"So tell us what she looked like?" one of the practical nurses said. "I heard her head was a real mess."
"I don't want to talk about last night or Barbara," Susan said.
"What's with you guys?" The whine had returned to the day nurse's voice. "Trish cursed us out. Julie stared out the window and didn't even say hello. Come on, give."
"Where's your sense of loyalty?" The voice belonged to the unit's sole male nurse. "This is where it happened and everyone in the hospital will know the details before we do."
"Who was Barbara after?" The breathy voice was Rhonda's. "Was it you?"
Susan exhaled slowly. She refused to answer the snide remark.
"Wait 'til you hear the rumors. Even Barbara couldn't top them."
Susan gripped a chart. Vultures would be the right word to describe them. "Read the newspapers. Tune your radios and televisions to the local stations. They seem to know more than I do."
"Are you acting on orders from administration? I hear there's going to be a shake-up at the top."
Susan slammed a chart on the desk. "Stop it. I'm not giving out details and I don't want to hear any speculations." She rose. "Since I can't check orders, would someone like to count narcotics with me?"
After rounds, Susan returned to the station. Facing the patients' questions had been nearly as difficult as confronting the curiosity of her colleagues. She slumped on a chair at the desk.
"What's with Trish tonight?" Kit turned in her chair. Her red hair swirled like an opening fan. "You'd think she'd be glad Barbara's dead. You know she threatened Trish last week. I heard them arguing. What do you suppose it was about?"
Susan shrugged. "Ask Trish."
"I did. She said if I didn't stop prying, I'd end up like Barbara. Do you think that's a threat?"
"I was about to say the same thing." Irritation hardened Susan's voice. She took three charts from the order basked. "It would be wonderful to work where everyone was too busy to gossip." She handed one chart to Kit and returned the others to the chart rack.
By six thirty, Susan craved adult company. Every chance the practical nurses had, they clustered around Kit. Their giggles reminded Susan of geese. If she heard one more speculation about who had killed Barbara, she would scream. She hurried to the lounge for dinner and waited for Leila.
By five to seven, she realized her friend wasn't coming. Susan cleared the table and returned to the nurses' station. Kit asked her to decipher a doctor's handwriting. After reading the scrawl, Susan glanced at her section of the desk. A large brown paper bag sat on the care plan book. "Who left this?" she asked.
Kit looked up. "I haven't the slightest idea. I saw it when I returned from delivering the mail. You'd think the day secretary would do her job."
"She's new." Susan reached for the bag.
"Are you going to open it here? What if it's a bomb?"
"Kit, please."
"After last night, we should expect the worst."
As though infected by Kit's comment, Susan gingerly opened the top of the bag. "No bomb. Chocolates."
"Is the box sealed?"
"Wrapped in cellophane like it came straight from the store."
"Whom do we thank?"
Susan slid the box from the bag and opened the card. "When she was here, you were good to her. These were her favorite chocolates. I am sure they are yours, too. F."
"F," Kit said. "Who's F?"
"I haven't any idea."
Julie appeared in the med room doorway. "Peer's Chocolates. Who from?"
"F." Kit giggled.
Julie perched on a corner of the desk. "Are you sure there isn't something you want to tell us?"
"I have no secrets." Susan shivered as memories of the conversation in the lounge the previous evening surfaced. To keep the pair from seeing how her hands shook, she fumbled with the ribbon and slid the cellophane. "Enjoy."
Her offer sparked a gathering. The rest of the evening staff gathered at the desk and passed the box around. Susan pulled the single chart from the order basket. The red checks told her Kit had sent the requisitions for special tests.
"Susan has a secret admirer," Julie said. "Have a piece. We're trying to guess who F is."
Susan looked up. Leila leaned against the counter that separated the station from the hall.
"You mean you don't know who sent them?" Leila asked. She looked at the card. "He has good taste."
"At least it's a better surprise than last night's," Trish said.
"Have you heard anything about the investigation?" Though Susan wanted to ask about suspects, she hesitated to put Leila on the spot.
Leila shrugged. "The police haven't said much. There are a hundred rumors. That's why it took me so long to get here. Some people will believe anything." She looked at Susan. "Are you all right?"
Susan waited until the crowd dispersed before she answered. "I didn't want to come today and once I arrived, I kept expecting to see her."
"And hear her annoying voice," Leila said. "She definitely had a presence. Were you one of the people on her list?"
"She laughed because I have no secrets. What bothers me is why I'm so upset. She wasn't my favorite person."
"Or mine," Leila said. "It's the shock of finding her, the brutality of the attack and maybe a touch of guilt."
"You're right about the guilt. I was furious because she took such a long break and didn't tell me about the admission. I was going to tear into her. Then I found her body and had to short-circuit my anger."
"Do you have time for coffee?"
Faye pushed the cart past the desk. "I'm ready when you are."
"Does that answer your question? Maybe I can get away when you stop to pick up report."
* * *
He checked his watch. Twenty minutes of his vigil remained. Since ten-thirty, he had waited in his car on the lower tier of the parking lot across from the hospital. Last night, he had realized he knew so little about Susan. He had to discover more. In less than an hour, he would know where she lived. The knowledge would help him make new plans so she would be like Mommy.
A smile formed. Had Susan liked the chocolates he had left at the desk for her? Had she put a piece in her mouth and rolled her tongue over the candy to savor the flavor? Mommy liked chocolates. Had Susan guessed he had left them to show her he had been bad.
Ten minutes and counting. Would Susan be on time? Her sporty white sedan waited on the second tier.
Time crept. Waiting made him restless. He turned the key in the ignition. The gentle rumbling of the engine soothed his ragged emotions. Hurry. Hurry. He chewed the inside of his lower lip and stared at the digital clock.
Rather than the numbers, he saw Susan. She opened the door of a house just like the one where he lived with Mommy. A white satin nightgown clung to her slender body. Her smile made him shiver with delight. Would she touch him and send heat to the private parts of his body? Her face became Mommy's. He smiled.
At eleven thirty, the sound of slamming car doors and the roar of engines woke him from his reverie. Lights from Susan's car cut through the darkness. Blood pulsed in his veins.
Her car passed his parking space. He switched on the lights and pulled into line behind her. Then keeping enough distance to prevent recognition, he followed her.
On the highway, her speed remained at a steady fifty-five. When she exited, his hand hovered over the horn. Someone should warn her about the danger of not using turn signals. He could have lost her and that would have made him angry. Mommy always tried to keep him happy. Why had Susan forgotten the rule?
Her car made a series of turns along streets where Victorian houses mingled with those of more recent vintage. He inched closer. Five turns later, the white sedan pulled into the driveway of a large gray house tucked behind a high yew hedge. After circling the block, he parked across the street, stared down the dark driveway and noted the pattern of lights on one side of the house. A second car was parked near Susan's.
Did Susan liv
e alone? Who owned the car? Some widows took in boarders. Mommy had. She had believed the presence of a man provided safety. He was a man. Mommy didn't need any man but him, so one day, the boarder vanished.
The presence of the other car troubled him. Mommy, why? Don't you remember the last time?
He left the car and stood at the head of the driveway. A lawn stretched on either side of the asphalt. The yew hedge separated the house from the neighboring one. At the corner of the wide porch, a clump of rhododendrons grew.
Perfect. Anticipation stirred the embers of desire. Tomorrow Susan would be like Mommy.
* * *
On Wednesday night, Susan left the unit ten minutes late. As she drove from the parking lot, she glanced in the rearview mirror. Was the dark car the same one she had seen last night?
Just as the light at the corner changed from green to yellow, she turned. A horn blared. She looked back. The dark car had sped through the red light. A splash of common sense dampened the flare of panic. Just because the car had run the light didn't mean she was being followed.
When she stopped to pay the toll, the dark car slid into the next lane. The booth blocked her view of the driver.
Ten minutes later, she left the high-speed road and began the circuitous route she used through town. Headlights remained centered in the mirror. She strained to see but dirt covered the license plate and the driver was a blur.
She gripped the wheel. With great effort, she held at bay the panic that made her mouth dry and urged her to speed down the street. What was wrong with her? Why would anyone follow her? Had she seen something in the storage room that put her life at risk?
The dark car loomed. Her heart rate accelerated. Coincidence. It had to be. Soon the car would turn into one of the side streets. She swore off reading mysteries at night. Barbara's death had turned her life into one.
Without warning, the scene in the storage room flashed into her thoughts. Susan frowned. Something about Barbara's body troubled her. What had she seen? The more she searched, the more elusive the thought became.
Her hand gripped the wheel with such force her arms ached. She made the final turn into the street where she lived. Her tension eased. If she needed him, Patrick would be there.
She stopped the car at the head of the driveway. His spot was empty. Where was he? Weeknights usually found him at home. As she parked in front of the porch, the dark car drove slowly past. She dashed to the porch.
Fear of being alone made her hands shake so badly she dropped the key. Where was Patrick? She gulped a breath. What was wrong with her tonight? The dark car had driven past.
Once inside the house, in hopes of chasing the shadows, she switched on all the lights.
* * *
Instead of circling the block, he parked just beyond the corner. Blood pulsed in an erratic rhythm through his veins. Until his breathing and his heart rate steadied, he remained in the car.
Anticipation blossomed. He patted his jacket and felt the weapon he had remembered to bring. Tonight, she would be with Mommy and he would be free.
With his hands in his jacket pockets and his senses alert, he strolled down the street. For a moment, he paused at the top of the driveway and peered both ways. Relieved to find the street deserted, he turned to study the house and noted the absence of the other car. Light oozed from the edges of the curtained windows on both floors.
Did she sense his presence? Would she welcome him?
The lights on the upper floor went out. With the stealth of a shadow, he crept down the driveway. Before climbing the steps to the porch, he turned and checked the street. His gloved hand fondled the gun.
A narrow gap between the drapes allowed him to see into the room. He rocked from his heels to his toes. At the foot of the staircase, Susan stood. Instead of the clinging nightgown of his fantasy, she wore a shapeless robe. He pursed his lips together. Why wasn't she dressed the way he knew she should be?
His fingers moved to the trigger. He willed her to approach. She walked to the center of the room and stared at the window.
She wasn't close enough. Her eyes appeared to narrow. He gasped and moved back. His heart bucked in his chest.
* * *
Susan paused in the center of the living room and listened to the sounds of the house. After a hectic evening at the hospital, she usually welcomed the solitude she found at home. Tonight was different and she wasn't sure why she felt wary and unsettled. Had a dark car really followed her home and driven slowly past the driveway?
She gulped a breath. Barbara's death had spooked her. Something about the practical's body had been different, but she couldn't remember what. She reached for the coat draped over the arm of the couch.
A scuffling noise, subtle and out of place, caused her to tense and stare at the living room window. A shadow moved. Someone was on the porch. Who? Man or woman? Should she go to the door and look?
Not a good idea. The doors were locked and so were the windows. If anyone attempted to break in, she could slip down the cellar steps and into Patrick's side of the house.
Cautiously, she moved from the living room into the kitchen alcove. Her coat fell to the floor. With one hand on the doorknob, she listened for the sounds that didn't belong to the house and the night.
* * *
He stood with his back pressed against the clapboard siding of the house. Ninety-nine. One hundred. He returned to the spot where the drapes parted and peered into the living room. Where was she? Had she seen him and called the police? He pressed his face against the glass, but he couldn't see her.
With care, he crept across the porch and down the side steps. He edged past the clump of rhododendrons and walked around the side of the house. The absence of windows low enough to provide a view of the interior of the house irritated him. He reached the back and peered through the glass pane of the kitchen door.
Why was she hiding? She couldn't be afraid of him. That wouldn't be right. Mommy was never afraid.
Cautiously, he continued the exploration. He stared through French doors into a deserted dining room. Where is she? He rattled the door.
Maybe he should return to the porch and knock. She would be surprised to see him. He frowned. Had she left the house? How? He would have heard the door. His breath fogged the glass.
Finally, he retraced his steps. When he reached the porch, he stood with his finger poised over the bell. Would she answer? He chewed the inside of his lower lip.
Headlights from a car halted at the top of the driveway and startled him. He scurried away from the door and moved into the shadows. The lights drew nearer. He jumped down the side steps and crouched in the thicket of rhododendrons. Afraid to breathe, he bit his lip.
The car stopped and the lights went out. When a man entered a door on the other side of the house, the watcher began to shake. The derringer fell from his hand. On hands and knees, he searched for the weapon but couldn't find it.
A surge of anger engulfed him. What was the man to Susan? She didn't need another man. She was a widow. Mommy was a widow, too, and he had been the only man she had needed. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Susan had to be like Mommy.
* * *
From the moment she heard the rattle of the French doors, Susan froze. Her muscles tightened like cloth that had been shrunk. She cowered in the pantry and willed herself to move, to run down the cellar steps.
A car door slammed. She recognized Patrick's footsteps on the porch. Relief flooded her. She shook her arms to release tense shoulder muscles.
For months after Jim's death, night noises had taken on similar overtones. She had thought she'd moved past those fears. For almost a year, until Barbara's death, she hadn't been afraid to be alone.
Slowly, her breathing resumed a normal rhythm and her heart regained a steady beat. She bent and picked up the coat she had dropped. Had she really seen the shadow of a person or had her imagination conjured the sight? She hung the coat on a hook and turned on the kitchen light.
&nb
sp; She sank on a chair at the kitchen table and reached for the phone. Patrick might have seen something. She let her hand drop. If she told him about her scare, his protective instincts would go into overdrive. She couldn't run to him every time some nameless fear held her captive. That action would erode her carefully nurtured independence.
Unbidden memories of the night Jim died flooded her thoughts. The moments of forgetfulness found in Patrick's arms stirred anew. For months afterward, she had felt guilty, alone and afraid. Patrick's caresses had promised things Jim's touches never had.
She put her hand to her face. Jim and Patrick had formed their values in the same neighborhood and had grown up in families who had shared the same ideals. Jim had shielded her from life. How could she believe Patrick would be any different?
Susan pushed these thoughts aside. As she lifted the pies she had baked that morning and put them in the refrigerator, she inhaled the spicy aroma. Instead of coffee, she poured a glass of orange juice, rinsed the few dishes and wiped the counters.
Then she carried the juice to the living room. Noises from the other side of the house reminded her of Patrick's presence. As she walked upstairs, her hand slid along the banister. Thoughts of Patrick's smile and his touch seemed impossible to dislodge. Her body felt the way a tree must feel when the season changes from the dormancy of winter into the flowering of spring.
Upstairs, she sat on the bed. Patrick was just beyond the wall. This new awareness made her edgy. With a sigh, she lifted Jim's picture from the bedside stand.
"Patrick has his eye on you." Jim's voice filled her thoughts. He'd said those words after their friend's divorce.
"We're friends, the three of us," she had said.
"That's why he keeps his distance and only visits when I'm home. You know if anything happens to me, he'll let you know how he feels."
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