“I’d heard enough from the husband,” Nick said. “I wanted to get you away from that creep.”
“What did you hear?”
“We assumed there was sex involved, but Underhill hinted at videotapes. I think they’ve been selling them. That’s takes it to a whole new level.” Nick headed east on the freeway toward Coyote Creek. “And don’t kick yourself about the Verna Beardsley thing. I ran it past Grover while you women were busy in the powder room.”
“And?”
“He never heard of Verna Beardsley, but he did say Bonnie hated her sister-in-law. He didn’t know the woman’s name.”
“That’s a start. Now we know Dr. Beardsley has a sister.”
“Not necessarily. Maybe Bonnie had a married brother.”
“Nope. No brother,” I said. “She was an only child.”
“Then who besides Bonnie would know about this sister of Beardsley’s?”
“I already asked Maybelline about Verna Beardsley. She didn’t recognize the name, but there is someone who might. Beardsley’s first wife, Lorraine.”
“Where’s the first wife?”
“Visiting family back east. She’s due home late Wednesday night, according to her fiancé. They’re getting married Friday, then traveling abroad for three months.”
“But she’ll be in town Thursday?” Nick asked.
“Yes, and I’m already on it. I talked to her future groom over the weekend. He said he’d have her call me Thursday.”
“She can’t call you from back east?”
“I tried that, but he said she didn’t want to be disturbed. Apparently her parents are elderly and frail.”
Back in Jack and Amah’s house, Nick and I brainstormed with Hannah and Johnny about the Verna Beardsley mystery. Johnny asked if we were going to tell the sheriff’s office about the vandalism incident with the cria and the paint on my door.
“I’ll report it, but with all the recent pranks out here involving the halfway house, I doubt it will get much attention.” I told them about the kids I caught trying to tip over our grandparents’ mailbox.
“What about those people you had dinner with?” Hannah asked. “Are you going to tell the police about their connection to the Beardsley woman and the porn?”
“We have no evidence,” Nick said, “just Grover Underhill’s drunken innuendo.”
“What about the woman’s claim that Bonnie supplied them with drugs?”
“Again, we have no proof, but I’ll run all of this by Abe Edelman. He might have some ideas.”
After Hannah, Johnny, and the cowardly Doberman left, Nick walked with me down the lane to the barn, where he insisted on checking inside my apartment and inspecting the locks.
He hesitated on the deck after we said good night. “I don’t like leaving you out here on your own, Aimee. I’m not convinced the bull’s-eye painted on that little cria was done by malicious kids.”
“Who else?” I asked.
“Someone with a far more dangerous agenda. Specifically, someone who wants you to butt out of the Beardsley case. If you’ll give me the keys to the main house, I’d like to camp out there, at least for tonight.”
“It’s not necessary. I appreciate everything you’re doing for Harry, but he can’t ask you to spend your days and nights being my bodyguard.”
The warmth left Nick’s eyes. “Is that what you think? That I’m only doing this for Harry?”
I felt a jolt of apprehension, as if a powerful undertow were pulling me into a conversation I wasn’t ready for. One that I dreaded.
Nick leaned back against the deck rail and glanced up through the dark tangle of oak branches. “See those stars?”
“I do. They’re magnificent.”
“There are a lot of women out there, Aimee. Not as many as stars in the sky, but there are a lot of women out there who are looking for the right man. I’ve met a few of them, liked some more than others, but when I met you, I knew I’d found someone extraordinary.”
“What do you mean?” I felt tears pooling in my eyes. Somehow, this didn’t sound like a declaration of love. It sounded like a prelude to goodbye.
“I mean I had found someone I could trust. There were no games, no pretenses, no manipulations. Just two people being themselves and being honest with each other. Do you know how rare that is?”
“Yes.” The tears were flowing now.
“Then imagine how I feel, knowing that you think I’ve betrayed your trust when the opposite is true. And knowing if you hear the truth, you’ll still wonder if it’s a lie.”
“I’m sorry, Nick.” The words got stuck in my throat, and I swallowed. “I’ve been hurt before by men I trusted, but nothing ever hurt as much as hearing Rella answer your phone in the middle of the night in Paris. I can’t imagine how you could explain that away, but even if you could, now is not the time. Until I know Harry’s safe, I don’t have the heart for anything else.”
“Then I’ll let it go for now.” Nick stepped away from the deck rail toward the stairs. “But don’t wait too long, Aimee. I feel the gap between us growing, and one of these days, it’s going to be too wide to cross.”
With that, he ran down the steps and got into his car. As he drove away, I tried to take a deep breath, but I couldn’t. I’d felt like the wind had been knocked out of my midsection by an unexpected blow.
I woke Tuesday morning with the same hollow feeling that had greeted me every day for the first month after Nick and I broke up. As time went by I’d managed to overcome it. Now it was back. All the while I was telling him I didn’t want him, he was there asking for another chance. Now that it seemed he was getting ready to move on, the pain had returned. I wanted things to return to the way they’d been before Paris, but that was childish, wishful thinking. I saw our future was hanging by a thread called trust, and wondered if it took more courage to give Nick another chance or to let him go. No matter how things worked out between us, I knew Nick would be there for Harry. At the moment, that was all that mattered.
When I got to work I was able to distract myself from thoughts of Nick by ever-increasing demands on my time. My efforts to boost library usage were paying off. The first trickle of doctors, nurses and other health professionals had spread the word. I was seeing a definite rise in the volume of patrons. They delved into databases for information on everything from bioterrorism to the stock market. The initial steps toward developing the forensic component added to my workload. In spite of Harry’s predicament and the chaos in my personal life, I was getting on with my job.
I was helping an orthopedist print an article on smoking and osteoporosis when Dr. Beardsley dropped by. He seemed downright jovial, considering his wife had yet to make it into her grave—at least I assumed the investigation had delayed her burial. Waiting for toxicology reports, no doubt, which could take weeks.
“Miss Machado, how are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” With that huge white lie, I steered Dr. Beardsley toward my desk, signaling Lola to take over with the orthopedist. My elderly volunteer relished any chance to tutor the docs on the use of our databases.
Beardsley wasted no time getting to the reason for his visit.
“I felt I should confirm our dinner plans.” He rubbed his palms together like Henry VIII about to devour a roast suckling pig. “Shall I pick you up at your home?”
“That’s not a good idea. I’d better meet you at the country club.”
The eager light in his eyes dimmed a few watts, but he persisted. “It’s no trouble, really. I’d be more than happy to drive you.”
“I really couldn’t,” I said. “My fiancé might be uncomfortable with that.”
“Ah, yes, your fiancé.” Beardsley took a backward step. “Well, then, I’ll meet you in the country club dining room at seven o’clock. Strictly business.” He glanced around the library. “Is everything going well here?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
“Carry on, then.” He waved to Lola and
the orthopedist and shuffled out.
I watched his back and wondered if I would discover over dinner that the bipolar Verna Beardsley was his sister.
When Lola’s shift ended at noon, she announced she was off to buy Marty Stockwell’s latest CD. Her ardor burned brighter than ever. Fortunately for Marty, Lola thought he still lived in Oklahoma. I wasn’t about to tell her he resided in Coyote Creek, a mere nine miles east of Timbergate. Lola was a sweetheart, but she had a mighty crush on her idol, who frequently shopped for organic veggies at the Coyote Creek grocery store. If Lola knew that, she might be tempted to seek out poor Marty right there among the artichokes.
She waved an arthritic goodbye and hung her orange blazer on the coat rack near the door, next to the one Maybelline had left soaked and rumpled the day before. That reminded me I’d planned on having Maybelline’s jacket laundered. I took it off the hook, hung a CLOSED sign on the door and headed for the Housekeeping Department.
The woman in charge of laundry promised to have the jacket ready first thing in the morning. She checked for stains, then felt inside the pockets. She found a folded slip of paper, unfolded it, and frowned.
“Want this?” she held it out to me. It looked like a page from a medical prescription pad. It must have taken a direct hit when Maybelline got doused. The thing was too smudged to read.
“Thanks,” I said. I took it from her without mentioning that the garment wasn’t mine. It was unlikely that the woman had ever been in the library. She had to assume I was a volunteer.
“Probably ought to get that filled. Looks like it was written some time ago.”
I glanced at the scrawl. “You can read this?”
“Only the date.”
She was right. The date was smeared, but legible on closer examination. The prescription was almost three months old. I jammed it into the pocket of my slacks, planning to give it to Maybelline first thing Wednesday morning. Probably her thyroid medication. I recalled noticing her protruding eyeballs on my first day. I hoped she had not been going without her medicine for three months, and debated whether I should invade her privacy by asking.
Back in the library, I put the prescription slip in my purse. For the rest of the day, a relentless procession of worries marched through my mind to the beat of a throbbing headache. Save Harry. Protect the cria. Catch the killer. Suspects had been dropping off my list until only a few remained. Quinn, Tango, and the Palmers all seemed remote possibilities. The Underhills were unlikely. I suspected it was Grover who’d had sex with Bonnie before she died, but he couldn’t be the intruder who sprayed paint on the cria and on my door; the timing was wrong. And why would he kill Bonnie? That would be killing the goose that laid the golden eggs.
The mysterious Verna Beardsley still seemed to be the key. If I played it right with Dr. Beardsley, I’d soon know if he had a sister squirreled away somewhere. Unless he caught on to my charade and got suspicious. Was Quinn right? Was I crazy to try to match wits with a suspected wife-killer?
Chapter 34
I stopped off at a sporting goods store on the way home to pick up a canister of bear spray. Everything was secure when I checked the main house. The llamas chewed their cuds peacefully, and I saw no evidence of further vandalism. The only sign that someone had been on the property was a new coat of red paint on my bunkhouse door. Nick’s handiwork, no doubt. Considering the way we left things the night before, I was surprised he had bothered, but the door looked great.
As I marveled at Nick’s thoughtfulness, I heard the taunting echo of Rella’s slurred voice on the phone from Paris. Nicky’s asleep. I mustn’t wake him. He has to fly tomorrow. Would I be a fool to believe nothing had happened between them that night? Could I bring myself to try?
I put the bear spray on the kitchen counter and after a quick shower, found myself in a rerun of the previous night, picking through the contents of my closet for something to wear to dinner with Beardsley. Seductive was out. Prudish was too far in the other direction. I settled for a short denim skirt, calf-hugging leather cowboy boots, and a faux buckskin camisole trimmed in turquoise and coral beads. With my hair in a long braid and silver hoops dangling from my ears, the transformation from Mulan to Pocahontas was complete.
I arrived at the country club dining room ten minutes early. Vane Beardsley was nowhere in sight. The maitre d’ took my name and offered to seat me, but I declined and headed for the powder room. I spotted Quinn loitering at the bar. He had made good his promise to spy on my date. I passed him on the way to the women’s room and muttered, “Beardsley is going to spot you the minute he walks in.”
I killed as much time as possible in front of the restroom mirrors before two skinny blondes stumbled in. They reeked of sickly sweet perfume and alcohol.
“Wow, do I ever have to pee,” the platinum blonde in the blue dress said.
“Me, too. It’s the diet pills.” This from the champagne blonde in the white lace pantsuit.
I headed back to the dining room where the maitre d’ told me Dr. Beardsley had just been seated. A glance toward the bar confirmed that Quinn had found cover. I spotted him partially hidden behind a fake ficus.
Beardsley rose from his chair when he saw me approach, but he caught the table edge with his thigh and nearly overturned the thing. We both groped for water glasses, silverware, and the lighted candle. We managed to avoid setting the room on fire, but that was small consolation. Anyone who hadn’t noticed us before was surely aware of our presence now. We’d be fodder for every malicious tongue in Timbergate’s country club set.
“Sorry,” Beardsley said. “I’m acting like an old bull in a china shop.”
“Forget it. This place needs sturdier tables.”
“You look very nice tonight.” He held out my chair. “Lovely, in fact. Like an Indian Princess. American Indian, I mean.” He colored. “I don’t mean to offend, to dwell on your ethnicity … but you seem to change from time to time … like a chameleon. It’s bewitching.”
“Thank you. And please don’t worry. I’m not offended in the least.”
I opened my menu, tried not to gasp at the prices, and wondered if I could swallow a piece of dead salmon that cost six dollars a bite. After we ordered, Beardsley began to talk shop.
“Well now, how have you enjoyed your first two weeks on the job?”
“Very much,” I said. “Except for your personal tragedy, of course. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Yes. It has been devastating, but life must go on, you know. We in the medical profession are well acquainted with death.”
I doubted that applied to his specialty. If plastic surgeons were well acquainted with death, there would be a lot fewer face-lifts on the TMC surgery schedule.
We discussed the library, our food, and the weather. It took all the restraint I could muster to keep from glancing toward the foliage where Jared Quinn lurked. Beardsley had just forked in a mouthful of mashed potatoes when I realized he was using his right hand. I was torn between relief and disappointment. Maybe he wasn’t a wife killer after all. But if that were the case, the focus on Harry would be even more intense. Unless Beardsley had hired some thug to do his dirty work.
In spite of his being right-handed, I had to know if there was a connection to Verna Beardsley. I decided to try the direct approach.
“Do you have any family in Timbergate, Dr. Beardsley?”
He dropped his fork, pointed at this throat and croaked out, “Down the wrong pipe. Back in a jiffy.” He left the table coughing and headed toward the restrooms.
Once again I was the focus of all eyes in the dining room. Sinking under the table wasn’t an option, so I lowered my gaze to the chunk of overpriced and undercooked orange flesh cooling on my plate.
I recalled my first day at Timbergate Medical Center when Beardsley had promised to be back in a jiffy and hadn’t returned at all.
He returned this time, but I didn’t get an answer to my question about family. He claimed he had been paged by h
is answering service on his way back from the men’s room. “I hope you don’t mind. They need me in the ER for a consult.”
“Not at all,” I said. I’d definitely hit a nerve asking him about family. I suspected the story about being needed in the ER was fiction.
He looked uncertain, but eager to be let off the hook. “Well, then, I’ll take care of the tab on my way out. Are you sure you don’t mind finishing your meal alone?”
“I’ll be fine.” I forked into the cold fish to prove it.
“Another time, then.” He hurried to where the waiter hovered, scribbled a signature, and left.
A moment later Quinn strolled over to my table. “May I join you?” His amused grin made my teeth itch.
“Would it do any good if I said no?”
He sat in Beardsley’s vacant chair.
“You two put on quite the floor show. I don’t think I’ve ever had a more entertaining evening in this boring joint.”
“You’re not helping matters. How is it going to look if we leave together?”
“Hey. You’re a damsel in distress. Your date walked out, didn’t he?”
“He said he got paged.”
“You believed him?”
“Not necessarily,” I said, “but it could be true.”
“Did you get anywhere with your amateur sleuthing before he ditched you?”
“No.”
Beardsley’s so-called page to the ER had spoiled my chance to find out whether he had a sister, but I still wasn’t ready to discuss the Verna Beardsley connection with Quinn.
“He didn’t try to intimidate you?”
“Not in the least,” I said. “No warnings, no veiled threats.”
“So he really wanted to talk shop?”
“It’s possible. What about you? Did you learn anything new from your meeting with the police chief?”
“No. I asked if they were broadening the list of suspects, but he said they’re staying on the same tack.”
“Still going after Harry?”
Due for Discard Page 21