by Patti Larsen
“You think it was him?” Why would he lure me out there when he had the chance to hurt me twice already? And yet, he hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with the information he claimed to have, and had made me come to see him alone in the dark. So maybe he was behind my attack.
But what possible reason would the paparazzo with a restraining order against him from a man who hated his guts and who he supposedly hated have to hurt me and protect who killed Skip?
“Do you think he did it?” I cleared my throat and realized I needed to clarify. “Do you think he’s the murderer?”
Crew hesitated. “I know there was no love lost between them. But motive, Fee. I just don’t see it.” He rubbed between his eyes with two fingers, weariness showing. When he met my gaze again, he seemed to snap out of his sharing mode and into protectiveness again. “Like I said, I don’t want you to worry. You need to focus on getting better.”
I let him go without protesting because even if I wanted to fight him on being part of the case or not, it appeared that option had been taken from me twofold. Not only was I in enough pain I really shouldn’t be thinking about who murdered Skip but with the loss of the investigation to the state troopers, there was nothing left to figure out.
The rest was up to them, apparently.
Mom and Daisy took Crew’s place a few minutes later. I was glad to see them, if only to silence the terrible voice in my head that whispered to me what a mess I’d made of things. And that promised me it would find a night or two along the way to add to my list of growing nightmares that jerked me awake and made me hug my pug tight while I fought the pounding of my terrified heart.
Something fabulous to look forward to.
Dr. Aberstock’s quick visit cleared me with his characteristic grin and an offer of a green lollipop that made me smile. How had he remembered my favorite after all these years? I sucked the sugar, the only thing I’d had to eat for almost twelve hours, and took my time getting dressed, letting Mom and Daisy do most of the work. Nor did I fight the wheelchair the orderly used to push me to the front door, or argue against the help they gave me into the back seat of Mom’s car.
Petunia pounced on me the second I was inside, rattling my brain a bit too much for comfort, but I snuggled her anyway, breathing through the nausea that movement caused in the scent of her fur.
I honestly don’t remember the drive home or how I got inside. I vaguely recall Betty hugging me, then Mary, the two acting about as uncharacteristically emotional as my dad had, though there was precedent as the sisters had broken down when they admitted they worried I was going to fire them way back in July.
Mom and Daisy were amazing, got me into pajamas, then into bed, a pair of pills pressed into my hand. I had no idea if they were Vicodin, had no reason to believe they were, but as I swallowed them with a sip of water and sank back into my pillows, the journey home almost too much for me to stay awake a second longer, I thought about Willow and Skip and my mind whispered I was forgetting something, wasn’t I? Something important.
It would have to wait for tomorrow. The second Petunia settled next to me, her soft snoring a lulling sound in the dark while Mom drew the curtains to cut off the light, I drifted into the peace offered by the painkillers and forgot I forgot until I opened my eyes into the next day.
And remembered.
***
Chapter Thirty Six
I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised to find Daisy on my sofa again, or her softly caring way of hovering around me as I made coffee—probably a bad idea to pour caffeine on a concussion, but whatever—and tried to go about my morning routine like nothing happened.
Made worse when Mom appeared, tsking at my cup of java, offering up two pills I swallowed reluctantly but knew if I was going to manage to function today past the pain I had to have them. And finally exhaled in irritation at the pair of them as they stared at me in anxious silence as if any second now I’d keel over and require assistance.
“Thank you,” I said, standing on shaking knees and gently but firmly guiding them both to the stairs. “But unless you plan to have a shower with me—no thanks!—you two can do me a huge solid and go upstairs and make sure this place isn’t falling apart.”
That worked, giving them something to do. But the mournful expression on Daisy’s face as she left, Petunia going with her, and Mom’s worried glances back over her shoulder were pretty clear indications I was in for a rough ride with them. This level of care from my friends and family was going to drive me around the bend.
I took my time in the shower, going slow, wincing when I washed my hair and tried not to touch the spot where the blow from the garden shovel Crew informed me the attacker used left a huge lump. Fortunately, my red mane was thick enough the handle didn’t split my scalp so I didn’t need stitches. But that didn’t seem to make much difference when it came to the ache and I wondered maybe if whoever hit me had opened my skull the pain would have had a place to go…?
Silly pondering, but a distraction from what I really needed to think about. The fact I’d somehow managed to shunt aside the story Matt and Evelyn told me about the young football up and comer and his untimely suicide.
Considering there were no other leads to pursue, it nagged at me, poking me here and there inside my sore and weary noggin while I contemplated shaving my legs before snorting at the very idea of bending over. I’d just have to stay hairy a few days.
By the time I toweled off, dizzy and a bit sick but glad to be clean, dressed and bundled my still damp and unbrushed hair into a disastrous bun at the base of my neck, I was ready to go back to bed. And had to sit down for a minute, more coffee to the rescue, while I tried one last time to sort through what had been plaguing me since I woke up.
The concussion and painkillers made it so hard to focus I actually had a flash of sympathy for Skip. Just a brief blip, mind you, a hiccup of solidarity in the face of this hideous feeling of detachment and wobbliness tied to a dull ache that I knew was way worse but I just didn’t process it right now thanks to the drugs. I could only imagine what the football star had felt after a lifetime of injuries and an overabundance of access to pain meds. How it could alter his personality, augment his natural violent tendencies. I certainly didn’t feel myself and to have this become the norm rather than the exception?
My entire body shuddered in response to the thought, making me wince and then flinch. I just wanted to feel human again and it had barely been a day.
I finally sighed into the empty mug in my hand and shrugged off the nagging thoughts about the dead young football star. Research into his situation was in order, but maybe I’d just pass it on to Crew. The idea of actually focusing on anything felt like about the biggest stretch ever and I just didn’t have it in me.
The stairs were impossibly long, and I was panting after three breaks by the time I reached the foyer. No way was I letting Mom or Dad or Daisy see me like this, let alone the Jones sisters. Though why I was being so stubborn about getting up I had no idea. Sense of responsibility, I guess, the familiarity of this place I now called home. I’d rest later, sleep and hopefully escape the ache and the wavering discomfort that was my world. But, for now, I needed to move.
I was surprised to find the kitchen empty, no sign of Mom or Betty. I moved with shuffling feet inside my slip on sneakers, feeling about as ancient as the two ladies who worked for me, maybe more, hating the slump of my shoulders and the moan worthy turtle speed that dragged at me while I forced one foot in front of the other.
Okay, maybe I really did need to go back to bed.
Someone knocked at the kitchen door, making me squeal and jump. I had to get a handle on that reaction to surprise, but after the few days I’d had I hoped no one would blame me for it. And didn’t really give a crap if they did.
When I turned, I was shocked to find Mila Martin peeking in the screen, her glasses flashing with the sunbeam that reached past her shoulder, her face pinched and shoulders as hunched as mine.
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br /> “I’m sorry to disturb you, Fee,” she said in her small voice, easing her body the rest of the way inside. “Are you okay? I heard about the attack.” Her fingers pushed at the bridge of her glasses before clutching together in a little puzzle in front of her as she clasped her hands together.
“I’ll be all right,” I said. Hesitated. “When did Crew let you out?”
She seemed to understand the implication of my question, maybe heard the edge of fear in my voice. This wasn’t like me, to suspect others of horrible things. Okay, well, perhaps I did. But I wasn’t afraid all the time. Was I?
“Late last night,” she said. “After.”
I nodded, wished I hadn’t moved my head, sank into the stool by the counter and sighed. “I’m glad he let you out.” Best I could do. “I know you didn’t kill Skip.”
“And Willow didn’t either.” She lunged toward me suddenly, her entire being shifting from retreating little mouse to pouncing cat and back again while I caught at the edge of the counter and tried not to meep once more. “I know it. I just need to prove it to those Neanderthals who are trying to take her into custody.”
“Wait, trying?” Crew said the troopers were there to take her last night. “She’s not gone yet?”
“They’re bullying her, but Julian has her barricaded in the station. He’s doing his lawyer thing, has a judge on the phone. It’s a big mess.” She sighed soft and low, like the tragedy that unfolded was the worst thing that ever happened to anyone. “Poor Willow.”
“I’m sure they’ll get it sorted out.” I, on the other hand, just wanted to lower my forehead to my forearms and close my eyes for a second. But Mila didn’t move, standing there, staring at me with something that looked like expectation so I guess I had to ask her what she wanted, right?
“I need into Willow’s room.” I should have expected that and almost laughed, except it would hurt too much. But Mila rushed on, closing the gap between us, her hands on my hands and her stringy brown hair brushing her cheeks as she leaned in when she went on. “Not for trophies, Fee. To find proof she’s innocent.” She blinked at me through those thick glasses. “I know she’s innocent.”
Whatever. I shrugged, waved off her grip and tried to care. “Fine.” I should have said no, I think, I just couldn’t muster it.
She beamed at me, clapped her hands. And grasped my fingers tight in hers, jerking me to my feet. “Come on!”
I don’t think she realized how close I was to throwing up on her comfortable looking shoes, or that by the time she had me at the bottom of the stairs that darkness was trying to close in around the edges again. Somehow I made it to the second floor, though like the day before I doubt I’ll ever remember the journey. I instead found myself sinking gratefully into the mattress of the four poster queen in the Green Suite, collapsing sideways while Mila puttered around Willow’s things.
This was a terrible idea. Where was Mom? Daisy? The Jones sisters? Who let this woman in, anyway? Oh, right. I did. I needed more drugs, apparently.
Mila’s face appeared in my view for a moment as she squealed so loudly I sat up, startled, a moment of clarity turning into a tumble to the floor as she dove for the head of the bed and hugged Willow’s pillow.
So much for no trophies. My view of her skewed sideways as my torso toppled to the side, my body collapsing all the way to the hardwood floor. I ended up on my back somehow, probably sliding over the slick surface of the newly polished wood and I stared up at the ceiling with its medallion and tasteful chandelier like I’d never seen it before.
At least, not from this perspective. But it was so bright, the sun beaming in on my face, and I turned my head away with a soft groan of protest, into the shadow under the bed. Ah. So much better.
And opened my eyes.
The pointed end of a syringe, uncapped and discarded out of normal view, seemed to give me the finger, a single drop of moisture beaded at the end.
***
Chapter Thirty Seven
Crew’s anger registered, but barely. I just grunted in response to the question he asked, not quite capable at the moment of understanding what it was he wanted from me. He really needed to do something about that vein in his forehead. It was getting bigger over time and might lead to serious medical issues if he wasn’t careful.
And hey, why was he mad at me, anyway? Didn’t I turn up a piece of evidence for him in my sadly beat up state? Something he and Dad both missed? So there, Sheriff Jerkman Turner. Go suck on that sad popsicle.
“Crew.” Dad’s intervention startled me, about as much as the realization I was sitting in the front room again. Wait, how did I get here? Oh, right. Mom showed up about a second after I found the syringe and called everyone to come. Or was that screamed? I seemed to recall screaming about me and the floor? Because I had been on the floor. But that was how I found the syringe.
My hands grasped at my head, the ache making it almost impossible to think about anything clearly.
“Here, sweetie.” Mom grasped my wrist, forced more pills into my hands, a glass of water. I laid my head back on the sofa a moment, closing my eyes, willing the drugs to work. I don’t recall much for the next little bit, but I do remember the moment the pain seemed to recede and I came back to myself. I opened my eyes and wished I hadn’t before forcing my body upright.
“Were there fingerprints on the syringe?” I must have interrupted a conversation because the heated whispering going on around me stopped and everyone stared. I blinked at them slowly, the pain waving goodbye, see you later, as it retreated in the wake of the pills. Which just made me wonky, but I’d take it. “Fingerprints.” I licked my lips. “People. The syringe from Willow’s room.”
Dad cleared his throat. “No,” he said. “Nothing.”
I accepted the water glass from Mom, cleared my mouth with a sip. “So another plant, more than likely.”
“Possibly,” Crew said. He was pacing and it was making things worse for me when I tried to look at him so I didn’t bother, staring instead at the shimmering surface of the liquid in my glass, wondering why I never noticed before how pretty water was in sunlight, the way it refracted into rainbows and bits of sparkles.
Yup. I was officially stoned.
“But.” That was Daisy who settled next to me, hand on my leg in an offer of comfort. I lifted my gaze to the pug sitting on my feet, her bulging eyes making me giggle. “It might be enough to shatter this game Julian’s playing with the troopers and get Willow arrested.”
“Wait,” I said. “You didn’t hand it over yet?” At least, that’s what I meant to say. I think it mostly came out, but not really coherent. But Crew seemed to understand the garbled words enough he shook his head.
“I don’t care what Olivia says,” he growled. “This is my case.”
Ah. Hurt boy pride. Got it.
Something dinged. And dinged again. I knew that sound, nodded as I realized what it was and then wondered why I was nodding to myself over the fact my phone was making noises. I tried to reach for it in my back pocket, feeling the vibration of the device against my skin like something totally alien and utterly shocking. Mom grabbed the glass out of my hand and only then did I realize I’d just let it go. I smiled at her, at least I think I did, fumbling my phone into my lap where I stared down at it and the number on the screen.
“Randy,” I said at last.
Dad lunged for my phone, Crew, too, but Mom beat them too it. I peeked around her capable hands as she checked the text, the words bleeding together as she read them.
“Sorry you were hurt. Had to book.” She frowned at little at the terminology. “Oh, he means he had to run away.”
“You don’t have to translate, Lucy,” Crew said between gritted teeth. He held one hand out for it but she ignored him and went on.
“Got there after you went down, help was coming. Still have info but don’t want to text. You earned it.” Mom grunted like she was offended. “I guess so.”
Only then did she give C
rew my phone. I wasn’t sure that was something I was okay with but I really couldn’t decide either way.
“Come here. No more cloak and dagger.” Crew read as he typed then hit send, the zinging sound of the text departing making my ears ring.
Only a moment passed before it dinged again and he read, “Tonight.”
No one seemed particularly happy about the delay, but it wasn’t like they had much choice. And since I was starting to smell colors—did you know the green of my mother’s eyes has the distinct scent of fresh mowed grass?—it was probably just as well.
Sleep was about as welcome as anything I’d ever been offered.
When I woke, it was getting dark outside, the full day lost to rest and recovery. I actually felt better, more alert, but didn’t turn down the meds Mom offered. Except, instead of two, I pocketed one and downed the other, hoping for a balance between being doped out of my mind and at a bearable level of pain.
It was still slow going, mind you, but the wonkiness was less and the dizziness had subsided to the point a bit of dry toast and a few mouthfuls of Mom’s tomato soup gave me a bit of energy and a warm place in my stomach. And though I knew the others were going to try to bully me into going back to bed, I was firmly seated at the counter when Randy’s next text came through.
Back door, I messaged. We’re waiting.
He had to know I wouldn’t be alone, but looked a bit nervous as he slipped through the kitchen door, almost sniffing the air, reminding me of an anxious rabbit checking out the scene before relaxing enough to eat the flowers in my garden. His compact body and dark brown clothing wasn’t helping the mental image and I had to fight a wave of hysterical giggles that tried to take me over.