The Swick and the Dead

by Maggie Foster

  She glanced at the lake as she drove by. The sailboats were out. They ran before the brisk Texas wind; full canvas deployed, bows cleaving the green water, heeled over to catch the sky. Jim’s motive for wanting to buy a sailboat was easy to understand. Ginny could almost taste the adrenaline. Too bad she didn’t feel the same way about tracking down Phyllis’ killer. She would do her best, but she wasn’t going to enjoy it.

  Organizing what she already knew could be done in private. Asking questions could not. And they weren’t going to be innocuous questions, either. What did you have for dinner last night? Where are you going on your vacation? Did you happen to kill Phyllis?

  Nor was there any reason to expect her coworkers to cooperate. It wasn’t as if she had any genuine authority. She was probably going to be told to go to Hell. She pulled the car into her garage, closed the door, and went inside.

  Her head was already hurting, the tension starting at the base of her skull, then spreading down her spine and across her shoulders. Was there any way she could fulfill her promise to Detective Tran without actually poking any hornet’s nests? Because she’d learned that lesson the hard way and didn’t want to do it again. Let someone else get stung this time.

  Even as the phrase formed in her mind, Ginny knew she couldn’t turn the responsibility over to anyone else. If she ever wanted to be able to look herself in the mirror again, she would have to do it herself. She felt her stomach churn and wondered if she was up to it.

  * * *

  Saturday afternoon

  Forbes residence

  Ginny dropped into a kitchen chair, crossed her arms on the table, and put her forehead down on them. “Why is everyone pushing me so hard?” She heard her mother sit down across the table from her.

  “Is that a real question?”

  Ginny looked up. “Yes. I don’t understand why everyone won’t just leave me alone.”

  “Because we care about you.”

  “Detective Tran doesn’t. All she cares about is solving this murder.”

  “You do her a disservice. I was very impressed with her last October.”

  “October! October! Why won’t anyone let me forget about last October?!”

  “Because you haven’t gotten over it, yet.”

  Ginny sat up, throwing her hand out in exasperation. “Do you know what Caroline did? She suggested I solve their crime for them. Like I was some sort of miracle worker. Wait until she hears that Tran has pressed me into service. She’ll be on my back until everyone is either dead or in jail.”

  Ginny put both hands down flat on the table. “I am NOT an investigator!”

  Her mother cocked her head to one side. “No?”

  “NO! I’m not a private eye, or a police officer, or an assistant district attorney. I’m a nurse.”

  Her mother got up, poured a cup of coffee and set it down in front of Ginny, then resumed her seat. “You’re also a genealogist.”

  Ginny reached for the sugar and cream. “Yes.”

  “And you spend a fair amount of your time at the hospital figuring out what’s going on with your patients, many of whom cannot tell you what they need.”

  Ginny wrinkled her nose. “True.”

  “In both of those settings you investigate.”

  “All right. I’ll give you that, but this—this is not my job.”

  “You’re angry.”

  “Yes! It’s NOT fair! Isn’t it bad enough that Phyllis has been murdered and all of us are suspects? Why is it my responsibility to find out who did it?”

  Mrs. Forbes caught Ginny’s eye and held it. “What are you afraid of, Ginny?”

  “Nothing!” Ginny set her cup down and rubbed her forehead. “Everything!”

  “Tell me.”

  Ginny swallowed, then tried to explain. “Can you imagine how hard it will be to work with these people if they think I’m spying on them? Most of them—maybe all of them—are innocent.”

  Mrs. Forbes nodded. “I see your point. Is what you can do for Detective Tran valuable enough to outweigh the disapproval?”

  Ginny sucked in a breath. “I don’t know. Why did she have to single me out?”

  “That’s easy. Because you showed her what you can do.”

  “You mean that spreadsheet?”

  “I mean you showed her you can think, even under pressure.”

  “Most ICU nurses can do that.”

  Her mother smiled. “You sank your teeth into the puzzle and didn’t let go.”

  Ginny made a face. It was true.

  “You’ve been doing that since you were a little girl. Stubborn. Determined. I used to have to pry you away from whatever it was you were doing to get you to eat.”

  Ginny felt her mouth twitch. That, also, was true.

  “I think, if you asked them, everyone on that suspect list—except the guilty party—will be happy to have this resolved as quickly as possible.”

  Ginny sighed. “That doesn’t mean they won’t resent my prying into their private lives.”

  Her mother lifted her coffee cup to her lips. “In my experience, if you ask people for their help, they’re happy to cooperate. It’s when someone tries to trick them that they get angry. It seems counter-intuitive when you’re looking for a killer, but what’s needed is transparency.”

  Ginny snorted. “That ought to be my middle name. I can’t hide a thing from anyone.”

  “Just be yourself.”

  Ginny nodded slowly. “So, full steam ahead and hope that whoever killed Phyllis doesn’t do the same to me.”

  “I’m betting you’ll get there first.”

  Ginny lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “Let’s hope you’re right.” She finished her coffee, then rose from the table. “I think I’ll get started on my notes for Detective Tran.” She paused in the doorway, then turned back. “How did you get to be so wise?”

  Her mother smiled, a bit crookedly. “I’m afraid it comes with experience.”

  Ginny nodded, then sighed. “I seem to be getting quite a lot of experience in murder. Let’s hope I can put it to good use.”

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  Day 3 – Sunday morning

  Auld Kirk

  Sunday morning dawned flawless, the sky brilliant with winter sun and the weatherman predicting a ten percent chance of snow in time for Christmas Day. It added a cheerful note to the holiday preparations.

  Ginny and her mother were sharing a hymnal, singing, in parts, the carols that accompanied the Advent season. Because of her work schedule, Ginny was not free to participate in divine service every week, but she was a trained chorister and never missed an opportunity to sing along, especially the descants. Most she knew by heart, so it was no surprise to find her eyes straying from the page to the front of the sanctuary.

  Among the duties of the Laird of Loch Lonach was the responsibility for reading the Sunday Lessons. As a result, his place was in the front pew on the right hand side of the church. As his heir, Jim’s place was beside him.

  Ginny studied the pair. They were of a similar height, with the same broad shoulders, though Jim’s filled his suit jacket more completely than did the older man’s. Both stood ramrod straight, the white head on one side, the dark blonde on the other, bending to the page, then looking up at the ceremonies going on behind the altar.

  The hymn ended, the Laird took his place at the lectern, and the congregation settled down to listen. The subject was courage.

  Ginny bit her lip. She was not feeling brave. She should be back to normal by now, but she wasn’t, and it scared her. She dropped her eyes to the prayer book, scowling at it, and tried to concentrate on the lesson. Trying to focus, praying for help, and guidance, and courage, and finding only silence.

  * * *

  Sunday late morning

  Streets of Dallas and environs

  Jim pulled out of the parking lot at his apartment, half his mind on the hazards of driving in a city the size of Dallas, the other half on Ginny. The physical
wounds had healed, but the psychological wounds remained. Hers showed. Did his? He frowned at the thought.

  He’d been focusing outward. It was easier that way. Much easier to concentrate on work and Ginny and the learning curve at the Homestead than to face mortality. Who wants to admit he will die someday, could die at any moment?

  If he was honest with himself, part of his frustration with Ginny was having to wait for her. He wanted to wed her and bed her and get children on her now, rather than later, to make sure he got the chance. Because he might die without warning. Almost had.

  Jim swallowed hard and glanced at the speedometer, then eased his foot back. People died on the Dallas roadways every day, but he’d rather not be one of them.

  He pulled up in front of Ginny’s house, seeing the door open and Ginny emerge. She was wearing brown slacks, ankle boots, and a pumpkin-colored sweater with a subtle texture that caught the December light and made it look soft, even from a distance. He wanted to touch it, touch her. He got out, came around the car and opened the door for her.

  “Are you ready?”

  She nodded, her eyes on his face. “What is it, Jim?”

  He slid a hand across her back, caressing the cashmere. “I’ll tell you after we’re rolling.”

  Jim had identified several sailboat retailers in the DFW area. The most likely were on the highway between Dallas and Denton. That gave them a good thirty minutes of driving time in which to talk. She waited to open the conversation until they headed north.

  “So, what is it that put that grim look in your eye?”

  “I hate feeling like a failure.”

  He heard the surprise in her voice. “You? The miracle worker who managed to defeat certain death?”

  “Me. The man who can’t cure cancer or prevent closed head injuries or persuade you to confide in him.”

  “Oh.”

  Jim had been thinking about what he was going to say. “I had hoped taking some of the load off your shoulders would help you heal. Grandfather tells me that was a mistake.”

  She shook her head. “Not at first. You handling the medical decisions—that helped.”

  He reached over and took her hand. “Thank you for that.”

  “But,” she said, “it’s time I went back to taking care of myself.”

  Jim waited long enough to be sure his voice didn’t betray him. “Does that mean cutting me out of your life?”

  “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid—” Jim stopped himself. “Can we find some middle ground?”

  She pulled her hand back. “Can you stop treating me like a half-wit child?”

  Jim frowned. “When I see something that can be corrected, I feel obliged to mention it.”

  “Mentioning is not what you’ve been doing.”

  “I made a promise I would take care of you.”

  She sighed. “Jim, you’re not at fault in this. It’s just time I took back the reins.”

  Jim was trying not to think about all the times he’d had to let a patient leave without treatment, knowing she would never return. “You want to make the decisions.”

  “About myself, yes.”

  He nodded, more to himself than to her. Whether he liked it or not, informed consent was a tenet of best practice in healthcare.

  She continued. “I want you to feel free to make suggestions, but not expect that I will do whatever you say.”

  “Even if I’m right and you’re wrong?”

  “How are we going to know who’s right if we don’t try both ways?”

  Jim bit off the retort that rose to his lips. This was no ignorant patient off the street. This was a trained ICU nurse. “Okay. I make suggestions, we talk about it, you decide. Will that do?”

  “It’s a start.”

  Jim felt a stab of annoyance. “What else do you want?” The question sounded peevish, a small child whining, and Jim kicked himself when she didn’t answer. “I’m sorry, Ginny. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Talk to me. Please.”

  He heard her take a deep breath. “Does that work both ways? Are you willing to talk to me?”

  Jim glanced at her, the corners of his mouth turning down. “I’m not the one having nightmares.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “What?” he demanded.

  “You’re too proud to admit you’re human.”

  Jim squirmed. “I cried.”

  “Did you?” She sounded interested.

  He nodded. “That’s why I had all those tissues in my pocket.”

  “And why you were gone so long.”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause. “You’ve never talked about it. Not to me.”

  “You had enough going on.”

  She turned toward him. “You cut me off, Jim. Every time I tried to ask, you changed the subject. So I stopped trying.”

  Jim admitted to himself that he hadn’t wanted to face his feelings, hadn’t felt he needed to. He glanced at her then put his eyes back on the road and eased off on the accelerator, again. The highway was typical of Texas, permanently under construction, and filled with the unrelenting Dallas traffic, sprinkled with suicidal drivers. He took a careful breath.

  “All right. Having established that I don’t have the slightest idea what I’m doing, can you tell me what you need, to help you move forward?”

  She was silent for a moment, then answered him. “I need to feel competent again, to be able to rely on my own judgment. I need to face my fears and overcome them. And I need—somehow—to find a way to trust you.”

  Jim felt his heart leap in his breast. “You can trust me, Ginny. Absolutely.” It was hard to be convincing without being able to make eye contact, but he hoped his tone of voice conveyed the depth of his feelings.

  “You’re not the problem. I am.”

  “But I can help. How to build trust is one of the things we studied in medical school. It starts with listening.”

  She sighed. “Men, even doctors, don’t want to listen to a woman complain. They want to fix the problem and move on.”

  “Is that what you need? Someone to listen to you? Because I can do that.”

  “You have better things to do with your time.”

  He took a breath. “We’ve known each other for—what? Two months? Two and a half?”

  “About that.”

  “Yet I feel as if I’ve always known you, as if we were friends before we met. I care about you. I want to do whatever it takes to help you get well. If you need to talk, then we’ll talk. Or, you talk and I’ll listen.”

  He waited through the long silence that followed. Eventually, he heard her stir.

  “Trust requires being vulnerable,” she said, “on both sides. It’s sort of like emotional blackmail. I let my hair down and expect you to reciprocate. Men hate that.”

  Jim frowned. “You’re right. Men hate emotional blackmail, but people need to be able to unload on one another, to be honest with someone they trust. It’s the nature of the beast. Even men need that so, unless you fight dirty, I don’t see a problem with being vulnerable. I’m just not very good at it.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Assuming you mean that—”

  “I do.”

  “—I’ll go first.” She took a breath. “I know I need to put this behind me, but every time I try to act normal, especially at work, I find myself making stupid mistakes.”

  “And catching them.”

  She nodded. “Yes, thank Heaven, but it scares me.”

  He nodded. “You need to rebuild your trust in yourself.”

  She threw her hand out. “How am I supposed to do that? I missed all the warning signs. Worse, actually. I ignored them. I deluded myself, lied to myself. How am I ever supposed to trust my own judgment again?”

  Jim took a minute before answering. “Trial and error. You try, you fail, you learn. You try again.” He looked over at her. “You have to believe you’re going to be all right.”

&nbs
p; “Eventually, yes, but I need time and everyone’s pushing me: you, Tran, Mother.”

  Jim blinked. “Detective Tran? What does she want?”

  “She wants me to spy on my coworkers. To root out their dirty little secrets and report back to her.”

  Jim frowned. “And you don’t want to.”

  “No, but I can’t get out of it.”

  “Why not? She can’t force you to help.” He heard her sigh.

  “Because I owe her for what she did for me, for us. If she hadn’t been willing to listen to you, there’s no telling who else might have died.”

  “I see your point.” The problem with Ginny, Jim thought, was that she could think straight. It was hard to argue with her conclusions.

  “Okay, my turn.” Jim took a breath. “You’re right. I’m afraid of losing you.” He glanced over, finding her eyes on him, then put his back on the road. “I’m afraid the minute you don’t need me anymore you’ll leave and never come back. Because of what he did.” He took a breath.

  “I understand you’re not ready to trust a man and I’m willing to wait, but in the meantime, I’m going to do everything in my power to prove you can trust me.” He reached over and slid his hand over hers, entwining their fingers.

  “I want you to feel safe with me, Ginny. Safe enough to be yourself. Believe me. I will never hurt you.”

  “Not on purpose.”

  “Not ever. I want you to feel free to ask me for help, or a hug, or to scream at me in frustration. Whatever you need to get you back to where you were before.”

  She sighed. “I’m not the same person I was.”

  “No. Neither am I.” He looked over at her. “Better, I hope. Give me the chance to prove it.”

  “I’m afraid you won’t like the new me.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Is the new you a serial killer?”

  “No!”

  “A slattern?”

  “No.”

  “A self-righteous know-it-all?”

  “A frightened, humbled used-to-know-it-all.”