by Sandra Brown
While she was still stunned from that blow, more unpleasantness had followed. Along with everyone who’d been at the Howell’s house that night, she had been questioned by the police. It had been a routine interrogation, textbook in nature. Nevertheless, it had left her shaken.
Today she had seen Lee Howell buried. She would never quarrel with him again over something as important as OR scheduling or something as petty as whole milk versus skim. She would never laugh at one of his stupid jokes.
Taking all that had happened into account, it was an understatement to say that the past three weeks had amounted to a major upheaval in her routine.
This was no small thing. Dr. Rennie Newton adhered to rhythms and routine with fanatical self-discipline.
* * *
Her house was a ten-minute drive from the hospital. Most young professionals lived in newer, more fashionable neighborhoods of Fort Worth. Rennie could have afforded to live anywhere, but she preferred this older, well-established neighborhood.
Not only was its location convenient to the hospital, but she liked the narrow, tree-lined brick streets, which had been laid decades ago and remained a quaint feature of the neighborhood. The mature landscaping didn’t look as though it had been installed yesterday. Most of the houses had been built prior to World War II, giving them an aura of permanence and solidity that she favored. Her house had been quaintly described as a bungalow. Having only five rooms, it was perfect for a single, which she was, and which she would remain.
The house had been renovated twice, and she had put it through a third remodeling and modernization before she moved in. The stucco exterior was dove gray with white trim. The front door was cranberry red with a shiny brass knocker and kick plate. In the flower beds, white and red impatiens bloomed beneath shrubbery with dark, waxy foliage. Sprawling trees shaded the lawn against even the harshest sun. She paid dearly for a professional service to keep the yard meticulously groomed and maintained.
She turned into the driveway and used her automatic garage-door opener, one of her innovations. She closed the garage door behind her and let herself in through the connecting kitchen door. It wasn’t quite dusk yet, so the small room was bathed in the golden light of a setting sun that filtered through the large sycamore trees in her backyard.
She had forgone the suggested cheeseburger and fries, but since she wasn’t on call tonight she poured herself a glass of Chardonnay and carried it with her into the living room—where she almost dropped it.
A crystal vase of red roses stood on her living-room coffee table.
Five dozen perfect buds on the brink of blossoming open. They looked velvety to the touch. Fragrant. Expensive. The cut crystal vase was also extraordinary beautiful. Its myriad facets sparkled as only pricey crystal can and splashed miniature rainbows onto the walls.
When Rennie had recovered from her initial shock, she set her wineglass on the coffee table and searched among the roses and greenery for an enclosure card. She didn’t find one.
“What the hell?”
It wasn’t her birthday, and even if it were, no one would know it. She didn’t celebrate an anniversary of any kind with anyone. Were the roses meant to convey condolence? She had worked with Lee Howell every day for years, but receiving flowers on the day of his funeral was hardly warranted or even appropriate given their professional relationship.
A grateful patient? Possibly, but unlikely. Who among them would know her home address? Her office address was the one listed in the telephone directory. If a patient had been so moved by gratitude, the roses would have gone either there or to the hospital.
Only a handful of friends knew where she lived. She never entertained at home. She returned social obligations by hosting dinner or Sunday brunch in a restaurant. She had many colleagues and acquaintances, but no friendships close enough to merit an extravagant bouquet of roses. No family. No boyfriend. No ex- or wanna-be boyfriends.
Who would be sending her flowers? An even more unsettling question was how the bouquet had come to be inside her house.
Before calling her next-door neighbor, she took a fortifying sip of wine.
The chatty widower had tried to become a chummy confidant soon after Rennie moved in, but as tactfully as possible she had discouraged his unannounced drop-overs until he finally got the message. They remained friendly, however, and the older gentleman was always pleased when Rennie took a moment to visit with him across their shared azalea hedge.
Probably because he was lonely and bored, he kept his finger on the pulse of the neighborhood and made everyone’s business his own. If you wanted to know anything about anyone, Mr. Williams was your man.
“Hi, it’s Rennie.”
“Hey, Rennie, good to hear from you. How was the funeral?”
A few days ago he had waylaid her when she went out to get her newspaper. He had plied her with questions regarding the murder and seemed disappointed when she didn’t impart the gory details. “It was a very moving service.” In the hope of preventing more questions, she barely took a breath between sentences. “Mr. Williams, the reason I called—”
“Are the police any closer to catching the killer?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Weren’t you questioned?”
“Everyone who was at Dr. Howell’s house that night was asked for possible leads. To the best of my knowledge nobody had anything to offer.” Instead of relaxing her, the wine was giving her a headache. “Mr. Williams, did I receive a delivery today?”
“Not that I know of. Were you expecting one?”
He was the only neighbor who had a key to her house. She had been reluctant to give him one, and it wasn’t because of mistrust. The notion of someone coming into her home when she wasn’t there was repugnant. As with rhythms and routine, she was a stickler for privacy.
But she had felt that someone should have a spare key in case of an emergency or to let in repairmen when necessary. Mr. Williams had been the logical choice because of his proximity. To Rennie’s knowledge he had never abused the privilege.
“I was on the lookout for a package,” she lied. “I thought it might have been delivered to you since I wasn’t at home.”
“Was there a notice on your door? A yellow sticker?”
“No, but I thought the driver might have forgotten to leave one. You didn’t see a delivery truck parked at my curb today?”
“No, nothing.”
“Hmm, well, these things never arrive when you’re looking for them, do they?” she said breezily. “Thanks anyway, Mr. Williams. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“Did you hear about the Bradys’ new litter of puppies?”
Damn! She hadn’t hung up fast enough. “Can’t say that I have. As you know I’ve been out of pocket for a couple of weeks and—”
“Beagles. Six of them. Cutest little things you ever saw. They’re giving them away. You should speak for one.”
“I don’t have time for pets.”
“You should make the time, Rennie,” he advised with the remonstrative tone of a parent.
“My horses—”
“Not the same. They don’t live with you. You need a pet at home. One can make all the difference in a person’s outlook. People with pets live longer, did you know that? I couldn’t do without Oscar,” he said of his poodle. “A dog or cat is best, but even a goldfish or a parakeet can ward off loneliness.”
“I’m not lonely, Mr. Williams. Just very busy. Nice talking to you. Bye.”
She hung up immediately, and not just to curtail a lecture on the benefits of pet ownership. She was alarmed. She wasn’t imagining the roses, and they hadn’t simply materialized on her coffee table. Someone had been here and left them.
She quickly checked the front door. It was locked, just as it had been that morning when she’d left for the hospital. She dashed down the hallway into her bedroom and checked under the bed and in the closet. All the windows were firmly shut and locked. The window above her bathtub was to
o small for even a child to crawl through. Next she checked the second bedroom, which she used as a study. Same there: nothing. She knew that nothing in the kitchen had been disturbed.
Actually, she would have been relieved to find a broken window or a jimmied lock. At least that element of this mystery would have been solved. Returning to the living room, she sat down on the sofa. She had lost all appetite for the wine, but she took another drink of it anyway in the hope it would steady her nerves. It didn’t. When the telephone rang on the end table, she jumped.
She, Rennie Newton, who at fourteen had climbed the narrow ladder to the very top of her hometown water tower, who had put herself in peril by visiting practically every danger spot on the globe, who loved a challenge and never backed down from a dare, who wasn’t afraid of the Devil, as her mother used to tell her, and who daily performed surgeries that required nerves of steel and rock-steady hands, nearly came out of her skin when her telephone rang.
Shaking spilled wine off her hand, she reached for the cordless phone. Most of her calls were work related, so she answered in her normally brisk and efficient manner.
“This is Dr. Newton.”
“It’s Detective Wesley, Dr. Newton. I spoke with you the other day.”
The reminder was unnecessary. She remembered him as a physically fit and imposing black man. Receding hairline. Stern visage. All business. “Yes?”
“I got your number from the hospital. I hope you don’t mind me calling you at home.”
She did. Very much. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
“I’d like to meet with you tomorrow. Say ten o’clock?”
“Meet with me?”
“To talk about Dr. Howell’s murder.”
“I don’t know anything about his murder. I told you that… was it the day before yesterday?”
“You didn’t tell me that you and he were vying for the same position at the hospital. You left that out.”
Her heart bumped against her ribs. “It wasn’t relevant.”
“Ten o’clock, Dr. Newton. Homicide’s on the third floor. Ask anybody. You’ll find me.”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve scheduled the operating room for three surgeries tomorrow morning. To reschedule would inconvenience other surgeons and hospital personnel, to say nothing of my patients and their families.”
“Then when would be a convenient time?” He asked this in a tone that suggested he wasn’t really interested in going out of his way to accommodate her.
“Two or three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
“Two o’clock. See you then.”
He disconnected before Rennie could. She returned the telephone to the end table. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths through her nose, exhaling through her mouth.
Lee Howell’s appointment to chief of surgery had been a major blow. Since the retirement of the predecessor, she and Lee had been the leading contenders for the position. After months of extensive interviews and performance assessments, the hospital board of directors had finally announced their decision last week—while she had been conveniently away, a move she had thought ultra-cowardly.
However, when word of Lee’s appointment reached her, she was glad she was away. The hospital grapevine would be circulating the news with the speed of fiber optics. By the time she had returned to work, the buzz had died down and she wasn’t subjected to well-meaning but unwelcome commiserations.
But she hadn’t escaped them entirely. A comprehensive write-up about his appointment had appeared in the Star-Telegram. The article had extolled Dr. Lee Howell’s surgical skills, his dedication to healing, his distinguished record, and his contributions to the hospital and the community at large. As a consequence of the glowing article, Rennie had been on the receiving end of many sympathetic glances, which she had deplored and tried to ignore.
Basically, being chief of any department involved reams of additional paperwork, constant crises with personnel, and haggles with hospital board members for a larger share of the budget. Nevertheless, it was a coveted title and she had coveted it.
Then three days after the newspaper profile, Lee had made headlines again by being slain in the hospital parking lot. Looking at it from Detective Wesley’s standpoint, the timing would be uncanny and worthy of further investigation. His job was to explore every avenue. Naturally, one of the first people he would suspect would be Lee’s competitor. The meeting tomorrow amounted to nothing more than a vigilant follow-up by a thorough detective.
She wouldn’t worry about it. She simply wouldn’t. She had nothing to contribute to Wesley’s investigation. She would answer his questions truthfully and to the best of her knowledge and that would be the end of it. There was no cause to worry.
The roses, on the other hand, were worrisome.
She stared at them as though intimidation might cause them to surrender the sender’s identity. She stared at them so long that her vision doubled, then quadrupled, before she suddenly pulled it back into sharp focus—on the white envelope.
Tucked deeply into the foliage, it had escaped detection until now. Being careful of thorns, she reached into the arrangement and removed the card from the envelope, which had been attached to a stem by a slender satin ribbon.
The hand with which she had established a reputation as an exceptionally talented surgeon trembled slightly as she brought the card closer. On it was a single typewritten line:
I’ve got a crush on you.
Chapter 3
“Uncle Wick!”
“Uncle Wick!”
The two girls rushed him like linemen intent on sacking the quarterback. Officially adolescents, they still had the exuberance of children when it came to showing affection, especially for their adored Uncle Wick.
“It’s been ages and ages, Uncle Wick. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed y’all, too. Look at you. Will you please stop growing? You’re going to get as tall as me.”
“Nobody’s as tall as you, Uncle Wick.”
“Michael Jordan.”
“Nobody who doesn’t play basketball, I mean.”
The younger, Laura, announced, “Mom finally let me get my ears pierced,” and she proudly showed them off.
“No nose rings, I hope.”
“Dad would have a cow.”
“I’d have two.”
“Do you think braces are ugly on girls, Uncle Wick? ’Cause I may have to get them.”
“Are you kidding? Braces are a major turn-on.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Your hair’s blonder, Uncle Wick.”
“I’ve been on the beach a lot. The sun bleaches it out. And if I don’t start using sunscreen I’m going to get as dark as you.”
They thought that was hilarious.
“I made cheerleader.”
“So I heard.” He high-fived Stephanie. “Save a seat for me at one of the games this fall.”
“Our outfits are kinda dorky.”
“They are,” her younger sister solemnly agreed. “Totally dorky.”
“But Mom says guess again about making them shorter.”
“That’s right, I did.” Grace Wesley joined them at the front door. Moving her daughters aside, she hugged Wick tightly.
When he released her, he whined, “Grace, why won’t you run away with me?”
“Because I’m a one-woman-man kind of woman.”
“I’ll change. For you I’d change. Cross my heart I would.”
“Sorry, still can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because Oren would hunt you down and shoot you dead.”
“Oh, yeah,” he grumbled. “Him.”
The girls shrieked with laughter. Over their protests, Grace shooed them upstairs, where chores awaited them, and ushered Wick into the living room. “How’s Galveston?”
“Hot. Sticky. Sandy.”
“Are you liking it?”
“I’m loving being a beach bum. Where’s
your old man?”
“On the phone, but he shouldn’t be much longer. Have you eaten?”
“Stopped at Angelo’s and scarfed a plate of brisket. Didn’t realize how much I’d missed that barbecue till I took my first bite.”
“There’s chocolate pudding in the fridge.”
“I’d settle for a glass of your iced tea.”
“Sweetened?”
“Is there any other kind?”
“Coming up. Make yourself comfortable.” Before leaving the room, she turned back and said meaningfully, “Sure is good to have you back.”
“Thanks.”
He didn’t correct her. He wasn’t back yet and didn’t know if he was coming back. He had only consented to think about it. Oren had an interesting case cooking. He had asked for Wick’s professional opinion. He was here to help out his friend. That was all.
He’d yet to darken the door of PD headquarters, and he didn’t intend to. He hadn’t even driven past it or felt a nostalgic yearning to do so. He was here as a favor to Oren. Period.
“Hey, Wick.” Oren bustled in. He was dressed for home in knee-length shorts, sneakers, and a University of Texas T-shirt, but he was still all cop; a case binder was tucked beneath his arm. His pager was clipped to his waistband. “How was your drive up from Galveston?”
“Long.”
“Don’t I know it.” Oren had made the round trip the day before. “Get checked into the motel all right?”
“Is that rat-hole the best the FWPD can afford?”
“Oh, and you left such luxurious accommodations in Galveston.”
Wick laughed good-naturedly.
“Grace take care of you?”
“In the process.” She came in with two tall glasses of tea and set them on coasters on the coffee table. “The girls said for Wick not to dare leave without saying good-bye.”
“I promise I won’t. I’ll even tell them a bedtime story.”
“A clean one, I hope,” Grace said.
He shot her his most wicked grin. “I can edit as I go.”
“Thanks for the tea,” Oren said. “Close the door behind you, please.”
This was a familiar scene. Before moving to the coast, Wick had often spent evenings at the Wesleys’ house. It was a happy house because Grace and Oren’s happiness with each other permeated the place.