Was she suspicious of Tony because he was tailing me?
“Oh, and Sam, she’s cagey and must be super paranoid about something regarding this case because I tried to ID the call she made to me so I could pass it on to you.”
“And?” I asked, intrigued.
“It was a string of similar numbers and untraceable.”
That explained her reluctance to give me more info.
“She sounds worse than me,” I said, now understanding.
“I’m sorry, but I’m confident you can pull this off.”
I had to cut this short before Clay sensed a major screw-up at my end. He knew me. Last thing I needed was to jeopardize business offered to us by other investigators. So before Clay discovered I had complicated matters on this job from the start, I said confidentially, “No problem. I’ve got it covered at this end.”
Besides, I still had a rep to protect: minor screw-ups.
Clay hesitated. “...Good. You almost had me concerned something might have gone wrong at your end too.”
“Ha! Never.”
“Look, Sam, I’m counting on you to pull this off. I’m going dark: no communication. Are you okay with that for a while? I know you always understand...”
I sighed. I understood, but that didn’t mean I liked it. I kept it light by saying, “If I need your help, I’ll have my people text your people, okay?”
Hearing my response, he laughed, like I knew he would.
After hanging up, I spun around to face the others.
“Now I get it!” I said enthusiastically and with more self-confidence now that I had more of the backstory of what was going on.
Chapter 8
As Usual, The Plot Thickens
We discussed what we knew so far over dinner at a table in the bar area of Square One Pub located in Logan Square just outside the village of New Hope. As usual, it was busy while music played in the background, so we didn’t have to worry about people listening in on any of our conversation. Popular with the locals, it was noisy like we expected.
None of us thought Marilyn would appreciate patients paying attention to her instead of the other way around. So, at rehab the next day, I’d be discreet. Had I misunderstood her suspicions of Tony? No, she described him specifically.
She probably saw Tony hanging around, watching me in rehab. Hadn’t Clay mentioned Tony worked with us now? He should have. Regardless, I would keep a low profile, while observing and listening, then mention to Marilyn that Tony was an associate of our team and she shouldn’t be concerned about him hanging around the periphery.
Speaking of Tony, he was unusually quiet.
Something wasn’t right.
“What?” I asked him, while the ladies were caught up in discussing the humorous play they’d seen earlier in the day.
Tony took a sip of his beer, frowning. “I guess keeping an eye on you is now out of the question for me.”
It sounded more like a statement rather than a question.
“I don’t need protection, Tony.”
“No harm intended. I stuck close to keep an eye on you. Clay worries about you too. You came too close on your last mystery to buying the big ticket.”
“Look, Marilyn’s an investigator. You’ve got nothing to worry about. What is someone going to do to me in rehab other than the physical therapist exercising me to death.”
He smiled. “Promise you’ll text if you need me?”
Tony’s protective side was touching. “I promise.”
Then he whispered, “Where are you going after this?”
“I’m exhausted and going home to bed.”
He raised a brow slyly. “To bed, huh?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, and alone, Tony.”
He sighed wistfully. “A guy can dream, can’t he?”
“Yours are probably X-rated, no doubt.”
Eye contact and silence ticked by. Then it dawned on us, all conversation had ceased at our table. Tony and I both turned to the others simultaneously.
Hazel and Betty were staring at us, mouths open.
Martha began fanning herself. “Now, what are the odds someone’s turned up the heat in here. I’d place bets on it.”
Tony didn’t miss a beat. “Take a personal bet, Martha?”
Martha eyed Tony then gave him a light smack on his arm. “You rascal, you. If I were any younger, why, I’d...”
Betty cleared her throat loudly. “Honestly, Martha!”
“Have you no shame?” chastised Hazel, stiffening.
“Shame to waste his subtle invite, don’t you think?” she said, while pointedly staring at me and grinning broadly.
Subtle invite?
“Why, Martha,” laughed Tony. “Are you playing devil’s advocate by making a pass at me?”
“Not while someone’s still having second thoughts.”
I flushed deeply, fumbling in my purse for my car keys.
Oh Lord!
Was nothing sacred around here?
Chapter 9
A Set Of Twenty Then Twenty More
I heard my physical therapist, but pretended I hadn’t. It gave me a minute to take a breather. With his arms crossed, Phil stared straight at me, waiting for my response.
I turned to him wide-eyed. “Was that directed at me?” I asked innocently.
“You heard me, Sam,” he said, laughing at my feeble attempt at avoiding the obvious, more painful exercises. This was my second round of physical therapy sessions, so we had grown comfortable teasing each other with mild barbs. “Do a set of twenty then twenty more,” he ordered.
I blew out a breath. “That’s what I figured you said.”
Phil watched closely as I started the exercise. “Good.”
I began counting and straining. Then I glanced around the room full of patients going through their own routines of stretches and pulls, silently grimacing and thinking.
Was there a phony in here? Was there one working the front desk? Were two individuals working hand in hand?
As far as I could tell, the receptionist was very diligent about crosschecking patients and verifying their records as clients walked in. She was also careful about taking their credit cards, swiping them and posting deductibles on them.
My eyes then veered to Phil, late-forties, brown eyes, just shy of six foot, in good physical condition, no surprise there, dark hair, medium complexion, laugh lines edging his eyes with an intelligent, but entertaining personality.
As far as I could tell, Phil was well-respected in the community and also with all of his patients. I constantly overheard glowing reports how patients were progressing from their initial physical injuries and ailments.
Marilyn walked in shortly after I started my exercises. Possible scenarios played out mentally. Did an insurance company request more than one undercover investigator? That triggered another thought.
Maybe she lied to Clay, wasn’t working for an insurance company, but was an investigative reporter, writing about possible fraud in physical therapy? Who referred her to us? My questions for Clay were adding up. I was so engrossed in thought, I jumped when someone touched me.
It was Phil. “Earth to Sam. Are you finished?”
I looked around. Patients were staring and grinning.
Smiling, I kept it light. “I was plotting another murder.”
He laughed. “Well, I hope it’s not mine.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I responded dryly.
I heard a few chuckles, as Phil then attached four wired electrical pads connected to a machine to help stimulate my ankle to heal faster then wrapped my ankle in an ice wrap. When I started to feel a tingle in my ankle, I let him know and he stopped raising the voltage and walked over to another patient to tend to them and their therapy.
“I can’t imagine how complicated it must be plotting out each mystery. I have difficulty just trying to remember to write everything down on my grocery list,” said a female voice from nearby. I turned to face her.
An elderly, slend
er woman, who sported a gray-haired ponytail, smiled from her therapy table right next to mine. She was exercising diligently then paused. An indefinable feeling of familiarity washed over me, as I stared at her. It was something about her: a mature version of someone, but I couldn’t quite place it.
Who was she?
Chapter 10
And Then There Was...
She leaned over, introducing herself. “Anne Baxter.”
I smiled, now understanding my initial impression of familiarity. “It’s as if you stepped right out of the movies.”
Surprised, she said, “That’s so nice! No one associates my name to that era anymore. My mother was infatuated with old-time Hollywood movie stars. Since Baxter was our last name, Anne was a definite shoo-in for my first one.” She shrugged. “And since some would say I looked like her in my earlier years...”
“A remarkable likeness. You still do,” I added, having been introduced to the old Hollywood stars by my senior crew and their fondness for the glamor of yesteryear.
We shook hands.
“Hi, I’m Samantha Jamison. And now being an old-movie buff myself, I’d say you’re just as elegant too.”
Anne blushed, apparently loving the compliment and grinned broadly. I took to her immediately. Her eyes were a pale blue. Her hands slender and elegant like her physique.
Why couldn’t Marilyn be as chatty as her?
I then glanced to Marilyn, who was given a table further away. Engaging her in conversation wouldn’t work because of the distance. But still, I had to try, so I kept looking for any subtle gesture on her part that I could respond to.
Nothing.
So be it. My questions would have to wait until our next session. I didn’t want to draw attention in front of the other patients and, apparently, neither did she since she blatantly ignored me.
So I let that ride for now.
I turned back to Anne, intrigued by this diminutive, but elegant lady, always on the lookout for new characters and traits to incorporate into my mystery series.
Anne seemed to fit that bill as far as I was concerned. Her personality demanded closer attention as I was already fascinated by her name-story behind the lovely lady herself.
Some readers assume that authors magically create the characters they include in their books right off the top of their head. Some do. With me it’s a collage of personalities and qualities I feel will suit the tone of my mysteries.
You’d be surprised where I drew them from.
I just had to remember to change names so the person in question had no inkling I was using their own quirks and gestures when describing them in my books. If they only knew how close I came to blowing it on occasion because they were perfect for the role I chose for them. I’m always approached at outings with friends asking if so-and-so in my latest mystery was really so-and-so.
My lips were sealed.
“I don’t recall ever seeing you in here before,” I said.
“I must come on different days than you,” she replied.
I only went twice a week so that made sense.
“So, I heard you’re an author?” Anne asked.
I nodded. “Yes, I am.”
“Any particular genre?” she queried.
“I write mysteries.”
She tilted her head slightly, smiling. “Interesting.”
I laughed. “Whodunits with surprise endings.”
Delight lit her eyes. “That’s terrific! My favorite type of reading. And how do you come up with your ideas?”
“They seem to have a way of finding and involving me.”
“Are you suggesting your mysteries really happen?”
“That’s why I’m in physical therapy.”
I then explained how I broke and fractured my ankle, the wheelchair, crutches, the whole nine yards that followed.
“That’s some story. Are they all that dangerous?”
“Depends on whose definition you’re going by.”
“So what’s your definition of dangerous?” she asked.
I was about to speak when someone screamed. We both turned to see what happened.
Chapter 11
Breathing Uneasy
Phil and his assistant ran to Susan, a patient, who was now sprawled out on the floor, blinking in surprise.
“Apparently, equipment is one,” I said, watching them.
Susan was shaken, but didn’t seem to be hurt. She stood up, bewildered, while holding onto a rehab assistant.
She gasped, “One minute I’m walking, then I’m flying off.”
Phil’s eyes and mouth were pinched in worry. “Are you all right?”
Susan pointed over to the treadmill. “Look!”
You had to be running on that treadmill to keep up.
“What the...” said Phil, shutting it down. He then turned to Susan. “Could you have hit the switch by mistake?”
“I don’t think so. I was watching Jean to see how she was doing on her exercise bike, when I felt the tread start moving much faster, and then I...”
A voice suddenly yelled from the back therapy room.
“Help! Turn it off! Somebody please stop it!”
It was like the pause button had frozen us all. Silence.
Then Phil hustled straight for the small therapy room.
We heard moaning, then quiet. The receptionist, Nancy, abandoned her desk, rushed over to assist Phil. I ripped off my ice wrap and pads, jumped off my table, and peered into the backroom with Anne following right behind me.
“Oh, dear!” said Anne, raising her hand to her mouth in surprise at what she saw.
Phil was quickly removing four electrical pads from an elderly male on a rehab table, who was facing the wall, his back to us, moaning.
“Who’s that?” whispered Anne.
“It’s Pete, the back injury,” I said, watching Phil move.
Then I heard someone yell in pain from the main room. We turned back.
Henry, a leg injury, was tearing off his shoe and rubbing his foot, his weights lying on the floor beside him.
As Phil brushed by me, he paused, whispering so not to alarm the others, “Pete’s voltage was at the max. It must’ve malfunctioned.”
Surprised, I whispered back, “Are you sure?”
“It’s never happened before,” he murmured, frowning, disturbed by all that happened.
I gave a brief look to Anne. “Talk about mysteries...”
With Phil’s assistant now sitting Susan down and Nancy tending to Pete, I rushed over to Phil and Henry to help out.
Henry was holding his shoe up. “Will you look at that?”
Two sizable tack nails were poking through the sole.
“Oh my God,” said Phil. “Let’s take a look at your foot.”
Phil had begun to perspire. I felt for him and figured I had to say something to lighten the atmosphere.
“And people ask where I get ideas for my mysteries.”
A loud laugh surprised everyone. The backroom: Pete. Then Henry and Susan joined in. Everyone felt shaken but were recovering quickly.
“Your foot’s okay—no puncture,” Phil assured Henry.
“Most excitement I’ve had in a long time,” hooted Pete from the small therapy room in the back.
Susan laughed. “Talk about upping my running game.”
“I guess it beats lighting my shoes on fire,” said Henry.
I looked around to see Marilyn’s reaction to all this.
Gone...
Chapter 12
Who You Gonna Call?
I would’ve voice-mailed and texted Clay, my go-to guy for his opinion, but not this time around. When he worked undercover, like now, hell could freeze over and I wouldn’t hear from him. As lovable as my heartthrob was, I had to fend for myself. So, who was his alternate? I chose the not-yet-tested, but easy-on-the-eyes, iffy Tony, my street-savvy Jersey guy for some feedback and possible suggestions.
Hey, a girl’s gotta’ do what a girl’s go
tta’ do, right?
“Sounds like someone has it in for this Phil,” said Tony after meeting me back at the house I was renting.
I nodded, agreeing. “That was my take too.”
Then we discussed the insurance end of the matter and how Marilyn, the investigator, was long gone by then. Clay was at fault, not me.
I enjoy trying to figure this stuff out in spite of everyone making it so difficult to do so and not giving me all the information I needed. I never asked Marilyn for her cell phone number or email because of my initial mistake of failing to check Clay’s original email in the first place about this undercover investigator.
“What about the insurance company’s name?” he asked.
I explained about Clay racing through the airport and the sketchy info he gave and cutting me short because he was trying to catch a flight. “It’s been one mistake after another. Now, he’s unreachable and working undercover...”
“You know what I’m thinking about this relationship?” said Tony. “You might’ve been misled from the get-go.”
“I don’t need sarcasm regarding my personal life.”
What a ploy, playing Clay against me...
Then doubt hit me.
Which one was Tony referring to?
“Misled?” I asked, uncertainly.
“I don’t think you got the whole truth,” he replied.
“What makes you think that?” I asked, puzzled.
“No investigator lets you hang without more details.”
“Are you referring to Clay or Marilyn? Because both of them qualify here.”
Tony bit back a smile. “They’re both perfect examples.”
“You forgot to include yourself,” I shot back.
He ignored my jab. “Who referred Marilyn to Clay?”
“Clay didn’t know. Then he explained how sorry he was about putting me through this without proper info. So after I initially met Marilyn... You get the picture. It’s called damage control, a subject I’m sure you’re familiar with?”
He laughed. “I always cover my tracks to save my ass.”
“Well, how about saving mine right now?” I asked.
Too Close For Comfort (Samantha Jamison Mystery Book 9) Page 3