White Elephant Dead

by Carolyn G. Hart

  “Not until she regains consciousness. He’s asked the hospital to notify him as soon as she does.”

  Annie rubbed her temple. She wasn’t sure why it throbbed, whether from anger, hunger or general frustration. Since she couldn’t banish Garrett to a remote cabin outside Maggody, Arkansas, with Roz Buchonon as a housemate, maybe she’d better find a vending machine. She needed to think.

  And dammit, where was Emma Clyde?

  A pink Rolls-Royce slid silently to the curb, majestic as the Queen Elizabeth.

  Max said, “Annie, I’ll bring some food.”

  And the door to the emergency cubicles swung open.

  Chapter 3

  Cary Martin was a good doctor. Annie was glad he was on duty tonight. He and Henny had become well acquainted during Henny’s stints as head of the Hospital Auxiliary. His long, narrow face was grave as he greeted them. “Hi, Annie.” He nodded more formally. “Mrs. Clyde.” Was there anyone on the island who didn’t know the famous mystery writer? “The hypothermia danger is past, but we don’t know the extent of the head injury.” They stood in a small cramped office at the end of the hall past the cubicles for patients.

  Annie fought a rush of disappointment. She’d hoped for reassurance that Henny definitely was going to be all right. She should have known the situation was uncertain when Cary ushered them in there, instead of taking them to see Henny.

  He gestured vaguely at a small sofa, waited for them to be seated, then folded his six feet seven inches onto a straight chair. “She responded well to the hypothermia treatment, hot packs and heated oxygen. One episode of ventricular fibrillation required cardiac massage. She’s stabilized. On an IV, of course, with antiarrhythmic drugs. The question now is the coma and whether she’ll come out of it. The good news is that the CT scan doesn’t show any massive lesions. Moreover, her eyes opened briefly. But edema from the head wound—”

  Emma’s bright blue eyes bored into his face. “Was she struck, Dr. Martin?” Emma got to the heart of it.

  Cary leaned back, tilting the chair. He stared up at a lazily whirring ceiling fan. “From the report of the medics, it doesn’t appear so. They said she was found with her head jammed against a fallen tree limb. One of them scraped off a trace of the tree. The bark appears to match particles in the wound. I’ll leave that to the police laboratory. I just spoke with Chief Garrett before I came out to get you.” He nodded toward Annie.

  Annie realized unhappily that Cary’s report could be used in support of Garrett’s hypothesis, although the medical evidence only proved that Henny ran up a path in the dark and fell. It certainly didn’t prove she was a murderer fleeing from her crime.

  “Hypothermia and a head wound.” Emma tapped her broad, blunt fingers on the sofa arm. “Have you examined her for any other trauma?”

  Annie looked at Emma in surprise.

  Cary answered promptly, “Her right forearm is bruised. A minor injury.”

  Annie remembered the way Henny was bunched on the ground. “But she fell on her left shoulder.”

  Emma’s blue eyes glowed. “What kind of bruise?”

  Cary looked from one to the other. “A roundish, two-inch discoloration located just above the elbow. Of course, I didn’t see her before she was moved. All I can say is that she either bumped her right forearm good and hard or she was struck a sharp blow.”

  “Is she going to be all right?” Annie asked in a small voice.

  Cary Martin rubbed a bristly chin. “She’s stabilized. There’s no alteration in fluid and electrolyte balance indicating brain damage. But we won’t know until—and unless—she regains consciousness. We’ll keep her in ICU until then.” Slowly he heaved to his feet. He moved toward the door. “We’ll take good care—”

  “Dr. Martin.” Emma was on her feet. She was looking up at a tall man, but nonetheless she dominated the room. “I’ve arranged for members of the Hospital Auxiliary to take around-the-clock shifts outside the intensive care unit. You know that Henny is a longtime member of the hospital board and has twice served as president of the auxiliary.”

  The doctor frowned.

  Emma continued briskly. “We won’t be in anyone’s way. Thank you so much for speaking with us.”

  She sailed toward the door.

  Annie scrambled to her feet and followed, feeling as outclassed as a cutter in the wake of a battleship. Obviously, it wasn’t lost on Emma that Henny might well still be in danger.

  In the hall, Emma headed for the back exit. Annie followed, though she had no idea where they were going or why. Emma pulled open the heavy door with a capable hand and charged up the interior stairs.

  On her heels, Annie said mildly, “Do you have a particular destination in mind?” If it was a stop at the women’s restroom, Annie knew there was one near the emergency waiting room next to the vending machines that were exerting a tidal pull on Annie.

  “ICU.” Emma’s tone was abstracted.

  Max sliced medium rare roast beef, piled it an inch thick on crusty white bread, added a swipe of tart mustard and a thicker layer of creamy horseradish mayonnaise, crisp romaine lettuce, slices of home-grown tomatoes, bread and butter pickles. As he worked, he took hasty bites of his own sandwich. He fixed two sandwiches for Annie, then wrapped three raspberry brownies in waxed paper and poured fresh coffee into a thermos. He worked quickly and efficiently, but his mind was focused on tomorrow and everything that needed to be done. It was clear that Chief Garrett considered Kathryn Girard’s murder solved. There was no suggestion he would look deep into Kathryn Girard’s background.

  Max checked the kitchen clock. Almost ten-thirty. He’d asked Billy Cameron to call with information about the contents of Kathryn’s purse. There had to be some personal information, enough to help Confidential Commissions begin a search for information on Kathryn.

  Max was filling the picnic basket when the phone rang.

  He reached for it with a grin. Good old Billy. “Hello.”

  “Parking lot. Seaside Inn. By the Dumpster. Fifteen minutes.” The connection was broken.

  The second-floor hallway was long, quiet and fairly dim. A sudden rising giggle sounded as peculiar as an oompah band at a blues nightclub.

  When they reached the nurses’ station, the night nurse was eating with slow, savoring bites a huge piece of delectable white cake frosted with a mixture of pineapple and crushed pecans. Annie exhibited the kind of character celebrated in John Buchan’s The Runagates Club and resisted lunging for the uneaten portion. She was so pukka sahib she deserved a ten-ounce filet mignon with béarnaise sauce.

  The giggler, well-known to Annie and indeed to all involved in good works on the island, bounced indefatigably to her feet, clutching a notebook. If she’d stood any straighter, Annie would have saluted.

  “Annie. Emma.” Pamela Potts’s dun-colored hair was contained within what looked like a mesh bag made of white netting. Annie dimly remembered her grandmother once talking about a snood, although perhaps she was just weak with hunger—the nurse took the last bite of cake—because “snood” didn’t sound like a word that would describe anything but a mound of something edible in a Dr. Seuss book. Pamela envisioned herself as an angel of mercy, so she was partial to white. Tonight her crisp blouse reminded Annie of water chestnuts and her stiff slacks would have pleased a meringue chef.

  Annie licked her lips. Was there an old bag of gummies in her purse? She fished in the oversize carryall but her scrabbling fingers encountered only the flotsam and jetsam of a purse but no food, not even a stray after-dinner mint.

  Pamela’s serious blue eyes gleamed with happiness. “I came on duty at nine-thirty-seven. Patient Henny Brawley is resting comfortably. No change in status. As a matter of course, I brought a Tropical Surprise cake for the staff”—a beaming smile at the night nurse, who gave a sigh of repletion; Annie’s hands clenched—” and have endeavored to make myself useful by answering the telephone. However, I have not stirred from my post, as I was instructed to keep th
e entrance to the ICU under observation at all times.”

  Emma nodded. “Very good, Pamela. I want to impress upon you the seriousness of your responsibility.”

  Pamela stood even straighter, her blue eyes shining in anticipation. A Serious Responsibility was elixir to her spirit.

  Emma’s voice had the resonance of The Shadow at his most mellifluous on his Mutual Broadcasting radio show. “It is the responsibility of the Women’s Auxiliary to protect Henny Brawley from further attack—”

  Annie looked at Emma sharply. Was it wise to be so open? After all, it wouldn’t take long for the word to get out that Chief Garrett planned to arrest Henny for Kathryn Girard’s murder.

  “—therefore every person who enters the ICU must be logged in by the auxiliary. With no exceptions.”

  The nurse smothered a tiny belch. “Dr. Woody will take her head off.”

  Emma’s smile was grim. “Dr. Woody may terrorize the staff, but he understands the power of the auxiliary.”

  Pamela and the nurse gazed at Emma with profound respect.

  Annie knew she was light-headed with hunger but something teased at her mind. Pamela had the imagination of a peanut butter jar—okay, she was seriously hungry—so whatever Pamela mentioned had a basis in fact.

  “Pamela, how many phone calls have you logged in?”

  Pamela thrust a notebook at Annie. The calls were logged in by time, the first at nine-forty. Six of the calls also listed names. There was no name by the call at nine-fifty-eight.

  Annie pointed at it.

  Pamela’s usually placid face creased in dismay. “I asked for the name. But the caller had such a bad cold—”

  Annie felt a prickle down her spine.

  “—that I could barely understand. Whoever it was wanted to know when Henny would be moved to a private room.”

  “What did you say?” Emma’s tone was gentle.

  Pamela tucked a vagrant sprig of hair beneath the snood. “I said the patient would remain in intensive care until she regained consciousness.”

  Annie stared at the door to the ICU. Behind that door, Henny lay defenseless. “Emma—”

  Emma raised a hand to silence Annie, but their eyes met and Emma nodded in agreement. Emma reached out, gripped Pamela’s thin arm. “From now on, tell anyone who calls that the patient’s condition is unchanged”—she looked from Pamela to the nurse—“and call me immediately should Henny regain consciousness.”

  The nurse said placidly, “Head wounds never remember a thing that happened. She may even think it’s last week.”

  “That’s a good point.” Emma smiled at Pamela. She spoke slowly to impress her message. “Maintain to all inquirers that Henny remains unconscious even if she comes to. All inquirers. Make certain that your replacement understands this and agrees to it.”

  “I shall not leave my post unless I am assured of total cooperation.” Pamela had a Mission. She would fulfill it. She combined the doggedness of Bertha Cool confronting Donald Lam with the serenity of Maud Silver quoting Tennyson.

  “Nurse,” Emma continued briskly, “call me if there is any change in Henny’s condition. Please tell the next shift to do the same.” Emma opened her purse and lifted out a silver card case. “Here is my number.”

  Annie glanced at the card. Yes, this was Emma’s second line, which was answered always by voice mail. Annie was one of the few on the island who knew the number to the reclusive author’s first line.

  The nurse reached for the card. It might not be included in the nursing station job description, but once again Annie felt confident Emma’s request would be obeyed.

  Annie half turned, ready to walk swiftly down the hall. Wasn’t there a vending machine by the door to the stairs?

  But Emma still stood, frowning slightly, a blunt finger gently stroking her upper lip. The blazing cap of tight bronze curls and clashing colors of the shapeless caftan would have made most women look absurd. Not Emma. Her square face radiated power and her piercing blue eyes glinted with cold intelligence. “Pamela, tell everyone that the nature of Henny’s head injury will result in memory loss of recent events and make it a point to discover everything about Kathryn Girard, her friends, her activities, her interests. Report to the Women’s Club at nine tomorrow.”

  Pamela glanced at her watch, then grabbed her purse. “I have my cell phone. I’ll get busy right now. I can call the people who watch David Letterman.”

  Annie looked at Pamela in astonishment. How did she know who watched what? This reflected awesome knowledge of island customs. Pamela’s cooperation might prove to be invaluable.

  As Annie and Emma neared the end of the hall, Annie’s eyes were on the vending machine. She was reaching into her purse when Emma took her by the arm. Annie’s fingers felt the beveled edge of a quarter. So near, yet so far. Emma turned her firmly away from the machine. “All right, Annie. Here’s what I want you to do….”

  The Seaside Inn parking lot held a couple of pickups, three station wagons and a half dozen sport utility vehicles. The two-story wooden building was L-shaped. Max drove past the near parking slots to an untenanted third line of parking places. At the north end, a Dumpster nestled next to a huge pittosporum bush. A clump of willows hid the refuse container from most of the rooms. Max pulled into the slot nearest the Dumpster, switched off his lights.

  He watched the dark shadows near the shrub. A flashlight flicked on, then off. Max slipped out of his car, walked softly on the gravel.

  “Over here.” Billy Cameron’s high tenor voice was as taut as a guy wire.

  Max brushed past tendrils of willows, smelled rotting grass clippings and discarded fish heads.

  “Billy—”

  “Shhh. I’m not here. You never saw me. You never talked to me. Okay?” There was anguish in his voice. Billy tried hard to follow the rules. Sometimes, like a long-ago time when the woman he loved needed help, he forgot about rules. That time, when Mavis was a murder suspect, Henny Brawley helped solve the crime. Billy followed rules. Rule Number One: Don’t forget your friends.

  “Victim’s purse was dumped out in front of the van, but her billfold was there with three hundred and sixty dollars in it. Driver’s license in the name of Kathryn Joyce Girard of Broward’s Rock address.” Billy cleared his throat. “The chief was particularly interested in that since the mayor said Girard didn’t have a car. But she had a license. Rest of the stuff from her purse was the usual, lipstick, makeup, comb, change purse. But no credit cards. The chief’s going to follow up on that. Maybe the credit cards were stolen. Then we checked out her place. She lived up above her antique store. The front door wasn’t even locked. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed and everything seemed to be in order in the upstairs apartment. There was no evidence the murder occurred there. The apartment looked like nobody lived there.” There was a puzzled tone in his voice. “Clean. Bare. Closets empty. She was going on a trip. In the living room, there was a suitcase, plus a carry-on bag and a briefcase. All of them were shut. There was no examination by investigating officers”—his clipped tone rippled with disgust—“because the officer in charge said the luggage didn’t have anything to do with the crime scene.”

  “So she was going on a trip. I wonder where.” Max wished he could see Billy’s face. “I suppose the premises were secured?”

  Billy shifted from one foot to another. “Those instructions were given.” But not another word did he say.

  Max grinned.

  As she passed the loading dock behind the hospital, Annie made another cross-hatch on an old envelope she’d pulled from her purse. She spotted a door at the end of the wing that held the ICU and made another check. She glanced up at the line of lit windows. What was it Emma had asked? Annie padded nearer, her rubber boots crunching oyster shells. No, this portion of the hospital, unlike the concrete latticework front, was sheer. Oh yes, there was a fire escape, but the end dangled a good twenty feet off the ground. It was the kind that descended under pressure of weight. O
f course, anybody handy with a lasso might be able to snag it, but, as a general rule, lassoing was not a sea island accomplishment.

  Annie was giddy by the time she completed her circle of the hospital. In Camilla Crespi’s mysteries, everyone ate delicious Italian food all the time. Jean Hager’s Iris House mysteries had pages laden with scrumptious dishes like deep-fried turkey and cherry cream crêpes. Annie forced her mind, if not her stomach, back to the task at hand. Seven entrances, not counting the dangling fire escape. She reached the main entrance, a two-story portico, and angled to her right and the sweep of drive leading to the emergency room.

  Annie’s eyes narrowed. Where the hell was Godzilla the Great who’d sent her off to reconnoiter? Okay, yes, maybe she was getting a little surly. Emma’s pink car still sat at the curb. Annie surveyed the sidewalk and drive. No Emma. Sighing, Annie pushed the door and walked into the all-too-familiar emergency waiting room. The middle-aged couple looked up dully. The white-haired lady was gone.

  Emma stood at one of the pay telephones. She lifted a broad hand in a commanding gesture.

  Annie started toward the phones, once again feeling for quarters in the bottom of her purse. She was almost past Emma when that strong hand fastened on her arm.

  The vending machine glittered like the Las Vegas strip. She spotted a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Agatha would never know.

  Emma hung up the phone and reeled Annie in.

  “Seven doors,” Annie muttered, her eyes on the coin slot.

  “Did you check each one?” Emma’s grip never slackened.

  “Yes. Nobody can get in this place without a key or a merit badge in skyscraper scaling.” Annie leaned forward. Emma effortlessly restrained her.

  “All right, Annie. We’ve secured the area. Henny is safe. I simply wished to be certain. Now it’s time to bend our energies to detection. I used a land-based telephone to set in motion an undercover survey of the Marsh Tacky Road area. I called your mother-in-law.” For an instant, Emma gave Annie a curious look.