoved the cup away. “And while we’re at it, you should know what happened here before you called Friday night.”
Megan’s eyes widened as Shannon related the story of the shooting on her front lawn. “Why—”
“I have no idea why he was shot, why it was on my lawn, who he was, or anything else,” Shannon said. “Maybe when the detectives find out something, they’ll let me know. But in the meantime, I think our first priority is to clear up your status with the police in Tony’s death.”
“Well, the policewoman said we should hear from some detectives. Do we need to stick around, maybe try to call them?”
Shannon shook her head. “We don’t know who to call. They’ll find us when they’re ready. No, I’ve given it some thought. I think the best thing we could do this morning is go to church.”
As soon as the words were out of Shannon’s mouth, Megan’s expression changed from one of confusion to one that bordered on terror. “You mean Dad’s church?”
“Yes, Dad’s church. The one you and I attended when we were kids. The one I still attend.” She regretted coming down so hard on Megan with the last sentence, but Shannon had to admit she harbored some resentment. There were lots of Sundays she wanted to stay in bed, but she always showed up. It was hard work, being the “good sister.” But she didn’t want to embarrass her parents.
“Should we call to warn them or anything?”
“There’s not going to be a bolt of lightning or an outpouring of fire and brimstone when you walk in,” Shannon said. “We can sit in the back if you want to. But after the service, we need to talk with Mom and Dad, tell them what’s going on.”
“But I—”
“Megan, we’re going. They may not kill the fatted calf when they see you, but Mom and Dad aren’t going to turn their backs either. Whatever you may have done in the past, they’re still your parents . . . and mine.”
WITH THE FIRST NOTES OF THE ORGAN POSTLUDE, THE OLDER woman sitting next to Shannon and Megan gathered her Bible and purse, stood, extended her hand, and said, “We’re so glad to have you here today. I’m Elsie. Remind me of your names again, would you?”
“I’m Shannon. This is my sister, Megan.”
“Now isn’t that a coincidence? Pastor Frasier has two daughters by those names.”
“Elsie, I see you’ve met my daughters.”
Shannon knew the voice before she turned and saw her mom standing in the aisle. Sarah Frasier had the trim figure of a woman thirty years her junior. Her reddish-blond hair showed an unashamed touch of gray at the temples. Her blue eyes gleamed behind gold-rimmed glasses. She was, and had been for all of Shannon’s life, the perfect pastor’s wife. Only after Shannon was grown and living away from home did she realize how difficult it must have been at times for her mother to fill that role.
Her mom did what Shannon figured she must have done hundreds of times, easing Elsie away while avoiding any appearance of doing it. When they were finally alone, their mother hugged first Shannon, then Megan. There were tears in her eyes. “It’s good to see you both. You’ll come over to the house for lunch, won’t you? I know your dad wants to visit, and there’s no way we can do it here.”
A deer-in-the-headlights expression flitted across Megan’s face. She opened her mouth, but Shannon managed to speak first. “Of course. We’ll let you and Dad talk to everyone here, and we’ll see you at the house.”
“Do you have your key?” her mother asked.
“Of course.” Shannon saw the look Megan gave her, and a small thrill of satisfaction ran through her. Sure, I still have my key. I’m the good daughter, the responsible one. Remember?
As their mom walked away, Megan tugged at Shannon’s sleeve. “You didn’t tell me we’d have to have lunch with them.”
Shannon’s voice was firm. “I think you owe them a visit, don’t you? How long has it been since you saw Mom and Dad? Have you talked with them at all since you got out of rehab this last time? A hospitalization, I’d remind you, that they paid for.”
“I’m not sure. I guess I’ve been putting it off.”
“And speaking of rehab, are you still going to meetings? Didn’t they talk wit
h you about that when you left First Step?”
Megan was spared replying by a masculine voice behind them. “Dr. Frasier, I thought it was you. I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
Shannon turned to see Detective Steve Alston. “Nor have I seen you,” she said. “Are you a member here?”
“Yes. Since it’s a fairly good-sized congregation, and we have two morning services, I guess it’s understandable that I’ve missed you.”
Shannon could tell Megan was dying for an introduction, but she ignored the look her sister gave her. “Is this an official visit or just a coincidence?”
“Nothing official, so relax.” He turned to Megan and stuck out his hand. “I’m Steve Alston. And you are . . .”
“Shannon’s sister, Megan,” she said. “I’m staying with her right now.”
“Pleasure meeting you.”
“Me, too,” Megan said. “So how do you know Shannon? Are you a doctor, too?”
“No, I’m a detective. We met . . . Well, I think I’ll let Shannon tell you about that.”
Shannon decided she’d observed enough of the social niceties. Now it was time to get her sister out of here before she made a pass at the detective. “I’m sorry, but we really need to run. We’re meeting someone.” She took Megan’s elbow and guided her to the opposite end of the pew, into the aisle, and toward the door.
“Who was he?” Megan asked as they edged through the thinning crowd toward the parking lot.
“Steve . . . Detective Alston is one of the detectives investigating the shooting at my house on Friday night.” Shannon beeped her car unlocked and they both climbed in.
“Well, even though you’re in a relationship, I’m not. Why did we have to run off that quickly?”
Shannon kept her eyes on the car in front of her as she guided her blue Toyota out of the church parking lot. She guessed she should be used to her sister’s love life, if you could call it that. But this was too much. “Megan, your former live-in boyfriend is newly dead. The police were at my house to question you just hours ago. I don’t think you should begin the search for a replacement quite yet.” Shannon forced herself to smile and wave courteously at the elderly lady in a Buick who turned in front of her. “And definitely don’t start with a detective—especially that one.”
Critical Condition Page 4
