“This seems hopeless. We’re going around in circles and getting nowhere.”
After finishing our lunch, we were halfway back to the dock when Nick’s cellphone rang. He stopped and answered. His expression changed from mild interest to intense curiosity. He turned to me. “Pen. Paper. Quick.”
I dug in my purse and handed over a pencil and notebook. He scribbled and said, “Right, got it. Thanks.” Closing the phone, he faced me with a look of triumph. “Do you know anyone by the name of Verna Beardsley?”
“No, why?”
“Because her fingerprint was on the acrylic toenail.”
“They identified the print?”
“Unofficially. Don’t get your hopes too high. We don’t know if this is evidence we can use if Harry were to go to trial, but at least we finally have a clue.”
“But who’s Verna Beardsley? She must be related to Dr. Beardsley, but I’ve never heard anyone mention that name. Did the lab have any details on her?”
“Some,” Nick said. “But it’s so unofficial that it never happened. Dr. Tipton suggested we make a stop at Green Pastures Psychiatric Facility. He arranged an appointment for us with the administrator there.”
“Where is this place?”
“Near Larkspur. It’s a few miles up Highway 101. Apparently Verna Beardsley was an inpatient there several years ago. They fingerprint all of their patients.”
“With all the privacy laws in place these days, I’ll be surprised if they’ll tell us anything.”
“Maybe not, but we’re in the neighborhood, and this is the best lead we have. We’re damn lucky the woman’s prints were on file.”
“She could be anywhere if she was discharged several years ago.”
Nick pulled out his phone. “Let’s see if we can find her online.”
It was worth a try. Even though the name sounded uncommon, there was probably more than one Verna Beardsley out there. I looked up my own name once, and found several other Aimee Machados. Until then, I thought my name was unique.
“Any results?” I asked.
“Three, but two are obituaries and the other one is in Kentucky and only ten years old.”
We headed up the highway toward Larkspur.
Chapter 27
We reached Green Pastures Psychiatric Facility in mid-afternoon. The place looked as bucolic as its name, except for the eight foot high chain link fence surrounding the property. Nick stopped at the closed entry gate where a uniformed security officer leaned out the guard shack window and asked the nature of our business. Nick showed his identification and said we had an appointment with the administrator. The guard spoke into his radio, nodded, then aimed a remote at the gate.
“Main building, first office on the left.” The gate rolled open. “Have a nice day.”
The compound consisted of a two-story brick building and several clapboard cabins, all shaded by towering eucalyptus trees and nestled against a hillside dotted with oaks and populated with a herd of black-and-white dairy cattle.
The lobby’s décor mirrored the compound’s pastoral setting with grass-green carpet, wallpaper sporting rural scenes, and pale green gingham upholstery on the couches and chairs. Goldfish swam in a stone pond dominating a corner of the lobby.
Nick checked in at the reception desk, and we were told to have a seat, that Mr. Delacruz would be right out.
“Why is the administrator here on a Saturday?” I whispered.
“Maybe he’s the weekend guy,” Nick said. “Someone has to be in charge if the inmates get restless.”
“Inmates? Come on, they’re patients.”
“They’re that, too.”
“What do you mean?”
Before Nick could elaborate, a fireplug of a man with horn-rimmed glasses, a black moustache, and receding hairline marched toward us, offering his hand to Nick. We both stood.
“Anthony Delacruz.” He shook Nick’s hand, then mine. “Please, let’s talk in my office.” We followed him down a spotless corridor into a tidy office of modest proportions. Delacruz sat at his desk, and we took the two visitors’ chairs.
“You’re interested in Verna Beardsley.”
“We are,” Nick said. “Larry Tipton said you might be able to help us.”
Delacruz lifted a folder from the top of his desk. “Up to a point. Are you familiar with the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act?”
When he heard Delacruz rattle off that mouthful, Nick shot me an inquiring glance.
“HIPAA. Yes, of course,” I said. “It protects patient privacy.” I had been wondering how Nick would clear that hurdle. A tense moment passed, then Delacruz spoke.
“I understand you work for Samuel Sawyer?” The question was directed at Nick.
“That’s right.” Nick waited calmly.
“I see.” Delacruz tapped his pursed lips with his index finger. “Mr. Sawyer’s philanthropy is quite admirable. Larry Tipton tells me his endowments have enriched many worthy institutions.”
Nick remained silent.
Delacruz cleared his throat. “I must say the world could use more men like Samuel Sawyer.”
Nick handed the man a business card. “He is a generous man, all right. Never says no to a good cause. That’s the number for his private foundation, if you should want to inquire about a grant for your facility.”
Delacruz stood. He dropped the file folder on his desk. “If you two will excuse me, I have a matter of importance to discuss with my nursing supervisor. Her office is rather a long trek, but if you’ll bear with me, I should be back in say, twenty minutes?”
Nick smiled. “Twenty minutes is fine with us.”
“Tell you what. If I’m not back in twenty minutes, just let yourselves out. We can reschedule if necessary. I’m off tomorrow, but I’ll be here every day next week.”
“Sounds good,” Nick said.
As soon as the door closed behind the administrator, Nick shot out of his chair and walked around the desk. He lifted the cover of the file with the point of a pen.
I walked over to watch out the small square of glass in the door while Nick went to work. He took a small digital camera from his pocket. “It’s not complete, just a few pages, but it’s better than nothing.” He snapped pictures of each page.
“What does it say?”
“For starters, she’s no longer an inpatient, but she still checks in from time to time for evaluation of her condition and adjustment of medications.”
“Does it say where she’s living?”
“Nope.”
“Next of kin?”
“No. Verna Beardsley was admitted eleven years ago with a diagnosis of manic-depressive illness.”
“It’s called bipolar disorder these days. Does it say why she was committed?”
“She must have committed some kind of crime. This place only treats patients referred by the courts. Hence the fingerprints. Are bipolar people violent?”
“They can be. In severe cases the disorder destroys rational thought. Some patients commit what the textbooks call dreadful behaviors.”
Nick flipped through the remaining pages of the scant file. “Nothing here about that. Delacruz didn’t give us everything.”
“But it’s her fingerprint on the toenail?”
“Yes. Larry Tipton’s forensics source was positive.” Nick checked his watch. “We’d better leave. I have a feeling Delacruz won’t want to see us here when he gets back.”
“I agree. Even if the end justifies the means, what we’re doing could make trouble for all of us. I just hope Buck Sawyer comes through if he gets a grant request from Delacruz.”
“He probably will. This place fits right in with his foundation’s mission.”
We left the compound heading south, surrounded by a steady flow of traffic on 101.
“It’s pretty likely this Verna Beardsley is related to the doctor,” Nick said. “Have you heard anything about his family?”
“Just the ex-wife and the dead
wife. But this woman must be family. If she killed Bonnie, what’s her motive?”
“Money or passion,” Nick said. “My guess is money.”
“There’s talk the deceased was a world-class gold-digger,” I said. “If Verna is some kind of heir, maybe she was about to be left out in the cold.”
Back in the harbor, a salty afternoon breeze set the rows of sailboats and cruisers rocking. Riggings on a forest of masts tinkled like the high notes on a piano keyboard. I hugged myself against the chill until we reached the yacht. We climbed aboard and went below.
Nick opened a bottle of Cabernet, poured two glasses, and handed one to me. “Want to go out to dinner or eat in?”
“In. This weekend isn’t a date. We’re here to work.”
I sounded snarky, even to myself, but Nick ignored the barb. He took out his wallet and handed me his credit card and Buck’s shopping list.
“Do you mind doing the shopping while I putter here?”
“Sure you trust me with this?” I dropped his card into my purse.
“You’re the one with trust issues.”
“With good reason,” I replied.
“I disagree,” Nick said, “but now’s not the time to go down that road.” He handed me the keys to the car and the dock. “You can use one of the carts at the basin gate when you get back with the groceries.”
Food shopping at the Harbor Market in Sausalito was a delight. I bought everything on Nick’s list, then indulged in some exotic cheeses, fruits, and pastries I would never find in Timbergate’s big box supermarkets.
Nick was finishing his inspection of the sails and riggings when I returned, so I stowed the groceries and arranged a snack plate of brie, crackers, and grapes. We sat at the dinette table munching food and sipping wine in a silence that was too comfortable, too much like the good days in our past. I broke the mood by taking two large notepads from my tote bag and handing one to Nick.
“Let’s brainstorm the Verna Beardsley puzzle,” I said. “Where do we start?”
“We start with where is she?”
“If she’s mixed up in the murder, she must live in or near Timbergate.”
“But our Internet search for Verna Beardsley didn’t turn up anyone on the west coast,” Nick said, “so she’s probably using an alias.”
I wrote Alias? on my pad. “Isn’t it more likely she simply goes by a married name? Someone she met after she left the psych center?”
“I think Delacruz would have left that information in the file for us. Remember, she’s still on their rolls as some kind of outpatient under her real name. If she’s using an alias, Delacruz probably doesn’t know about it.”
“Then how do we find her? And what if she doesn’t live in Sawyer County at all, much less right under our noses?” I threw my pen on the table. “This is hopeless. Harry’s going—”
“Stop.” Nick picked up the pen and handed it back to me. “Don’t panic now. We’re just getting started. This Beardsley woman must have something to do with your Dr. Beardsley. The name isn’t that common.”
“What if I ask Beardsley about her when I get to work Monday?”
“No. Absolutely not. If he’s the killer and the woman is an accomplice, you’ll be their next target.”
“Maybe there’s another way. There’s a gossipy woman, a volunteer who works for me two mornings a week. Monday and Wednesday. She seems to know a lot about Beardsley and everyone else at the hospital.”
“It’s worth a try.” Nick picked up his pen. “For now, let’s make a list of every woman you can think of with any connection to Beardsley or his dead wife.”
The first three names on my list were Arnetta Palmer, who was looking less likely as a suspect, her daughter Penny, who hadn’t been anywhere near Timbergate when the crime was committed, and Lorraine Beardsley.
“Who else?” Nick said.
“I’m thinking.”
“What about that Underhill couple?”
“Right. I keep forgetting about them.”
“Well, don’t. It sounds like there was something deviant going on between the Underhills and the promiscuous victim.”
“And you actually expect me to set up a double date with those two perverts?”
Nick reached out and touched my arm. “Aimee, they run what’s most likely a scam, and from what you’ve said, they were into something kinky with the deceased woman. We need to know more about them.”
“I agree, but I don’t like your plan. They invited me to visit their new facility. Why don’t I just do that?”
“That might work, but if they’re the kind of people I think they are, we’ll learn more by arranging a private get-together.”
“The thought gives me the creeps.”
“Too bad. You took a hell of a chance dating your friend Arnie. You’re damn lucky that turned out as well as it did. I don’t want you getting chummy with the Underhills by yourself. Any contact you have with those people is going to include me.”
“Nick, I’m not helpless. I met you at a gun club, remember? I’m a third degree black belt—”
“Fine, but none of that saved you from Tango.”
“That’s not fair. Tango was a fluke. No one could have been prepared for that.”
“You could have been killed. I can’t let—”
“Enough about Tango. I don’t care what you promised Harry. You’re not my bodyguard, okay?”
Silence filled the cabin. Nick went to his stateroom to make a phone call. Checking in with Buck Sawyer, I presumed. Or maybe Abe Edelman, Harry’s attorney. The sooner Abe knew about the mysterious Verna Beardsley, the better.
“Well?” I asked, when he came back out.
“Harry’s been released. The judge ruled there wasn’t probable cause for his arrest.”
“Thank God.”
“It’s a break, but it isn’t over. He’s been instructed to stay in town, and you know Keefer isn’t going to let up.” Nick reached out to touch my cheek. “Try not to worry, Sweetheart. We’ll keep at it until we figure this out.”
I pulled back. “No touching. No sweetheart stuff.”
“Fair enough. Let’s get some sleep.”
The cradle-like rocking of the yacht lulled me toward sleep, but with Nick so near I couldn’t stop wishing that things between us were different and that Paris had never happened.
Chapter 28
Nick’s flawless landing at Timbergate Municipal Airport on Sunday morning brought me back to earth in more ways than one. He taxied to the hangar while my spirits sagged under the weight of our task. To save my brother from a vindictive police investigator and an ambitious DA, we had to find the killer of an amoral woman with a past full of shady characters.
Nick walked me to my car. I didn’t need the grim set of his jaw to remind me we were running out of time.
“Call me as soon as you make contact with the Underhills,” he said. “We need to set something up right away.”
“I know. I’ll take care of it.” I slipped into my car and lowered the window. “What will you be doing?”
“Meeting with Harry and Abe. Keeping an eye on you.”
“I hate that.”
“Get used to it. You’re stuck with me until this is finished.”
When Harry was out of danger, would Nick and I be finished as well? I had been ready to move on, but working as a team to help my brother had put a dent in my resolve to forget Nick. At least he had kept his promise the night before. No touching. No sweetheart talk. Neither of us referred to our night in separate bunks or asked how the other had slept.
Everything looked peaceful and normal back at the ranch, if a pasture filled with llamas and turkeys could be considered normal.
Inside my little apartment, I found a welcoming committee. Hannah had obviously made an early morning visit and returned Fanny and Bosco to my domain. I spotted a note on my table:
Found the rattler. Took it to Dad. Thanks, Hannah.
I left messages on Harry’s
landline and cellphone. If I didn’t hear back soon, I planned to drive by the mall project. Even on a Sunday, accused of murder and out on bail, that’s most likely where I’d find Harry.
I spread my notes on the table and started prioritizing. Nothing was more important than finding Verna Beardsley, but our Internet search down in Sausalito had turned up no one by that name anywhere near Timbergate. I would have to wait until Monday morning to see if Maybelline Black could help.
Reluctantly, I wrote entry number two: Arrange double date with Underhills. Just thinking about it made me want to take a hot, soapy shower.
My third item was a visit with Lorraine Beardsley. When was she getting married? At the ballet she had said in two weeks. One of those weeks was almost gone. Very soon she would probably be on an extended honeymoon in some exotic locale. I needed to get to her right away.
Lorraine wasn’t listed in the phone book, but I figured I could get her number from Arnetta Palmer if I could come up with a good reason to ask for it. I called the hospital and discovered Milton Palmer had been discharged. If the reconciliation was working, I might reach Arnetta at their family home.
If I did manage to arrange a meeting with Lorraine Beardsley, I wasn’t about to invite Nick. I had no worries about holding my own against a pampered society matron twice my age.
Jared Quinn was farther down the list, but still under consideration. If the mysterious Verna Beardsley had done away with Bonnie, she must have had help, and Quinn had a history of getting himself involved with complicated women. The question was, where would he draw the line?
I changed from my boots and jeans into a pair of shorts and a tank top. Fanny circled my legs, emitting her purr-meow combination that either meant she’d missed me or she wanted out. I picked her up for a quick hug, but she pushed off my chest with all fours and hit the floor, heading for the door. So much for feline affection. With her safely outside, I tried Bosco next. I opened his cage door and offered my finger as a perch. He hitched a ride to my shoulder, where he bit my earlobe in the process of trying to pull off my earring.
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