Time of Death

by Lucy Kerr

  “Interesting theory,” he said. “Unfortunately, I was in the emergency room, helping Paul Costello. He’d been on duty since the night before, handling the bus accident, and I offered my assistance. Understandable, of course, that we wouldn’t have crossed paths—it was after you’d been kicked out of the emergency room.”

  “You could have snuck out,” I said. “Ten minutes would have been enough.”

  “The entire Emergency Department will swear that I didn’t leave the department until after eight,” he replied. “Should we call Dr. Costello now?”

  “No need,” said Strack with obvious relief. “I don’t see why we should trouble Dr. Costello; the accusations are baseless.”

  “They’re not,” I said. “Look at Clem’s charts! Look at his autopsy! A man was murdered in your hospital—by one of your doctors! Then he killed Jimmy Madigan, in my store, to cover his tracks. Are you honestly going to sit by and do nothing?”

  I could hear myself growing shrill as my confidence deflated.

  “Walter, if I’m not needed further . . .” Hardy said, ignoring me. But he was pale, his mask of arrogance growing more wooden by the minute. No doubt he’d tell Ashley all about my accusations, and the two of them would share a cozy moment mocking me.

  Strack stood, smoothing down his tie. “Of course, Alexander. My apologies. I can deal with Miss Stapleton.”

  When Hardy had left, Strack wheeled to face me again, his words clipped with fury.

  “There are countless explanations for Mr. Jensen’s death—and none of them involve murder. Based on the autopsy results, I’ve launched a fresh investigation. I’m confident that it will reveal Mr. Jensen’s death was nothing more than a tragic error, and we will institute new procedures to prevent future mistakes.”

  “It wasn’t medical error,” I snapped. “It was murder.”

  “You’re grasping at straws, Miss Stapleton. Dr. Hardy is hardly the first man to stray from his wedding vows. Whatever we may think of his private behavior, it has no bearing on this situation.”

  “Somehow I think the Sheriff’s department will disagree,” I replied.

  He smirked at something over my shoulder. “Why don’t we ask Deputy MacLean, shall we?”

  I whirled. Noah strode in, jaw clenched, eyes hard. “Frankie. Mr. Strack. What seems to be the problem?”

  Strack paused. “Despite being told that she was no longer allowed on hospital property, Miss Stapleton barged into my office, spouting wild accusations about one of my staff members. We’ve refuted them, and now I would like her to leave.”

  “You’d like me to arrest her for trespassing?” Noah asked. He made a show of studying the pictures on Strack’s desk, then met his gaze squarely.

  “I—” Flustered, Strack swept up the pictures and flipped them face-down. “I don’t know if that’s strictly necessary. If she can promise to drop the matter and stay off hospital property, there’s no need to press charges. An apology wouldn’t go amiss, naturally.”

  He wanted to keep me quiet. Assuming Hardy’s alibi checked out, he was innocent of murder, at least. But as Strack had pointed out, adultery wasn’t uncommon. Why, then, was he so desperate to keep the news from coming out?

  Then it hit me: The hospital sale. The Cardiodyne trial. It was a symbiotic relationship. Strack needed the prestige of the drug trial and Hardy’s reputation to lure a buyer; Hardy needed the hospital’s permission to continue the trial. It was too late in the approval process to try to relocate, especially if Mrs. Hardy decided to destroy her cheating husband’s career.

  My silence was more important than seeing me punished.

  “Frankie?” prompted Noah.

  I didn’t like it, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to drop it, but the smart move now was to beat a retreat. “I’m sorry. I should have thought this through more carefully.”

  “Indeed,” said Strack drily.

  “And as for the affair . . .” I continued. Strack tensed, his hand covering the photos. “That’s your business, I guess.”

  Strack tapped the stack of pictures. “I’ll dispose of these.”

  Fine by me. I’d made duplicates.

  Noah escorted me out, frustration pouring off him in waves. When we reached the parking lot, he said, “Have you lost your mind?”

  “You saw the pictures. Hardy’s guilty.”

  “Of adultery. He has an alibi. You’re lucky he doesn’t sue you for slander. He might, you know.”

  “He’s guilty,” I repeated, folding my arms. “I know he is.”

  “That’s what you said about Jimmy, and look how that turned out.” He dragged his hand across his face. “Frankie, leave this alone. I know you have good intentions, but you’re out of your depth. Now that the autopsy report has come back, the Sheriff’s Department has formally opened an investigation into Clem’s death, along with Jimmy’s. We will handle it from here.”

  “I can help!”

  “You’ve helped enough. Charlie should be coming home soon, right? Once she does, I think the best thing for you to do is go back to Chicago.”

  “Are you joking? My patient was murdered, and I’m the only one fighting for him, and you want me to walk away?”

  Noah, however, didn’t look like he was joking even a little bit. “He wasn’t your patient, Frankie. And yeah. Walking away is your specialty.”

  The words were a gut punch—and after the initial burst of pain, outrage took over. So much easier to take refuge in anger than face the barb of truth in his words.

  “That was twelve years ago.” My words sounded shaky to my own ears. “Ancient history, and it has nothing to do with this case. I can’t believe you’re still holding a grudge. You should have moved on ages ago.”

  “Oh, I have, believe me,” he shot back. “Except that now I’ve got two murders—one of them in your store, which makes you a suspect.”

  “I didn’t kill Jimmy. You know that. You know me.”

  His expression twisted. “I know you’re a liar.”

  I drew back. “That’s not. . . .”

  That’s not true, I wanted to say. But I couldn’t lie twice over, and he knew it.

  He stared down at me. “How’s your fiancé, Frankie? You two set a date yet? Picked out china?”

  I flinched.

  “Exactly,” he said, cold and contemptuous. “You must think I’m an idiot. I mean, even more so than you did back then.”

  “I never thought—”

  “I knew you weren’t engaged. No ring, dodging questions, and you did the thing with your hair.” He made a move as if to touch the curls falling into my face, then drew his hand back. “Matt didn’t want to talk about it, either, so I figured you were . . . I don’t know. Ashamed, or something. I thought you were afraid I’d make a move if I knew you were single again. Maybe I am an idiot, because I thought it was personal. Now I think you’re a liar.”

  “Noah—”

  “Deputy MacLean.”

  “Fine,” I said, dragging my hands through my hair. “Deputy. I didn’t tell you about my engagement, and that is personal. But if Alexander Hardy isn’t your killer, then you’ve got a murderer running around Stillwater. Why don’t you worry less about my wedding plans and more about doing your job?”

  “Don’t talk to me about protecting this town, Frankie,” he said. “I’m not the one who turned my back on it.”

  With that, Noah climbed into his car and drove away.

  My breath caught in my throat, not at the unfairness of his accusation—but how right he was. By the time I’d recovered the power of speech, he was gone.

  THIRTY-ONE

  I was running out of options—and allies. Despite my apology, I still believed Alexander Hardy was guilty. It was hard to believe he hadn’t slipped away from the ER in all the chaos and made his way back to Clem’s room.

  But wouldn’t Marcus have noticed him on the floor? Hardy wasn’t the type one would overlook.

  Maybe he hadn’t gone to Clem’s roo
m. It would have been safer to give Jimmy a syringe full of vecuronium and a custodian’s uniform. Then he’d killed Jimmy and framed me. I didn’t need to break his alibi for Clem’s death, only Jimmy’s. The question was, who would help me?

  An offsite meeting, Hardy had said. Would he really be so arrogant as to meet Ashley at Piney Woods again? Or was that part of his plan? The net was closing; he was tying off loose ends. Maybe he considered Ashley a loose end.

  I made it out to the motel in record time. Through the front office window I could see Bianca, pink- and yellow-striped head bent over her phone. But I was more interested in the cars. Hardy’s Lexus sat directly next to Ashley’s Volkswagen. I parked behind a moving van, made my way to a nearby stand of trees, and settled in to wait.

  It didn’t take long. Hardy left first this time, and I took a grim pleasure at his shaken expression. If Hardy panicked, he was more prone to make a mistake. I set off across the parking lot, hoping I’d given Ashley enough time to get dressed, and knocked on the door.

  There was a pause. Then I heard the scrape of the chain and the thunk of the deadbolt, and a moment later, Ashley stood in front of me, wary, dismayed, and—happily—fully dressed.

  “Frankie?” she said, leaning past me to scan the parking lot. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you about Alexander Hardy. Can I come in?”

  She shifted from one foot to the other, and I brushed past her.

  It was a strange place for an affair. Small, shabby room. Ugly bedspread on the neatly made bed, cheap carpeting covered with unidentifiable stains. A scarred wooden table covered with paperwork, Ashley’s briefcase leaning against it. In her neat blue suit and tasteful makeup, Ashley seemed out of her element, flushed with embarrassment.

  “I’m guessing Hardy told you what went down at the hospital today. About the pictures.” I met her eyes, and she tilted her chin defiantly.

  “It’s not like that,” she said.

  “Like what? Cheap? Clichéd?” I fought the urge to reach out and shake her. “You’re meeting your married boyfriend at an hourly motel in the middle of the day. Do you know how many times I have seen this exact thing? Older, married doctor and his bright young thing? Did he tell you he loves you? He’s going to leave his wife?”

  She turned away, and that was all the answer I needed.

  “He’s playing you.”

  “He’s not,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “This is different.”

  “I know this is hard to hear,” I said, putting an arm around her shoulder and guiding her to the desk chair, “Hardy is responsible for Clem Jensen’s death. Jimmy Madigan’s, too. He’s a very dangerous man.”

  Her head snapped up. “What? Alexander?”

  “Yes, Alexander. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Do you know where he was early Sunday morning?”

  “Home, I suppose,” she said with a shrug. “I don’t see him outside of work hours.”

  “And you still think he cares about you?” My patience snapped. “Stop being so naïve, Ashley.”

  She bristled. “I’m not naïve. He told me about your theory. He told me all sorts of things about you. You’re desperate. You want people to take you seriously—you can’t land a husband, you’re just a nurse, and not even that, pretty soon.” She tipped her head to the side, all faux-concern. “You need to fix your own life instead of trying to ruin other people’s. You should look at this as a wakeup call.”

  Nothing makes me lose my temper faster than the words “just a nurse.” Before I could tear into Ashley, something else in her words resonated.

  “Wakeup call,” I murmured. “These rooms don’t have phones.”

  “So?”

  “So Jimmy was staying here. If Hardy called him to set up the meeting at the hardware store, he would have had to call Jimmy’s cell—the cops can pull the records and find proof they were working together.”

  Ashley gaped at me, and I smiled sweetly. “Not bad for ‘just’ a nurse, huh?”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Noah sent my calls straight to voice mail.

  “Be that way,” I muttered. I was tired of trying to convince Noah. Tired of pleading with him to take me seriously, when he’d doubted me all along. Tired of feeling guilty for leaving, for taking so long to come back. Tired of running and tired of lying and tired, most of all, of being wrong. I pulled into the driveway, scowled at the squad car still sitting outside, and stomped into the house.

  Riley’s mood matched mine, I saw. She was sitting at the kitchen table, glaring at her math book.

  “What’s wrong, kiddo? Multiplication got you down?”

  “Everything,” she said, slumping dramatically. Her heels drummed a sulky rhythm on the chair legs. “CJ wasn’t in school again, and Grandma says the treasure box isn’t mine, so I don’t get to look inside, and I hate fractions, and you promised me a sausage biscuit, and we haven’t gone and it’s been almost a whole week.”

  I staggered slightly at the onslaught of words. “Ah.”

  “You said you didn’t lie, Aunt Frankie.”

  “I don’t!” The words came out sharper than I intended, and Riley’s brown eyes filled.

  “You said. You promised, and I haven’t told anyone about the boy in the garden.”

  “What boy?” asked my mother, coming into the kitchen. “What’s wrong with my garden?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly. “The garden looks great. Riley was reminding me that we wanted to have a breakfast date. How about tomorrow?”

  Her chin jutted out. “Tomorrow’s Wednesday. I have school.”

  “This weekend, then.”

  “That’ll take forever,” she groaned, sliding down farther. “Please, Aunt Frankie? CJ and his grandpa went all the time. Not just for breakfast.”

  I sighed. “Did they?”

  She nodded. “But they didn’t go to the diner. They liked the ones from the truck stop, out on the highway. CJ said they’re delicious.”

  I knew the truck stop she was talking about; I’d passed it on my way into town, but it was a good thirty minutes away.

  “You’ll spoil your dinner,” I said.

  “It can be breakfast for dinner! You love breakfast for dinner!”

  Which was true, and after the day I’d had, I loved it even more. “Grab your coat,” I told Riley.

  “Francesca, honestly? Breakfast for dinner?”

  “I promised,” I told Mom, as Riley slid her grubby hand in mine with a look of triumph. “And I keep my word.”

  * * *

  Judging from the look of bliss on Riley’s face, the sausage biscuit was as good as she’d heard. But even though my pancakes were golden and fluffy and dripping with syrup, I had no appetite.

  “Your phone’s ringing,” Riley said eventually.

  I checked the number: Chicago Memorial.

  “Frankie!” cried Mindy when I answered. “I totally forgot to send you those numbers. It’s been crazy here.”

  “I know the feeling,” I said.

  “When are you coming back? We miss you, and you’ve got to be getting desperate, right? Aren’t you homesick?”

  “I am home,” I said without thinking.

  Mindy was silent for a moment. “Well, you know what I mean. Do they have sushi in that town? Or even a first-run movie? You must be bored to death.”

  “I’m managing,” I said, and Mindy launched into a description of the weekend’s cases, the kind of nonstop chaos I’d always thrived on. I let her prattle on while I poked at my meal, still mulling over how to break Hardy’s alibi.

  “Frankie?” she said, worry creeping into her voice. “You there?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m listening.”

  But I wasn’t. The jealousy and loneliness I’d been struck with during our last conversation had faded alongside the itch to get back to my “real” life. Things here felt plenty real. Absently, I reached out to ruffle Riley’s hair. “Actually, Min, I need to get goin
g. Can you text me the number for HR, though?”

  I continued to stew as Riley chatted up the waitress. “My friend and his grandpa come here, too,” she said. “I mean, they used to come here. CJ’s grandpa died.”

  “CJ?” the waitress said. The penny dropped. “Clem’s CJ? Clem died?”

  Riley nodded solemnly.

  “Oh, that’s terrible! Roger,” she called to the cook. “Clem’s passed. This little girl is friends with CJ.”

  “You knew Clem?”

  “Sure we did. He was here every day. Sometimes twice, if he brought CJ. Sweet little boy.” She leaned in confidingly. “Pity his daughter’s such a pill.”

  “What?” Laura was quiet, sure, but I’d hardly describe her as a pill.

  “Oh, Clem talked about her like she was a saint, but the few times she came in here, it was like she smelled something bad the whole time, the way her face pinched up. Always sat like she was afraid to let her suit touch the seat.”

  The back of my neck prickled like the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. “And Clem said she was his daughter?”

  “Well, he didn’t come out and say so. But who else would she be? A girlfriend? A girl that young would only go with someone Clem’s age if there’s something extra in it for her.” She winked broadly, and Riley looked perplexed.

  Hands shaking, I dug in my backpack for the duplicate set of pictures, the ones I’d printed at the drugstore before confronting Strack. I took out the clearest shot and slid it across the counter. “Is this her? Clem’s . . . daughter?”

  The waitress pursed her lips, held the picture of Alexander Hardy and Ashley Ritter inches from her face. “Sure is. Judging from that car, it looks like this guy’s got that something extra, doesn’t it?”

  “He does,” I agreed.

  Hardy had an accomplice.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Needless to say, I tipped generously.

  Then I hustled Riley out of the restaurant, mind racing, trying to fit the pieces together. Clem had been blackmailing both Hardy and Ashley? It didn’t make sense. Ashley wasn’t married, so she had no spouse to conceal the affair from, unlike Hardy. Her Pharmagen bosses wouldn’t care, as long as Cardiodyne got FDA approval. Shepherding such a profitable drug to market would be a career-maker for someone as driven as Ashley.