Night Shift

by Annelise Ryan

  “Did he admit to breaking into the Riley home?”

  Bob shakes his head. “No, that was likely other members of the militia, but they came away empty-handed because we got there first, thanks to you.”

  “And what about Danny’s laptop? Did that ever turn up?”

  “It did. Joel took it and turned it over to the militia when Danny started acting so crazy. He was afraid of what might be on it and didn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands.”

  “I have to give Joel credit for being clever and devious.”

  “You’re lucky he wasn’t being more devious that first night out at the farm. It was him you heard running in the barn and, later, driving off. He thought he had time before anyone would find Arthur’s body and he was in the process of trying to remove some of the plants when you and Devo showed up. Fortunately for you, he thought if he just took off, no one would find the plants. Unfortunately for him, he left the lights on downstairs and didn’t know the glow would show through those floorboards. It’s a good thing he decided to run. Otherwise, you might have... bought the farm that night.”

  He looks at me expectantly, his expression like that of a little boy who can’t wait for someone to see what he’s done. I make a face and groan, making him laugh.

  “Sorry, I can never resist a dorky pun,” he says.

  “I’m just jealous I didn’t think of it first,” I tell him. Then, on a more sobering note, I say, “Boy, when you think about what this militia group was doing and how close they came to pulling it off, it makes me scared for the future.”

  “I hear you. You don’t expect to find that kind of thing in a small town like ours, but that’s why they targeted us. They figured a sleepy little town like Sorenson with its surrounding farms was the perfect hideaway for their project. And targeting farmers was particularly brilliant on their part. So many of them are hurting financially right now and vulnerable to this sort of bribery. And a lot of the farmers are in sync with the anarchist’s anti-government beliefs because they feel let down by the government. Who knows how many more of these poison farms there are out there?”

  “The farmers feel that way because they have been let down by the government,” I say. “The future of our farms is very unpredictable these days.”

  “Speaking of futures, did you talk with Crystal today?”

  I shake my head, suppressing a shudder. “No. I spent the day trying to avoid her and it was easy, too easy, though I was able to escape from the hospital for part of the day to do some stuff for Agnes Silver.”

  “The hoarder lady?” Bob says.

  I nod. “She remains a work in progress,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “As for Crystal, I think she’s prepping to have me fired, but I can’t figure out which job she thinks I’m going to lose. I just hope it’s not both.”

  “Well, I can’t speak to the hospital job, but I’ll share a little insider information with you about this one.”

  “It won’t get you in trouble, will it?” I ask, hoping that even if it will he’ll want to tell me anyway.

  “And that, right there, is what’s going to save you in this job,” Bob says with an appreciative smile. “People come first with you and it’s obvious that you care. That came through loud and clear during this case and Chief Hanson is aware of it.”

  “That’s all well and good, and it might get me a pat on the shoulder at a cocktail party, but I’ve heard that Crystal’s new paramour, this judge, is eager to try to please her by putting pressure on the chief to replace me with her. And I imagine the chief isn’t too keen on ticking off a judge.”

  “That may have been true initially, but I think Judge McCallister has changed his point of view ever since it was pointed out to him that you were largely responsible for capturing the culprits who had formulated a plan to murder him. You saved his life, Hildy. And I have it on good authority that the chief and the judge hashed this issue out and resolved it in your favor. That outcome might have been helped by a small threat to reveal a certain affair to the judge’s wife.”

  “I’m not sure how I feel about that,” I say. “On the one hand, I’m glad for the outcome, but I’m not happy that it’s because of blackmail.”

  “Are you happy that the judge is cheating on his wife? Or that your boss is having an affair with a married man?”

  “No,” I admit with a frown. “But it seems there are a lot of ethical gray areas here. And a lot of them with my jobs.”

  Bob nods, looking somber. “I know, and Chief Hanson has agreed to address the issue. In fact, he has invited members of the hospital’s ethics committee to a luncheon with him and a rep from the sheriff’s department to discuss and formulate some guidelines for you on the matter.”

  “Really?” I say, surprised and pleased. “I think that will help. And speaking of the sheriff’s department, why didn’t you tell me that my job was going to include ride-alongs with them?”

  “Didn’t know it,” he says. “The chief opted to keep that little tidbit to himself and then sort of leaked it out.” He chuckles. “He had to do it in order to please the decision makers who gave him the grant. To be honest, I think he was afraid you’d back out of the job if he told you up front and he’s been committed to you from day one, Hildy. As have some other folks around here. I don’t think you’ll have to worry about having a job.”

  “Thanks, Bob. I appreciate that, given that I have a mortgage and a car payment to keep up with. And speaking of money, can we go spend some of yours? I not only have some furniture I want you to look at, I picked out some paint colors for your walls, and some window treatments that will let some sun in but keep nosy people out. I’m excited about it.”

  “I am, too, oddly enough.”

  “Why does that surprise you?”

  “Because I’m an old fuddy-duddy, stuck in my ways. I’m not one who embraces change most of the time.”

  “I beg to differ,” I tell him with a smile. “Look at the changes you’ve made with your health and your body. And with your social life. You’ve made some huge changes recently and you’ve not only embraced them, you’ve rocked them.”

  Bob smiles a bit bashfully. “Were you ever a cheerleader, Hildy? Because you certainly are good at boosting people’s spirits.”

  “A cheerleader?” I scoff. “Lord, no. I was one of the bad girls hanging out behind the bleachers smoking cigarettes and making fun of the cheerleaders.”

  Bob gives me a crooked smile. “I kind of wish I’d known you back then.”

  “No, you don’t,” I scoff, eyes wide. “Trust me. I was a hellion. But you know me now and that’s something, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know that I do know you yet,” he says with a curious look. “Something tells me I’ve only scratched the surface with you and there are more delights to be found.”

  “You do flatter me,” I say with an aw-shucks wave of my hand. “And I think you need to dig below the surface. What do you say you try to peel away another layer tonight?” I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively.

  Bob blushes and doesn’t answer. But he gets out of his chair, offers me his arm, and leads me on to our next adventure.

  Acknowledgments

  So many people are involved in the writing of my books. There are the friends, coworkers, and fellow writers who brainstorm with me and let me steal their witty bon mots; family members who provide love, support, and understanding when I beg off of social engagements because I need to write; and the endless parade of humanity I observe on a daily basis, always taking mental notes and stealing traits, characteristics, and bits of dialogue from them like a vampire.

  There is my agent, Adam Chromy, who believes in me more than I believe in myself at times. And there are all the folks at Kensington Books whose hard work goes into making my books a success. It is a pleasure and an honor to work with all of you. Thank you.

  Of course, the most important people are the readers. Without you, none of this would be possible. So thank you from the bottom of
my heart and happy reading!

  Did you miss the first book in the Helping Hands Mystery Series? No worries! Here’s a sample excerpt from NEEDLED TO DEATH. Keep reading to share the excitement.

  Chapter One

  I can still see the shadows of death on some of their faces, evident in the droop of their eyes, the taut, thin line of their lips, and the pale, pasty coloring of their skin from spending too much time indoors hiding away from society and life. It’s evident, too, in the tentative and wary way they walk, their shoulders hunched over defensively, as if they’re expecting another grievous blow to descend upon them at any second.

  Some people wear their cloak of grief for a long time. Others shrug it off in good time and good order, eager and able to get on with their lives, even if it’s only a few small steps at a time. The people who are with me tonight tend more toward the former group, and it’s my job to try to help them become members of the latter group.

  I’m about to start the session when a new face enters the room—a woman who looks to be in her mid-to-late forties—and I’m tempted to clap my hands with delight. This would be both inappropriate and unprofessional, so I quickly rein in the impulse and focus on forming a smile that looks warm and welcoming, and hopefully doesn’t show the excitement I feel. I hurry over to her, aware of the curious stares coming from the others in the room.

  “Hello,” I say. “Are you here for the bereavement group?” The question is rhetorical, since this woman is wearing her mantle of grief like a heavy shawl. Her face is expressionless, her shoulders are slumped, and her movements are sluggish and zombielike. She looks down at me—nearly everyone I meet looks down at me in the strictly physical sense, since I’m barely five feet tall—and nods mechanically.

  “Well, welcome,” I tell her, touching her arm with my hand. “I’m Hildy Schneider. I’m a social worker here at the hospital, and I run this group.”

  She nods again but says nothing. I suspect her loss is a recent one, very recent. Who was it? I wonder. Based on her age, a parent is a good guess if one assumes the natural order of things. But I’ve learned that death doesn’t care much for order.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, hoping to ease her out of the frozen, deer-in-the-headlights stance she currently has. She looks at me, but I get a strong sense that she doesn’t see me. I’ve encountered this before and suspect she’s mentally viewing some memory reel as it plays repeatedly. I tighten my touch on her arm slightly, hoping the physical connection will ground her. It does.

  She blinks several times, flashes an awkward, pained attempt at a smile, and says, “Sorry. I’m Sharon Cochran.” Her voice is mechanical, rote, with no lilt or feeling behind it.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Sharon,” I say. “Can I get you something to drink? A water, or some coffee?”

  She looks at me with brown eyes that are stone-cold and dull, and then shakes her head.

  “There are some cookies, too,” I say. “Can I get you one?”

  Again, she shakes her head, her gaze drifting away from mine. The others in the room have lowered the tenor of their conversations to soft, whispered murmurs, no doubt so the newcomer won’t hear them talking about her.

  “Sharon?” I say firmly, wanting to bring her attention back to me. “Have you ever been to a support group before?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Let me give you a brief overview of how the group works. We meet every week on Thursday evenings unless there is a holiday that falls on that day. In that case, we often meet the evening before. Attendance is totally voluntary. Come as little or as often as you want and come as many times and for as long as you want. Typically, I pick a topic for us to focus on each week, and I talk a little about that topic before opening things up to the group.” She is looking down at the purse she is clutching, fidgeting with its clasp, making it hard for me to tell if she’s hearing me or not. I continue anyway.

  “The members of the group have the option of discussing something relative to their individual grief issues and experiences, and if it happens to be related to the topic at hand, that’s great. But it doesn’t have to be. Anyone who wants to talk may do so, but there is also no obligation to do so. The others who are here tonight have all been coming for some time, and they do plenty of talking. You might feel like an outsider because of that, but I promise you that if you commit the time and effort to attending several sessions, that will dissipate. It’s a very friendly and supportive group of people, and all of them share one thing in common with you. They’ve all lost someone close to them.”

  She looks at me then, and I see the first spark of life in those mud brown eyes. “How?” she asks.

  I’m confused by the question. “How what?”

  “How did the others die?”

  “Oh. Well, there’s a mix. And rather than my trying to give you any background on the others, I think it will work better if you let them tell you their stories.” I again ponder who it is Sharon has lost. Maybe it was a spouse?

  “Any suicides?” she asks. Her eyes are scanning the others in the room.

  “Yes,” I say. “Did you lose someone to suicide?”

  She nods slowly, frowning and surveying the other attendees.

  “There is someone here who lost her husband to suicide,” I say. “She hasn’t had anyone else who shares her situation up until now. I can introduce you to her, if you like.”

  “No.” Flat, dead, robotic. “What about homicide?” she says, eyes still roving, though I get the sense that she isn’t focusing on anything or anyone.

  “What about it?” I reply, unsure where she’s going.

  “Has anyone here lost someone to murder?”

  “No.” Something in the back of my brain connects with something in my gut, and instinct makes me qualify my answer. “Well, none of the group members have lost anyone to murder,” I clarify, “but I have. My mother was murdered when I was little.”

  I see a spark of interest soften her face, and she looks me in the eye for the first time. “Did they catch who did it?” she asks, which strikes me as an odd thing to ask before expressing some token condolence or inquiring about the circumstances. Though most people merely make an awkward attempt at changing the subject whenever I bring it up.

  “No, they never did,” I tell her, feeling a familiar ache at the thought. I glance at the clock on the wall and see that it reads two minutes past seven. “I need to get things started,” I say. “But I’d like to talk with you some more after the group ends, if you can stay for a bit.”

  “Sure,” she says, and she gifts me with a tentative smile.

  I give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and then address the room at large, speaking loudly. “Okay, everyone, let’s get started.”

  This command is typically followed by one last dash to the snack table to get another cookie, or to top off a cup of coffee. Generally, I allow a minute or so for people to heed my request, and then I start regardless of what’s going on or who might be still hovering over the cookies. Tonight, however, the presence of a newcomer has intrigued everyone enough that things get changed up. The music of the various conversations stops as if on cue and everyone quickly claims a seat as if we are playing a game of musical chairs. I suspect they are eager to rubberneck on someone else’s misery for a change.

  The dynamics always change when someone new joins a group. Most of the time it’s a good thing, if knowing that someone is struggling with grief can ever be considered a good thing. I’ve been spearheading this group for nearly two years now, and its composition and size has ebbed and flowed, fluctuating with some regularity. This is good because when all the players stay the same, things can get stagnant. A little fresh blood always invigorates the group.

  I’ve had people who came only once, some who came for a handful of sessions, and two regulars who have been here since the group’s inception. The average stay is about ten to twelve weeks for most. Some come alone, others with friends or relatives. The size of the grou
p varies, too, having reached twenty-two people at its peak, though for the past two months it’s been a core group of nine. We are in Wisconsin, so in the winter months the weather sometimes forces cancellations or keeps the group smaller. Now that it’s springtime, I’ve been hoping the group would see some new blood.

  I always arrange the chairs in a circle, and while this configuration is designed to create a feeling of community and equality, people tend to form smaller niches within the larger circle, mini groups where they feel the most comfortable.

  My two die-hard attendees (though I should probably try to come up with a less offensive descriptor, under the circumstances), the ones who have been coming since I started the group, are Charlie Matheson and Betty Cronk.

  Charlie is in his fifties, a widower, with a full head of gray hair that typically stands like a rooster comb by the end of a session, thanks to his habit of running his hands through it. Charlie works here at the hospital in the maintenance department and fancies himself as some sort of soothsayer or prognosticator. He swears he can “read” people and predict their futures after chatting with them for a few minutes. While I don’t deny that the man has accurately predicted the behaviors of some of the group members in the past, it has less to do with any special powers he has than it does his ability to recognize when he has annoyed someone to the point of action. It didn’t take a wizard to figure out that Hailey Crane, a teenager who came to the group with her mother when her father died, would decide to leave the group after one session as Charlie predicted. The fact that, despite my attempts to rein him in, Charlie badgered the girl a couple of times to “open up” and “express yourself ” when she clearly didn’t want to be there helped with that prediction.