Sinking Ships: An Abishag's First Mystery (The Abishag Mysteries Book 1)

by Michelle Knowlden

  I felt my cheeks warm. The detective was being odious.

  “Miss Greene is attending UCLA. She’s finished her second year, majoring in engineering.” Although not that much older than I, Donovan sounded stern and middle-aged as he glared at the detective.

  “Actually, it’s mathematics.” Everyone ignored me.

  “Please.” Tina shredded her tissue plaintively. “What does it matter that Leslie is an Abishag? She’s here to make my father’s passing more peaceful. What about Hillary’s murder? Was the killer after my father?”

  The detective finally turned his hard gaze away from me. The younger detective said, “We’ve found nothing indicating Thomas Crowder was in danger. It appears that Miss Lattimer opened the door to her killer, may have known him. Do you know if she was expecting anyone?”

  Tina shook her head, brow puckering. “I can’t imagine Hillary inviting someone here while she was on duty. She was off at 11 p.m. and lives just a few miles away in Torrance. Another aide takes over a half hour before Hillary leaves.”

  “Hillary Lattimer was family?” The older detective took over the interrogation again. I glanced at Donovan, wondering if he’d told the policewoman who told the detective. Donovan appeared unaware of my attention, his fixed on Tina.

  Unconsciously Tina took my hand, biting her lips uncomfortably. “Not close. She’s a cousin, daughter of my father’s older brother. She needed work, and she’s a licensed aide. I recommended her to the care service we’re using.”

  “You have a husband? Siblings?” He was addressing Tina, but his wolfish gaze slid to me again, making it obvious that he thought family should take care of family, not a stranger like me.

  Tina shook her head. “I’m divorced and an only child.”

  The detective checked his tablet. “You said ‘we.’”

  “Oh,” Tina said. “I meant the lawyers who administer my father’s trust, me as the principal executor and, of course, Leslie.”

  The older detective shot me a derisive look. I gritted my teeth and remained expressionless even though I was surprised to hear Tina overstate my importance in deciding Thomas’s care.

  “Are we finished here?” I asked, Tina’s hand still in mine. “I’d like to return to my husband.”

  I think the detective would have kept us there longer out of spite, but a policeman appeared in the doorway, signaling him. Donovan took the opportunity to usher Tina and me from the dining room and upstairs, me scooping up the duffel along the way, glancing back as I did. The two detectives exchanged narrow-eyed looks, and I felt a frisson of unease. Did they think I killed Hillary?

  Bizarre visions swirled as I climbed the stairs—me being handcuffed, me sitting in a cell wearing my strappy shoes, a news anchor saying “The detective in charge of the case said of the arrested woman, “She was an Abishag, so she must have done it.””

  When we were close enough to hear the sound of Thomas’s medical equipment faintly pinging at the end of the hall, Donovan stalled, fidgeting with his Blackberry. “Have you contacted your lawyers, Miss Crowder?”

  “You mean my father’s lawyers? You think I killed Hillary?”

  I don’t know if Donovan blinked, but I did. Tina had been in Manhattan Beach when Hillary was murdered. How could she be a suspect?

  “Your lawyers protect your family’s interests, Miss Crowder. You should…”

  She waved his words away. “Yes, yes, I’ll call them. After I call our security service.” She gently pried my fingers off her arm and patted my hand. “I’ll make sure everyone in this house is well-protected.”

  I thought about Dog caring for Thomas and Kat working in the gardens tomorrow. If something happened to them, it would be my fault.

  “You think we’re in danger?” My voice squeaked.

  Donovan frowned, fingers pausing on his Blackberry. I wondered if we were nearing a condition extraordinary enough for calling Florence Harcourt.

  Tina shrugged, her expression bleak. “If family rumors are true, Hillary had some shady dealings. No need to tell the police—one must protect the family name. The security detail will keep the house safe if whoever killed her returns.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I didn’t have a chance to question Tina, because at that moment three things happened—Dog appeared in the doorway to Thomas’s bedroom, someone from downstairs called Tina’s name, and Donovan’s phone buzzed.

  Rubbing his bristly-red hair, he answered the phone, stomping down the stairs without even a polite nod.

  Kneading her purse worriedly, Tina didn’t acknowledge the hail from downstairs or Donovan’s rudeness. I shrugged apologetically for the latter while I shot a warning at Dog. Thomas would have to wait until I found out how much danger we were in.

  “So your cousin Hillary had enemies?” I asked.

  Tina wasn’t listening. “I think I left my cell at home. I wonder if Dad’s lawyers’ numbers are in his study. My son Sebastian would know where.” Her chin lowered, and she focused on me. “Excuse me, Leslie. I need to talk to the family about to do with Hillary when they release her body.” Her throat constricted, and I patted her arm till she could talk again. “I was the only one in the family still speaking to her, you know.”

  I didn’t. Why should I? Shifting my duffel to the other hand, I watched her step woodenly downstairs, once again rummaging in her bag.

  “Les?” Impatiently, Dog flapped his hand.

  “Is Thomas…” Dropping the duffel at the bathroom door, I hurried to his bedside.

  “He’s the same.”

  I felt Dog studying me as I gingerly took my husband’s thin hand. “I’ve put him on his side and left a space for you on his left. Take care with his catheter.”

  “Oh, but…” Without thinking, I slapped my chest like one of those antique damsels in distress. “What with the murder and all, I didn’t think I’d—”

  “It’s your duty as his Abishag, isn’t it?” Dog sounded harsh, but when I gulped, his voice softened. “It’s after 2 a.m., Les. Not much of the night left. I’ll be back at 6.”

  He shut the door. I was alone with Thomas, all his machines, and a half-empty bed. My heart started a slow, heavy thud. All I could think about was the detective calling my marriage a business transaction.

  Not that I know what a marriage was supposed to be. My parents have a real marriage, I guess, if you call their political partnership “real.” My mom keeps the house, controls the children, and vigorously manages my dad’s career. I only know my father as a wraith coming from or going to council meetings. I can’t recall one personal thing he’s ever said to her.

  My mother’s parents seemed to find each other companionable, but by the time I was aware, their relationship was more nurse and patient.

  Not unlike my contract with Thomas. Remembering my grandparents was one reason I had agreed to marry him. Lots of marriages end with one spouse as caregiver of the other, and it’s still a marriage. Florence Harcourt talked much about this in training, and it made sense.

  Services rendered for a fee.

  Okay, maybe it was really about the money. I needed help with my education, both debt and future. Lots of female college students have worked as Abishag wives since the practice started eleven years earlier. Not, of course, counting the first Abishag, King David’s final wife, thousands of years ago.

  I had married for money, but it wasn’t just for the money. It was more complicated.

  The detective’s work on this case was “services rendered for a fee.” Wasn’t mine a legitimate job too?

  An Abishag wife must ‘exude calm and comfort’ in the presence of her husband. I took two deep breaths, headed into the bathroom with the duffel. While changing into a pink flannel nightgown covered with wooly sheep, I found the Abishag agency gift basket of bath products on the counter. In training, Florence Harcourt explained how the soap and lotion scents were coordinated with family members as familiar aromas comforted the patient. I slavered on lavender cream,
wondering if Thomas’s first wife wore it.

  We’d used a dummy practicing the proper way to lie with a comatose patient. It was different with a nearly dead husband, his skin warm and smelling faintly musty, his breathing sometimes rattling, sometimes regular, his wispy chrome-colored hair tickling my nose. I forced myself to relax. The doctors said Thomas was a good candidate for an Abishag, but his ribs felt as though they might snap under the weight of my arm.

  Rule 19 in the Handbook for Abishag Wives: An Abishag wife does not sleep.

  Florence Harcourt said an Abishag wife should focus on keeping her husband comfortable and comforted. Her thoughts should be on pleasant things, because in close proximity her emotions could be transmitted from the electrical impulses of thoughts through the skin’s salinity. She made us sound like car batteries.

  I did try to think pleasant thoughts, but I could hear thumping of what I guessed was the forensics crew in the bloody kitchen at the other side of the house, the burr of voices probably discussing my ranking as a killer in the study below, the sound of people moving in the backyard below, and the ocean waves crashing beyond the gate. I decided to wait to tell Thomas about Hillary. Even if he had a lone synapse working, if the family had rejected her, it didn’t sound like he’d grieve.

  Tonight was our wedding night and for Thomas’s sake, I would think only of sun-warmed beaches and keep him comforted and comfortable next to me.

  * * *

  At precisely 6 a.m., Dog stepped into the dark bedroom with its array of monitors that beeped and blinked, bringing with him the scent of coffee. He set two cups down on a small writing desk near the window. While I eased from the bed, he checked Thomas’s vitals. When I returned from the bathroom, wearing a snug, tie-dyed t-shirt, white capris, no shoes, and the coffee half-finished, Dog had positioned Thomas on his back again, in the center of the bed.

  “It’s quieter,” I whispered. “Are the police gone?”

  In a normal voice, he said, “They left about an hour ago.”

  Relieved, I gently touched Thomas’s cheek. “He looks better, don’t you think?”

  “His blood pressure is lower. “ Dog picked up his own coffee. “’Course that’s to be expected. Medical benefits of an Abishag wife.”

  He sounded almost like the Dog of old, treating me like a kid sister, so I ignored the jab.

  “Anyone downstairs?” I thought I heard voices before Dog came upstairs, and lots of clattering in the kitchen.

  “Miss Crowder’s in the study with a lawyer.”

  “The agency lawyer? Donovan?” I had a mild desire in seeing him again.

  Dog shook his head. “He went a few hours ago but left a note in the dining room for you. One of the techs recommended a cleaning service to Miss Crowder, and they’re in the kitchen now.”

  I shuddered thinking about all the blood.

  “There’s fruit in the dining room. Apricots, white peaches, and plums from the trees in your husband’s garden. Miss Crowder’s lawyer brought croissants.”

  “The coffee?”

  “From the Keurig in the study.”

  I gulped down another quarter of what Dog brought me, gone lukewarm. It tasted of blueberries. “Thanks. Should I stay here with you?”

  He shook his head. “The day shift aide relieves me in twenty minutes. You probably don’t want to be here while I change his catheter.”

  I wrinkled my nose and fled with my empty cup. Dog’s chuckle followed me down the hallway and stairs.

  I peeked into the study redolent with blueberry coffee and found Tina and the lawyer at Thomas’s desk. The lawyer, a stout man with bushy eyebrows and sharp gray eyes matching the gray at his temples, stopped talking when he spied me. Tina turned and smiled wanly.

  “Sleep well, Leslie?” Then blushed.

  I hoped I didn’t blush in return. “No sleep for me, but we both had a good rest. The aide says your father’s blood pressure was down this morning.”

  “He’s recovering?” The lawyer’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

  “No,” Tina and I said in chorus. She added, “The stroke damage was too extensive, Bradley. You’ve seen the medical reports. The doctors give him no more than a month.”

  That’s what I’d been told when Tina interviewed me, which was another reason why I’d picked Thomas. A month’s marriage could free up half my summer; maybe I’d even register for a class in the second session if he passed before month’s end. I know it sounds cold-blooded, but since his second stroke eight months earlier, poor Thomas had been brain dead. From what I’d heard about him, he would be eager for death.

  “Did you need me for anything? I’d planned to get something to eat during the caregiver’s shift change.”

  “That’s fine, dear. Bradley and I are finishing here. They’re still cleaning the kitchen, but if you want more coffee, come back here. You won’t disturb us.”

  Bradley looked like he disagreed, but he seemed nicer than Donovan. Tina didn’t introduce us, but that was okay. Florence Harcourt told us to be watchful for the subtle and not-so-subtle ways the family placed boundaries around the Abishag wife.

  Rule 59 in the Handbook for Abishag Wives: An Abishag wife respects boundaries.

  Our role was temporary; family was forever.

  The house workers were busy in the kitchen. I knew it was impossible to smell blood over the lemon-scented cleaning solution, but the memory of it lingered. In the dining room, I collected a croissant and two apricots and, with the remains of my coffee, passed through the French doors to the side patio.

  It was a lovely yard, edged with potted raspberry and blackberry bushes, borders of herb plants and pansies, spacious lawns, and a row of fruit trees at the fence-line. I snitched a sprig of mint for the apricots and a raspberry off a shrub near the white wrought iron chair and small table where I settled.

  Staring at the doors to the patio, I wondered if the police knew yet who killed Hillary. Every problem was bounded by rules and variables, and I knew the police would have dusted all the doors and windows for prints—the murderer had gotten in somehow. If they’d narrowed it down to someone she knew, then she’d left the gate unlocked and let her murderer into the house by the back door.

  Murdered by someone Hillary knew. It bothered me that Tina disliked her cousin. It also bothered me that her ugly death ruined my first night with Thomas. He deserved to die in the comfort his estate had engaged at great cost, but the murderer had shattered that peace.

  What else did the police know? When would they tell the family?

  “What are you doing?”

  I jumped to my feet, nearly upsetting my coffee cup. The redheaded agency lawyer stood at the French doors I’d left open.

  Florence Harcourt liked to begin each training session by reciting:

  Rule 6: An Abishag wife practices serenity at all times.

  Having not slept for 28 hours, my serenity slipped a notch. “Eating breakfast. Is that okay with you?” My tone was frosty, barely polite.

  “Did you read my note?” He stepped into the patio, fingering his Blackberry. He looked good in the early sight, dang him.

  Then I saw the shadows under his eyes, and I felt a pang. “Sorry, I didn’t. Was it important?” I kept a straight face at his look of surprise. Apparently any note Mister Reid deigned to leave was of extreme importance.

  “I wanted you to call me as soon as you woke this morning.”

  “An Abishag doesn’t sleep at night,” I said, pedantic on purpose. Something about this man set my back up. “On the other hand, Thomas slept very well. Thank you for asking.”

  I felt a fiendish delight when he flushed. Apparently he could be flustered. “I’m having breakfast while the aide sees to Thomas. I’ll nap later. What did you need?”

  “I needed to make sure that you do nothing to ruin the agency’s reputation.”

  Serene, I reminded myself. My jaw clenched more than a smidge when I said, “Mister Reid, I have been trained by Florence Harcourt to
be a model Abishag—self-effacing, focused on my husband’s care, ensuring his family’s peace of mind.” Ignoring the fact that I’d forgotten Thomas, I looked Donovan Reid in the eye. “A model Abishag can’t hurt the agency.”

  His lips curled. “Depends how you interpret your training. That’s why I’m here.” He sat in my chair, the only chair on the patio, and took the raspberry off my plate. Trying to maintain an aura of calm, I gritted my teeth, feeling muscles flex along my jaw.

  Really, if he weren’t so incredibly handsome (and I’m talking Prince Charming-handsome), he could play an ogre to perfection.

  He popped the raspberry into his mouth. “One. Self-effacing is good, if you define self-effacing to mean rarely speaking and retiring to your room when outsiders visit the house. You never, I repeat never, speak to the press or to the police unless I’m with you. Please restrict yourself to hello, thank you and good-bye with all other outsiders including the postman and newspaper boy.”

  I clasped my hands to keep from strangling him.

  “Two.” He tore a corner off my croissant. “Focus on your husband’s care. Stay out of his business concerns, his family issues and legal matters. You don’t change his medical routines or question his doctors or interfere with his hospice care. You don’t re-decorate his house.” Wolfing down the rest of the croissant, he wagged a finger at me. “Keep your nose out of this murder.”

  My jaw dropped. “Why would I…”

  He shook his head. “I know girls like you. Morbid curiosity. Fancy yourselves Veronica Mars on the case.”

  “Who?”

  “Hillary Lattimer’s murder is off-limits. Capiche?”

  Without waiting for a response, which was good as I was speechless, he said, “Three. Ensuring his family’s peace of mind.” He bit into an apricot, also off my plate. “You are to take a minimalist view. You are to spend your time with Thomas Crowder, not his family. If they contact you, you are to restrict yourself to greetings, the briefest update of his current condition and then excuse yourself.” He wiped his hands on my napkin, checked his Blackberry and without looking up, he said, “Hello, fine and good-bye is all they need to hear. Is that clear, Miss Greene?”