In Harm's Way

by E J Kindred

  “It’s been busy at the Wentworths’ home, hasn’t it? Lots of guests?”

  “Yes, but don’t you already know that?”

  “I imagine they talk about what happened.”

  “All the time.” I was willing to go along with whatever snowball he had rolling downhill in his mind, at least for the time being.

  “Do they talk with you about it?”

  “No, but why would they? I’m there to clean the house and occasionally serve dinner. Lupe and I talk about it, of course, but privately, not in front of the family or guests. What’s your point?”

  “But they talk in your presence?” He wasn’t going to let me disturb his train of thought, but I was getting an inkling of where he was going.

  “Sure, sometimes.”

  “I don’t mean this the way it’ll sound, but they do that—talk in front of you, I mean—because you’re essentially—” He stopped, searching for a word.

  I supplied it. “Invisible.”

  “I’m sorry, but yes.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for. Most of my more affluent clients give the help no more mind than they could a corner table. Doctor Wentworth was an exception. It used to bother me, but not now. Sometimes it works to my advantage because I can get my work done faster. Not a lot of distractions.”

  “Have you heard anything you think sounds off, that sounds as if it might help us figure out who killed the doctor?”

  “No, I haven’t, but I wouldn’t expect to. I mean, those people are his family members and friends. All three former wives and their families have visited more than once, and I swear he knew every doctor, nurse, orderly, pharmacist, and hospital administrator west of the Mississippi.”

  “Okay, I guess that makes sense. But if you do hear anything that doesn’t sound right to you, no matter how minor it might seem, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.” He took a business card from the desk drawer and wrote on it before sliding it across the desk to me. “That’s my cell number. Call or text me any time. Would you be willing to do that?”

  I picked the card up and read it, my mind churning. Patrick was right; the last thing I needed was involvement in another murder case. At least this time, I wasn’t a suspect, but there was nothing I could do to extricate myself. I was already involved, had been since I stepped outside the back door and saw the doctor’s body lying on the grass.

  I glanced up from the card to find Dean peering at me closely.

  “You have something on your mind?” he asked.

  My stomach clenched. Here it was, the perfect opportunity to tell the detective about my problems in Portland. I couldn’t do it. I knew I should, it was the right thing to do, but I was already emotionally raw after finding the doc’s body. I couldn’t bring myself to talk about my father, not today. I didn’t have the strength.

  I tucked Dean’s card into my pocket. “Okay, I’ll keep you up to date, but only on two conditions.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” He leaned his elbows on the desk and gave me another suspicious look. “Let’s hear it.”

  “First, try to keep an open mind about Mo. I’m telling you I’m right. Something has happened to her.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but I waved him off.

  “Yes, I know, you have to follow the evidence, and I’m not asking you not to, but I am asking you to consider that perhaps the evidence isn’t telling the whole story yet.”

  He hesitated. “And the second condition?”

  “To the extent you can, I want you to share with me everything you find out about Mo. I can’t begin to tell you how worried I am about her, and maybe I can help.”

  He sat back in his chair and peered at me through halfway squinted eyes.

  “You don’t scare easy, do you?” he finally said. “I’ve been a cop for almost twenty years, including ten as a detective, and I’ve never once had anyone give me conditions for cooperation.”

  “Maybe that should tell you how much I believe in my friend.”

  Chapter Six

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  I hadn’t thought Patrick would like the agreement I’d made with Dean, but the intensity of his reaction surprised me. “Patrick, let me—”

  “Let you what? Explain?” He dropped into the chair opposite me at Grandma Natalie’s kitchen table. “Oh, please do. Explain to me how you’re planning to feed information to the cops. Do tell me what a wonderful idea this is.” He leaned back in his chair and spread his arms wide, as if to say “go on.”

  After my meeting with Dean, I’d gone to Portland for my regular visit with Grandma Natalie. As frequently happened, Joe was there, too, and I told them about Dean’s request. Over my protests, he called Patrick. I was outnumbered.

  “All he wants me to do is tell him if I overhear anything that might help him find out who killed the doctor. That’s all. What’s so terrible about that?” I regretted that last line the moment I said it.

  “What’s terrible? Okay, let me see. First, does he have any idea he’s asking a woman who is a suspect in a murder to help him investigate a different murder?”

  “No, it’s not relevant. The cases are not related.”

  “Not relevant. Not related.” His tone had calmed, but still carried an undercurrent of incredulity. “So, let’s say you do hear something that might be important.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “And then let’s say that he asks you who said what and you tell him, and it turns out to be critical to solving the case.” He went from disbelieving to sarcastic.

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  “And then, to add to the fun, let’s say you turn out to be an important witness.”

  “Patrick, he’s not asking me to testify.”

  “Yeah,” Joe spoke up, “whatever she’d report that someone else said would be heresy, wouldn’t it?”

  “Hearsay, you moron,” Patrick said. “Not heresy.”

  “Pardon me for trying to lighten the mood.” Joe took a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and poured some for himself and Grandma Natalie.

  “But what is heresy,” Patrick said, “is that you have any notion you should be involved in this at all. I get it, you want to find out who killed the doctor and you want to help your friend. But you’re not the right person to do it.”

  “Why not? I’m in the house all the time. They talk about anything and everything as if I’m not there. Who knows what I could overhear that might be helpful? What I do know is Mo didn’t do it. Something happened to her, I just know it. She’s missing and everyone assumes she killed the doc and took off. She would never do that. All Dean Jarrett asked me to do is tell him if I hear anything that doesn’t seem right.”

  “But you didn’t come clean and tell him about Nicky.”

  “No. I tell you it’s not relevant.” I crossed my arms and glared at him, my stubborn streak asserting itself.

  “He’s going to find out, Annie. He’s an experienced homicide cop with several years on the Portland force. He knows everyone, probably including Beth O’Brien. He’ll find out, and when he does, he’ll blow a cork.” Patrick got up and paced. “And he’ll be justified because your status as a person of interest could very well scuttle his case.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “No?” He stopped pacing and leaned on the table across from me, using his height to advantage.

  “If they call you as a witness, how much credibility do you think you’d have if it came out in court that you’re involved in a different murder case? Credibility is all witnesses have, Annie, and yours would be nonexistent. And it would be worse if the defense brought it up in court, and nobody else knew about it.” He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “And then, what if he and the prosecutor talk about how you concealed information and they decide you’re a likely suspect? You said it yourself—you’re always in the house. You’re friends with the chef, which means you’ve been in the kitchen, and you know wher
e the knives are kept. You get my drift?”

  I couldn’t speak.

  Grandma Natalie rapped a knuckle on the table top. “You need to quit that job now and move back here.” Her tone was severe. “You have no business getting involved.”

  “I’m already involved, Grandma. I found the doc’s body. I can’t walk away.”

  “Yes, you can. You move back here pronto, and if they need you to testify about how you found that poor man, you can do that. But you have all of us and yourself to look out for. Mo sounds like a good person, and I’m sorry she’s missing, but you’re not alone in this world. Your family counts, too.” She’d pursed her lips into a white line, a sign I’d long recognized as meaning she wouldn’t tolerate any disagreement.

  Patrick finally sat down again. He reached across the table and took my hand. When he spoke, his tone was conciliatory.

  “She’s right, Annie.”

  “Of course, I am.” Grandma Natalie fairly radiated disapproval.

  “You need to remember the big picture here.” He released my hand. “I’m doing everything I can to keep your ass out of prison for a murder you didn’t commit. Don’t make my job any harder by galloping off to be a hero and then getting roped into a conviction.”

  “I’m not galloping anywhere. I’ll do my work and keep my eyes and ears open.” Now my turn came to rise and pace the length of the kitchen. “Has it occurred to any of you that having him on my side might be a good thing? If he knows Beth and if I help him with his case, maybe he’ll put in a good word for me with her. How could it hurt?”

  “Maybe.” Patrick’s tone was grudging. “But not if you hide important information from him. And I don’t care if you say it’s irrelevant. Right or wrong, and yes, it’s wrong, you’re a suspect in a murder. And whether you like it or not, the evidence as it exists right now points to you, that you shot Nicky in retaliation for the fire that killed your dad.”

  “Then why hasn’t Detective O’Brien arrested me?”

  “Because she’s cautious and good at what she does. She doesn’t believe the investigation is complete, so she’s continuing to work it. She won’t do anything to compromise the case. Making an arrest too soon is not good police work, and as I told you, she’s one of the best.”

  “Annie, sit down.” Grandma Natalie caught my hand and drew me into the chair next to her. “Move home, hon. Please. You’re not a cop, and you’re in no position to act like one. For all you know, someone in that house killed the doctor, so you might be in danger. Have you thought about that?”

  I had to admit I hadn’t, and it gave me pause. “Okay, Gram. I’ll move back, but”—I held up a hand to forestall the happy celebration I saw in her eyes— “after the case is closed. I have to make sure Mo is okay.” I took both of her hands in mine. “I’ll be extra careful, I promise. I’ll keep my phone with me all the time.”

  “No more leaving it in the car?”

  “I won’t leave it anywhere, so you can call me whenever you want. And the moment Mo is found and the cops figure out who killed the doc, I’ll pack up and move in here, and then you’ll regret it, because Shadow sheds like there’s no tomorrow.”

  She smiled with tears in her eyes and hugged me.

  I turned to Patrick. “And I’ll come clean with Dean the next time I see him. Good enough?”

  I had no difficulty keeping my promise to Patrick because Dean and I kept in touch by phone, mostly a few text messages. After all, I’d said that I would tell Dean about Nicky’s murder and the Portland investigation when I saw him, and I hadn’t. Had Patrick asked, I could claim to have kept my promise. Patrick would be angry at my attempt to sidestep a promise, but it was the best I had at the moment.

  As is common in the wake of a death, the initial outpouring of grief and support dwindled. After the first week, the doctor’s friends and colleagues went home, saddened by their loss, but called by the demands of their lives to resume normal activities. The wives and their families were still an almost constant presence. Lupe wondered, only half joking, whether they’d set up a schedule, because no sooner would one group leave than another arrived.

  “Maybe,” Lupe mused, “they’re hanging around to find out what the doc’s will says.”

  “I’d imagine that the doc would have given them all copies anyway. It would have been typical of him, just because he was so generous. Maybe they’re being supportive.”

  I’d been surprised to discover that my dad had a will. The only things of any value he owned were the bike shop and the house Grandma Natalie currently occupied. He’d bequeathed them in equal shares to Joe and me, but they were heavily mortgaged. When Grandma Natalie let me see his personal papers, I found that he’d also been thoughtful enough to carry life insurance. Joe and I were the beneficiaries in equal shares there, too, so we used the proceeds to pay off both mortgages. We liked knowing that Grandma Natalie would always have a home.

  Elise still wanted the big house cleaned, but less frequently, which was a relief. Both Lupe and I had long since wearied of her imperious demands. With fewer people dropping by, she seemed more reasonable in her requests. The lists on the whiteboard were shorter and more mundane than before.

  My schedule was cut to two days a week, which was fine with me. Being in the Wentworth house reminded me that Mo was still missing. After more than a month, I tried not to think of where she could be, but in my darkest moments, I wondered if she could possibly be dead.

  Every few days, I’d get a text or a voicemail from Dean, but I had nothing to report. My abbreviated work schedule and the decline in visitors meant my deal with him was unlikely to yield any new information.

  I was happy to have a lighter schedule. Once I wasn’t in the Wentworth home every day, I recognized how heavily the doctor’s murder weighed on me. For the first time in too long, I relaxed. I celebrated my extra free time by riding my bike more often, no matter how cold the early January weather was. A couple of times, Joe joined me. He was a lot faster than I was, but spending time with my free-spirited brother was a breath of fresh air I didn’t know I needed.

  At home in the evenings, reading a book or watching a movie with Shadow on my lap, I still felt I was missing something. I had a restless feeling I’d forgotten a detail, something I should remember that was half a memory out of reach. I tried to ignore the niggling in my head, but whenever I wasn’t actively engaged in working or spending time with friends and family, there it was, making me restless and distracted.

  A week after my argument with Patrick, I arrived home cold and wet from a long bike ride. The day had started out sunny, but clouds appeared, and when I was about fifteen miles from home, a light sprinkling turned into a soaking winter rain. I turned back and rode as hard as I could to try to stay warm, but I was still shivering by the time I got home.

  I cursed my own stupidity and headed for the shower. Shadow sat on the dry side of the shower curtain and let me know in no uncertain terms what an idiot I’d been. Hypothermia was no joke, he said, and I wasn’t about to argue.

  And then it came to me.

  I rinsed the shampoo from my hair and bolted from the shower, sending Shadow flying out of the room with a yowl. I grabbed my phone and called Dean.

  “I just remembered something,” I said when he answered. “It might not mean anything, but—” I was trying not to babble, but I was relieved to finally remember the thing that had been nudging me in the brain.

  “Slow down, Annie. What is it?”

  I told him about the argument I’d heard between the doctor and Number Four.

  “She was livid about Eric, the doc’s grandson, being there. He’s gay and she doesn’t want him in the house. Anyway, Doctor Wentworth told her he knew what she’d been doing and that someone’s wife knew, too.”

  “Slow down. You’re not making sense. Whose wife?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say a name.”

  “And what did he say she was doing?”

  “He didn’t,
but I thought it sounded as if Elise was cheating on him and he knew about it. The doc told her that Eric was welcome in the house, and she could leave if she didn’t like it, and she said she wasn’t going anywhere.”

  “Uh huh, go on.”

  I heard a pencil scratching in the background as Dean took notes.

  “And then she said he was stuck with her until he died and she didn’t think it would be much longer. I thought she was talking about him being so much older than she was, but given what happened, now I’m not so sure.”

  He was quiet. I could almost hear him thinking. “Did you tell anyone else about what you heard?”

  “Yes, I told Mo.”

  “When?”

  “Right then. I was headed home, and I went by the kitchen to say good night. I guess she saw I was unhappy or preoccupied or something, and she asked if I was okay. We talked about how much Elise hates gay people, which struck home for both of us, and I went home.”

  “What day did this happen?”

  I grabbed a calendar and went through the events in my mind. “There was the weekend holiday thing for all of the wives and their families. So it would have been Sunday”—I ran my finger down the column—“the third.”

  I stopped, unable to speak, but Dean broke the silence. “And he was killed sometime during the night of the twentieth.”

  “Two and half weeks later.”

  Neither of us spoke, but my mind was churning. Could this be nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence?

  “Uh, Dean—” I was reluctant to say what I was thinking.

  “I know,” he said. “Could be nothing, but thanks for telling me.”

  We didn’t have much to say after that, but I lay awake most of the night, wondering.

  The next day was a Saturday and the sun was out. I normally visited Grandma Natalie on Wednesdays, which was usually my day off, but I decided to go see her anyway. Ever since my argument with Patrick and her demand that I move back to Portland, she’d been distant, which worried me. I decided to talk with her in person, to let her know I’d keep my promise to her. I’d never been able to tolerate her being unhappy with me.