by Chacon, Iris
“Excellent,” said Hermione. “Rebecca, you have the disposable phone?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Drive at least five miles away from the hospital—find a crowded mall parking lot, if you can—and place the call from there. Ten seconds, no more. Follow the script. Then dispose of the phone and return home. Take precautions so that you are not followed.”
“Yes, madam.” Rebecca snapped her briefcase shut and left the suite.
After a moment, Hermione turned toward Hanson. “You’re certain those thugs were hired by Westlake?”
“My source is never wrong in such matters, madam. One of the men had set fire to Miss Ogilvy’s house previously.”
“There is no doubt both men are dead.”
“None whatsoever, madam. Mr. Shepard dispatched one and a neighbor, a Mrs. Cleary, the other. The men were known criminals; they were armed. No charges will be filed against your son or his neighbor for protecting themselves.”
“Excellent. The murder weapon will be traced to Phyllis Ogilvy, of course.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Hermione wrinkled her brow in concern. It was a new concern, and she was uncomfortable expressing it. “I, ah, we do not wish Miss Ogilvy to come under suspicion. She has fired the weapon before. There will be fingerprints.”
Hanson smiled serenely. It was good to see madam softening toward the young lady whom Hanson had come to admire. “Have no fear, madam,” he said. “First, there will be no fingerprints on the item. Second, Miss Ogilvy reported it stolen the night of the fire at her house. Third, at the time of the governor’s death, Miss Ogilvy was in the Little Cypress Forest running for her life. A dozen police officers and emergency medical technicians can verify that. The young lady is above suspicion.”
“And, I daresay, above reproach in your estimation,” said Hermione with a knowing look.
“Indeed, madam,” said Hanson with a nod that was nearly a bow.
“Perhaps I shall come to agree with you,” Hermione mused, mostly to herself. She stood and gathered her handbag and gloves. “Take me home, please, Hanson. Shepard is in good hands here, and you and I need to rest and await Rebecca’s return. I have a feeling the evening news will be fascinating tonight.”
24 THE AWAKENING
Shepard Krausse recognized the smells first. Disinfectant, strong laundry detergent, stale institutional food, flowers, and the unmistakable, ineradicable underpinning aroma of urine. Oh, yeah, he thought. Hospital.
He felt the firm mattress, the institutional linens, the metal side rails of the bed. He felt the adhesive tape around the intravenous needle in his left arm, the tubing snaking across his left hand and taped again.
He heard nurses and visitors speaking softly in the hallway, shoes padding along the tile floor, metal carts with wheels rattling across the grout lines. He heard the hospital intercom paging doctors and calling codes.
He felt a dull ache in his head. Below his knees, the seared tissue on the backs of his legs demanded his attention. He forced that pain aside and concentrated instead on the sensation that intrigued him more than all the others. Something warm and heavy rested against his ribcage, and something soft enfolded his right arm and hand.
Carefully and slowly, he slid his arm and hand free of the surrounding warmth. He explored with his fingers a long, thick braid. He discovered a pair of eyeglasses pushed askew because the wearer’s face was half buried in Shepard’s torso. He smiled when he heard a delicate, ladylike snore.
Shepard had no idea how long he had been there. He remembered the Little Cypress, the helicopter, doctors and nurses waking him, poking him, talking at him through a fog. He thought his mother had been there, maybe more than once. Probably he had been out of things for a day or two.
He was sure of only a few things. His best friend, Pietro, was dead. His partner, friend, helper, and navigator, Dave, had died as well. And since the explosion that had plunged him into hell (or at least purgatory), the one constant in his life had been by his side.
No matter how groggy and unfocused he had been, he had never awakened without knowing she was there. He could not see her, of course. She didn’t always speak, so he didn’t always hear her. But he always smelled her or felt her or —and this was the crazy part —sometimes he just sensed her. It was as if some gravitational pull caused his heart to turn in her direction. When she was there, he knew it. He simply knew it.
He stroked her hair back from her temple, again and again, soothing himself with the warmth and texture of her. Soon he craved more. He wanted to hear her, talk to her, be conscious of her being conscious of him. He couldn’t help himself. He had to wake her.
“Bean,” he whispered.
No response. He stroked her hair once more, then gently tugged on the long braid.
“Bean,” he said, a little louder. “Rise and shine, sweet Bean.”
“They’re not called sweet beans, they’re called sweet peas,” she answered without opening her eyes.
“Once a librarian, always a librarian,” he said with a chuckle.
When he laughed, the movement of his diaphragm succeeded where his voice had failed: her head popped up and she blinked at him. She smiled and straightened her glasses on her face.
“You’re awake!” she said.
“And finally that makes two of us,” he said. “Where does it say I sleep on the bed and you sleep on me? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. We can explore the concept in greater depth when I get out of here, if you like.”
She laughed, took his hand from the end of her braid, and planted a kiss in his palm. “You really are awake; you’re talking dirty.”
“Sweet Bean, if you think that’s ‘talking dirty,’ you need to get out more,” he teased.
She wrapped his hand in both of hers and hugged it to her. She sobered, then asked, “Hurt?”
“Would you think me unmanly if I whimpered just a little?” he asked with a wry half-smile.
Miranda hit the call button before he even finished speaking. “We’ll take care of that right now,” she vowed.
“Patience,” he soothed. “Hospitals are understaffed, nurses are super busy, they’ll come when th—”
“Yes, Miss Ogilvy,” interrupted a nurse, who seemed to have sprinted to the room.
“Mr. Krausse is awake and he’s in pain,” Miranda said imperiously. “He needs something right away, please.”
“I’ll be right back,” said the nurse, and she disappeared.
Miranda relaxed against the bedside and kissed Shepard’s hand again.
Shepard was mystified by the exchange between Miranda and the nurse. He was still agape when the nurse rushed again into the room. She injected something into Shepard’s intravenous tube. “If that’s not better in five minutes, just let me know,” she said kindly. She smiled at Miranda and left.
He pulled free of Miranda’s hands and placed his hand under her chin. He turned her face toward him and ran his fingers over her features. “Who is this person who has terrorized the nursing staff, and what have you done with Miranda Ogilvy?” he said.
“It just got to the point where there was too much at stake to sit back and be unseen,” she said. “I was so afraid for you. I had to stand up and make people take notice. I had to make things happen; I couldn’t wait for someone to ‘get around to it.’ You could’ve ... you really scared me.”
He picked up her hand and brought it to his lips. “I’m sorry,” he said, and kissed each finger in turn, saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault,” she said. “Great apology, though. I think my toes just curled right up.” She watched his eyes. They seemed to be only half open.
“How’s the pain now?” she asked.
“Ooh, baby, we got to get a bottle of this stuff to take home,” he said. “I can’t even remember what was hurting. Great stuff.”
“Shepard, don’t go to sleep, okay? Stay with me a few more minu
tes,” Miranda said, chafing his hand. “I need to tell you some things.”
He forced his chin up and shoved more energy into his shoulders and arms. “Bad news,” he said. “All right. I’m ready.”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you, but your uncle, the governor, has been killed,” Miranda said. She watched him for a reaction. There was nothing.
“They arrested a man named Westlake—a building contractor. The police said Westlake defrauded the State of millions, and the governor was getting ready to expose it, so Westlake killed him.” She waited for Shepard’s response.
“Westlake killed him,” Shepard repeated softly. When he didn’t say more, Miranda continued.
“Yeah, and then it gets really weird,” Miranda said. “You remember when that guy set the fire in my house, and my shotgun went missing? And we reported it stolen, and the police assumed the arsonist took it. But I thought the arsonist wasn’t carrying anything when he ran out, and I didn’t think he had been in that part of the house even, but the only other person who had been in my house was your mother, and she didn’t take my shotgun, I promise you, so I guess the police were right. Right?”
“I think I followed all that,” Shepard said.
“The police think the arsonist was one of the guys who tried to kill us in the woods the other night. And they think those two guys were working for—get this now—”
“Westlake,” he finished for her.
“Yeah,” she said. “But that’s not the weird part. Guess what they found in the trunk of Westlake’s car?”
“Jimmy Hoffa? Or did they already find him somewhere else? I forget.”
“My missing shotgun!” Miranda said. “And that’s what Westlake used to murder the governor. Is that not totally weird?”
Shepard nodded, mulling over all the interlocking pieces of the unholy puzzle. Speaking more to himself than to Miranda, he said, “Iggy murdered Phyllis Ogilvy. Phyllis Ogilvy’s twelve-gauge killed Reggie Montgomery. And Bertram Westlake is going to be convicted of the murder.”
“We don’t have proof that Iggy murdered Aunt Phyllis,” said Miranda.
“I don’t need proof,” Shepard said. He thought a moment. “But if Uncle Reggie was ‘Iggy,’ then Phyllis got her justice.”
“Oh gosh golly,” breathed Miranda. “But how could the Westlake guy get Aunt Phyllis’ shotgun? Even if Westlake hired my arsonist, I’m sure the arsonist didn’t take that gun from my house. How did Westlake end up with the gun?”
Shepard thought. He shook his head, understanding. “Snake Day,” he said.
“What?”
“Everybody in the family heard the story of the day you killed the rattlesnake. I told Pietro, Pietro would’ve told Carlo, Carlo would’ve told the household staff, and Hanson would definitely have told my mother.”
Miranda shook her head. “But your mother came to my house after that, and she never mentioned it.”
“And how did my mother get to your house?” Shepard asked.
“In her car.”
“With her chauffeur. Carlo.”
“Your mother’s chauffeur took my shotgun?! Why?” Miranda was shocked.
“My controlling, overprotective, queen-of-the-world mother could not have me living next door to a lunatic who was liable to go blasting away at the slightest provocation. She couldn’t move me, and she couldn’t move you, so she removed the lunatic’s weapon. Problem solved.”
Miranda considered his logic and recalled everything she could about his mother’s visit to her house. It was possible. It was feasible. It began to seem more and more probable.
“Carlo took the shotgun,” Miranda agreed.
Shepard nodded. “Carlo, whose brother was murdered by Iggy and Iggy’s partner—who appears to have been Bertram Westlake.”
Miranda’s eyes widened and she leaned closer to Shepard’s ear to speak more quietly. “You think Carlo knew that Iggy was Governor Montgomery!”
“Servants always know everything,” Shepard said. “Anyone who says differently has never had servants.”
“But Carlo could be arrested for murder—and they have the death penalty in this state!”
“Castor Bean, Carlo will never be arrested for murder. He’s long gone, back to his family in Sicily. Do you know anything about families in Sicily? They have a peculiar relationship with law enforcement—especially foreign law enforcement. Even if there were evidence against Carlo, he would never be turned over to American authorities.”
Miranda nodded, taking it all in. “But there won’t be any evidence against Carlo, will there.”
Shepard smiled. “Very good, Grasshopper. The only evidence—the murder weapon—was undoubtedly planted very near poor Mr. Westlake. And the police undoubtedly received an anonymous tip from an untraceable phone, telling them exactly where to find said evidence.”
They were quiet then. Each in their own way relived the horror of the explosion and the pursuit through the woods. There were no winners, but at least there were survivors.
Miranda leaned over and kissed Shepard’s cheek. “Thank you for saving my life,” she whispered.
“We saved each other,” he replied. “We just couldn’t save everyone.”
After he fell asleep, Miranda gently wiped the tears from his cheeks and beard.
25 THE GIFT
The next morning, Miranda returned from the hospital cafeteria with coffee and cinnamon rolls for two. She turned into Shepard’s room to find his mother standing at his bedside.
“Good morning, Mrs. Montgomery-Krausse,” Miranda said. “We were just about to have coffee. Can I get you something?”
“Thank you, no. I’ve only come to bring you your car keys.” Hermione lifted a key on its electronic key ring toward Miranda. “Since you arrived here with Shepard on the helicopter, you will need a way to get home.”
Miranda put the coffee cups and sweet rolls down on the rolling bedside table and edged the table closer to Shepard. Shepard lifted a hand toward her and she took it, but she did not take the proffered keys.
“I appreciate the gesture. I hadn’t even thought about how I would get home,” said Miranda. “But I’m afraid those are not my keys.” She turned to peel open the sipping slot on the coffee cups.
“Bean,” said Shepard, grinning broadly. “Take the keys.”
Miranda placed his coffee cup in his hand and arranged his sweet roll near him on the table that now overhung the bed. “Shep, they aren’t mine. Mine are scratched and beat up and hanging from an Ernest Hemingway key chain. Cinnamon bun at your two o’clock, on the tray table.”
Hermione nearly smiled. “You have Ernest Hemingway on a key chain?”
“Souvenir of a weekend in Key West,” Miranda explained. “Librarian humor.”
“Humor?” said Hermione, raising one eyebrow.
“I guess you had to be there.”
“Indeed.” Hermione turned away from the bed and crossed to the window. Looking down into the parking lot, she motioned for Miranda to join her. “Let me show you something, Miss Ogilvy, if you please.”
Miranda looked toward Shepard. He sipped his coffee. When he didn’t hear her move, he waved her in the direction of his mother’s voice. “Go, go. She hasn’t bitten anyone since we increased her medication weeks ago.”
“Shepard, behave,” said his mother. “Come here, Miss Ogilvy. Come, come.”
Miranda walked around the foot of the bed and joined Hermione at the window. “Please, call me Miranda,” she said.
Hermione nodded. “Yes, you must grow tired of Shepard referring to you as a vegetable. String Bean, is it?”
“It’s Castor Bean,” said Shepard. “Inside joke.”
Hermione gave him a look but refused to dignify his statement with a response. She touched Miranda’s elbow and pointed out the window.
“Do you see the blue Mercedes beside the valet parking kiosk?” said Hermione.
“It’s beautiful. Is it new?” asked Miranda. “Oh, I see. Yo
u had to replace the one that was ... the one that burned.”
“Yes, it is new,” said Hermione, “and, no, it is not a replacement for Shepard’s previous vehicle. This car is yours.”
Shepard added, “Your old car is in the trunk.”
Miranda looked from Hermione to Shepard to the blue Mercedes and back to Hermione. “You’re serious!”
Before Hermione could answer, Shepard said, “It was ordered before the ... before the fire. Took this long to finally deliver it. Now take a deep breath and accept the keys.”
“But—”
“Miranda, I’m being discharged today, and you are giving me a ride home. I refuse to ride in that sardine can you call an automobile! Take the keys!”
Miranda held out a hand, palm up, and Hermione deposited the keys on her palm. “Wow. If Shep’s upset enough to call me ‘Miranda,’ I guess I have no choice.” She wrapped Hermione in a bear hug that lasted almost long enough for Hermione to recover from the shock of such contact. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” said Miranda.
“Thank me, why don’tcha? I’m the hero. Mother’s just the messenger,” Shepard said with a smile.
Miranda released Hermione. “Thank you, Shepard,” Miranda said quietly.
“That’s it?!” Shepard exclaimed. “That’s all I get? Maybe you didn’t get a good look at the car. It’s the blue Mercedes. Look again. I think a gift like that deserves a more ... tangible ... thank you!”
“I saw it,” Miranda said, and winked at Hermione. “It’s very nice. I’ll thank you again at home. Let’s pack up your things and get you out of here.”
“I’ll deal with the business office downstairs while you get things in order here,” said Hermione. “And, Shepard, there will be no ‘tangible thanking’ of people in this room. It’s far too public. I expect behavior becoming a Montgomery.” She left.
“Yes, mother,” Shep drawled.
Miranda laughed and began collecting the toiletries and clothing articles that Rebecca and Hanson had been bringing to Shepard’s room daily. She realized that she would have to pack up her own things from the VIP family suite, also. She probably had a lot of dead houseplants back in Minokee after many days away, but she had a slew of new clothes and a new car. Any minute now she expected to wake up.