Code Blue

by Janet Lane-Walters

  Julie reached for her coat. "I don't want to hear any more about him tonight."

  Susan closed her mouth but Julie had already headed for the door. With a shrug, Susan reached for her coat. The next time she worked with Julie, she had some questions about De Witt she wanted to ask.

  * * *

  He drove past Susan's house. Lights shone from the upper windows on one side. He parked at the curb across from the driveway and waited. When the house was dark, he opened the box on the passenger's seat.

  The aroma of pine filled the car. The wreath had been made that afternoon. Last year, he'd bought a smaller one for Mommy and she had known whose death he had honored. Would Susan guess the Christmas wreath studded with red bows and silver bells were for the evening supervisor?

  He frowned. The scent of pine failed to evoke Mommy's memory the way her perfume did. He inhaled and thought about the grave and the coverlet of green he had placed there.

  Wishing he could mute the bells, he carried the wreath across the street. What if Susan or her tenant looked out the window? Stealth and secrecy were needed to complete his mission. As he crept down the driveway, pine needles scratched his face.

  At the foot of the steps, he paused to check the street. He climbed the stairs and crossed the porch. Where should he hang the wreath? A hook embedded in the wood of the door provided the answer. He smiled. She knew.

  After hanging the wreath, he stepped back to admire the door. He chewed the inside of his lip and rocked from his heels to his toes. In his imagination, he saw Susan's face and heard her exclaim pleasure over the gift. Though he wished he could watch her, he couldn't stay that long. He reached into his pocket. After tucking the glittering gold watch in the greenery, he smiled. When Susan found the watch, she would know why he had left the wreath. He turned and strode to his car.

  * * *

  Susan opened the door to check the temperature before she chose an outfit to wear to the funeral. The lilt of bells surprised her. For a moment, she stared at the wreath. Dread filled her chest. Then she saw no telltale note fastened to the greenery. The tension ebbed.

  Patrick, she thought. The wreath was his apology. She started across the porch to thank him, but saw his car was gone. Tonight, she would drop by and offer her own regrets for the quarrel.

  At a few minutes after ten, she stood in front of the gaunt Victorian house that had been converted into a funeral home. The irony of the choice struck her. Joe Barclay's service had been held here, too.

  After Susan closed the door, she checked the board to see where the service would be held. She paused to sign the book on the lectern beside the door. How many people would attend? Leila had many acquaintances but few friends. As the pen formed the letters of her name, Susan felt as though she had just sealed the end of an important part of her life.

  For a few minutes, she stood in the threshold of the Lilac Parlor. Though she had talked to the Vernons on Sunday night, she wondered if they would remember her. During one of their rare visits to Leila's, Susan had been invited to dinner. What she remembered from that evening was their pride in their only child and how inarticulate they had been about expressing their love.

  A dark casket dominated the room. Susan's gaze slid past the bier to focus on the Grant Wood "American Gothic" couple seated on a plush sofa beside the flower stands. Slowly, she passed the rows of chairs. The elderly couple rose.

  "Mrs. Randall, we're glad you came," Mr. Vernon said. As she shook his hand, she felt the calluses that spoke of years of hard work.

  "I wish we were meeting for some other reason." Her voice sounded tight and thin.

  Mrs. Vernon looked up. "She was coming home for Christmas. We got the letter yesterday." She wiped her eyes.

  Susan clasped the elderly woman's hand. Rage arose toward the nameless assailant who had caused these people pain they couldn't express. She wanted to strike something or someone. The dark eyes that met hers were reminiscent of her friend's eyes. They glistened with tears the way Leila's had so often since Joe Barclay's death.

  "Why?" Mrs. Vernon asked. "It makes no sense."

  Susan shook her head. "I don't know." She put her arms around the older woman. "I loved her, too."

  Mr. Vernon cleared his throat. "While you're at the house, if there's anything of hers you'd like, take it. Let me give you a key."

  "I have one and she had one for my house. I know where she kept it so you don't have to worry. I'll take any important papers and bills to her lawyer and have her clothes ready for the Thrift Shop." Susan turned her head.

  Trish approached the casket. With jerky movement, the thin nurse knelt, crossed herself and bobbed to her feet. She moved to the Vernons. "Hi, I'm Trish Fallon. I worked with Leila. She was an excellent supervisor."

  Trish's arrival drew the Vernons' attention away from Susan. The cadence of the thin nurse's speech and the jerkiness of her movements made Susan wonder what Trish had taken before she arrived. While pondering the question, Susan moved to the foot of the casket. She hadn't expected the coffin to be open. Barbara's had been closed. Then Susan remembered Julie saying Leila's injuries had been to the back of her head.

  Susan's gaze traveled along the white blanket. For a moment, her attention lingered on the spray of violet gladioli and the bouquet of white roses. She inched toward the head of the bier and forced herself to look at Leila's face. Heavy makeup hid the bruises Susan had expected to see. Her friend's pointed features had lost their acuteness. In some ways, Susan felt as though she gazed at a stranger.

  Tears stung her eyes. Leila would never smile, never laugh, never cry again. This last thought allowed Susan to bank her tears. During the final days of her life, Leila had cried too many times.

  Susan felt a hand brush her arm. She turned and saw Julie. With a quick movement, Susan stepped aside so the younger nurse could approach the casket. "I didn't know you planned to come."

  "I knew you would need someone with you. Sorry I ran out last night, but I just wasn't ready to hear someone else put Larry down. Are you all right?"

  Susan released her held breath. "I will be when some time has blunted the shock."

  Several nurses and a half dozen members of the hospital's administrative staff arrived. Susan and Julie found seats in the last row.

  "It's hard to believe she won't stop by for coffee while I'm eating dinner. We were supposed to go to brunch on Sunday." Susan gulped a breath. "She wanted to talk about her plans for the future."

  Julie patted Susan's arm. "I know it won't be the same, but would you like to have lunch with me today? There are some decisions I'd like to talk about."

  Julie was right that lunch with her wouldn't be the same as going with Leila, but Susan didn't want to be alone. "That would be nice." To keep from staring at the casket, she closed her eyes.

  She felt someone slip into the seat beside her. She opened her eyes. Patrick handed her a tissue. She wiped the tears that trickled down her cheeks. Then she looked from Patrick to Julie. The presence of these friends eased her grief.

  * * *

  He stood in the shadows near the door of the Lilac Parlor. He hadn't been able to resist coming to the funeral home. When he saw Susan, he had thought about slipping into the seat beside her. Would she guess he had been the one?

  A strangled cry made him glance around to see if he'd been noticed. Who was that man and when had he arrived? Why was that man holding Susan's hand?

  The watcher wanted to snatch the tissue the man gave Susan. His mind clamped on the raging emotions that threatened to explode. How dare Susan be with a man?

  No one had the right to offer her love disguised as sympathy. She shouldn't let that man hold her hand. He slid from the shadows and crept into the hall. His shoes hit the hardwood floor in a thudding rhythm.

  He wanted--he couldn't--he should--A thought unbidden and unwanted arose. He couldn't touch, not Mommy, not Susan, not anyone.

  His emotions rose and fell like a boat on a stormy sea. He couldn't
stop the tempestuous images of Susan and Mommy that abounded in his thoughts. How could she? Why did he feel this way?

  His heavy steps jarred his body. He marched down the street and flung open the door of his shop. The bell above the door jangled in a wild melody. With giant strides, he tramped to the door leading to the basement workshop.

  As he started down the stairs, his hand missed the switch. He paused at the bottom and flipped on the lights. A flash of brightness brought tears to his eyes. He blinked them away and crossed to the worktable.

  With a groaning cry, he lifted the derringer the police officer had brought him. He hadn't told Detective Davies that he owned the gun or where he had lost it. He aimed at the target at the end of the room and clicked the trigger several times. Then he held the small pistol at eye level. How could something so small express his rage?

  He loaded a target pistol. Gunfire cracked in the empty room. He fired at the target and emptied the pistol. After reloading, he shot again and again until the sound reverberated in his head.

  With his rage spent, he walked to the target. His smile tightened. The bullets had obliterated Mommy's photograph. His head felt light. His body ached. He gulped deep breaths and waited for his composure to return.

  * * *

  Susan and Julie stood on the steps of the funeral home and waved to Patrick. He had refused their invitation to join them for lunch. Instead, he had invited Susan to dinner.

  Julie bounced down the steps. Susan followed. She wondered where the younger nurse had found the energy. Sadness washed over Susan. She would never go to lunch with Leila, never sit with her friend and people-watch. Susan pushed her grief aside and walked with Julie toward the craft and antique shops. Feathery clouds streaked the brilliant sky. When the wind blew, Christmas decorations danced on the light poles.

  "That was good of Patrick to come," Julie said. "I wonder if you appreciate him." She paused to look at a window where a collection of antique toys spilled from Santa's sack.

  "He's one of the best friends I've ever had."

  "He's in love with you."

  Susan stared at a mass of red and white poinsettias in the window of a florist's shop. "I know he is. He's also overprotective."

  Julie grinned. "Aren't all men? I'd grab him before some other woman does."

  As they strolled down the street, Julie stopped to admire and exclaim over every holiday window. Susan continued ahead.

  "You've got to see this." Julie stood with her face pressed against the window of the Potter's Wheel. "Would you look at the teapot? I'm buying one for my mom."

  Susan smiled. The lid had been fashioned to make it appear as though a person crawled from inside to escape the hot water in the pot. She entered the shop on Julie's heels.

  While the younger nurse examined the selection of teapots, Susan browsed in the alcove off the main room of the shop. A set of pottery wine glasses caught her eye. She lifted one and liked the way the stem was molded into ridges that fit her fingers. The pale clay streaked with rusty tones matched Patrick's dishes. The set would make a nice and neutral Christmas present for him.

  After several stops, they reached O'Quill's and were shown to a table at the rear of the long narrow room. Julie tucked her packages beneath the chair. "You know, we should have left the packages at the car. We walked right past where I parked." She craned her head. "Can you read the special board?"

  Susan recited the list. "I'm having quiche and salad."

  "With coffee," Julie said. "We'll make that two. Let me see what you bought."

  Susan unwrapped one of the goblets. "For Patrick. They match his dishes."

  While Julie admired the piece of pottery, the waitress took their order. "I like the way it fits my hand," Julie said. "Maybe I should buy a set for Larry. The way he's been drinking lately, he needs a firm grip on his glass."

  Susan raised an eyebrow. "Could be the stress of his uncle's death and having to handle the practice alone." She frowned. Why was she defending De Witt?

  Julie giggled. "I don't believe you said that."

  "Neither do I."

  The waitress arrived with their food.

  Julie handed the goblet to Susan. "That's not the reason. I've been thinking about the things you said last night." She paused until the waitress left. "You know, his uncle wasn't going to make him a partner."

  Leila had mentioned the same thing but the reason had died with her. Susan leaned forward. "Do you know why?"

  "Larry wouldn't tell me." Julie lowered her voice. "There's something odd. I saw some charts in his study. One belonged to Trish. I was tempted but I didn't look."

  "You did the right thing."

  Julie picked up her fork. "He knew about Leila and his uncle. He planned to use her to threaten his uncle into making him a partner. I tried to talk him out of that, but I think if Dr. Barclay hadn't died, Larry would have."

  Susan swallowed. Did Julie realize she had just given De Witt a motive for Leila's murder and for his uncle's as well? "Do you think he had anything to do with his uncle's death?"

  "Larry?" Julie's eyes widened. "How could you think that?" She choked and coughed. "You know, Barbara had me deliver a lot of cryptic messages to him. I think she tried to blackmail him but he didn't bite."

  "Are you sure?"

  Doubt filled Julie's eyes. "I don't want to believe he did."

  "What did Barbara know?"

  Julie shook her head. "He never said. Neither did she." She pushed her plate away. "I can't eat another bite."

  Susan tucked away the bits of information Julie had told her. She needed time to sort through them and fit the facts into a theory about the deaths. When the waitress brought the bill, they paid and left.

  "I'll see you Thursday," Susan said.

  "Do you want me to drive you home?" Julie asked.

  Susan shook her head. "I'll walk. I've some thinking to do."

  "That makes two of us. I have to tell Larry it's over and I'm not sure I can."

  Susan strolled down the street. One by one, she reviewed the things Julie had said. She wasn't sure how they fit into the puzzle of the murders, but she planned to learn.

  As she passed the Pub, she halted and backed a few paces. Trish and De Witt sat at one of the window tables. The thin nurse wore a uniform. Trish's mouth twisted and the stormy expression on De Witt's face spelled a quarrel. De Witt slapped several square pieces of paper on the table. Trish snatched and shoved them in her purse. When De Witt rose, Susan hurried home.

  Another piece of the puzzle, she thought. The papers looked like prescriptions. He had a chart at his apartment with Trish's name on the cover. Barbara had blackmailed him. Once again, Susan wished Trish hadn't backed away the evening she had begun to talk about her problems.

  Susan frowned. Drugs? With Trish's erratic behavior that seemed to be the answer.

  Patrick arrived at Susan's twenty minutes early. He looked at the height of her heels and revised his plans.

  "You're early," she said. "Where are we going?"

  "I thought we'd walk."

  "Next time, warn me." She walked to the stairs. "Be right back."

  "I'll be here." He stood at the foot of the stairs and admired the way the forest green dress clung to her slender hips. Moments later, she returned. Then, holding hands, they walked to the center of town.

  Outside the Japanese restaurant, Susan stopped to admire the window. A pair of silk screens were set in a bed of white pebbles. Several aged bronze lanterns had been placed near a large black rock. "Every time I pass, I stop to admire the screens."

  "They belonged to the owner's grandmother." Patrick held the door for her.

  A short Oriental man stood at the desk. "Mr. Macleith, we have not seen you for many weeks. Please to enjoy your dinner."

  After Patrick hung up their coats, the man led them to a small table beside a woven bamboo screen. A waitress wearing a blue kimono offered them hot washcloths and menus.

  Susan opened hers. After a few m
inutes, she looked up. "What would you suggest?"

  "Tempura or Negamiaki. That's beef wrapped around scallions."

  "Sounds delicious."

  "Someday when you feel adventurous, we'll come for Sushi."

  She shook her head. "I'll take an eternal rain check on raw fish." She studied the delicate arrangement of flowers. "What a restful place. I've always wanted to eat here, but Jim hated to eat out."

  Patrick wondered if she had used her husband's name to place a barrier between them. "Would you like plum wine or Saki?"

  "Do I have to choose? I've never tasted either."

  "Order plum wine and I'll let you try my Saki." He gave their order to the waitress and turned back to study Susan's face. "How are you feeling?"

  "Tired...sad...maybe resigned."

  He reached across the table and took her hands in his. "I know how it feels to lose a good friend."

  She nodded. "Time is what it takes to dull the ache."

  He smiled. "Your young friend is delightful."

  "Julie's a good person. I wish she wasn't involved with De Witt."

  "What's wrong with her seeing him?"

  "I'm not sure, but he treats her in a strange way. At the hospital, he makes no secret of their relationship, but he makes her use the terrace door when she visits. He lives in one of those luxury apartments on the river."

  Patrick shook his head. "Worrying won't help. She has to make her own decisions."

  A smile lit her face. "Can you remember that?"

  He laughed. "You got me. How was lunch?"

  "When we finally ate, good...Julie's idea of forgetting problems is to shop. I think we visited every shop in town."

  The waitress brought their drinks. Patrick poured Saki into a small cup and offered it to her.