“I’m afraid so, but Vane Beardsley is first runner-up.” Quinn pointed at my plate. “Are you going to finish that?”
“No. Let’s get out of here.”
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
Outside, the twilight air stirred, whispering across my bare arms. An overhead light in the parking lot cast a fluorescent glow, illuminating my old Buick. Something didn’t look quite right. When we got closer, it hit me. All four tires were flat down to the rims.
“Damn.” Quinn took a close look. “They’ve been cut.”
“Oh no, not again.”
“What do you mean, again? Has this happened before?”
“Not exactly.”
“Aimee, what the hell are you talking about?”
“I had a flat tire about a week ago. The man from the tire shop thought it might have been done deliberately.”
“So your tires have been cut twice?”
“Maybe. Except last time it was only one, and it wasn’t so obvious.”
“Any idea why?”
“To scare me, I suppose.”
“Has there been anything else?”
I was tempted to tell him about the bull’s-eye on the cria, when an awful thought struck me. How stupid I had been, leaving the ranch unguarded. I’d thought it was safe to keep the rendezvous with Beardsley because he couldn’t be in two places at once. Now I was stranded, and if Beardsley really was the nasty piece of work who cut my tires and painted the cria, he might make good his threatened mayhem before I could get home.
“Where’s your car?” I spotted the Navigator and ran for it.
Quinn strode after me, frowning. “Take it easy, Aimee. I’ll give you a ride, but shouldn’t we get your car towed first?”
“There’s no time. We have to go.”
“I’ve never seen you this frantic. What’s the hurry?”
I jerked on the door handle. “Unlock this damn thing. I’ll explain on the way.”
Chapter 35
I gave Quinn directions to the ranch and told him about the incident with the cria.
“A bull’s-eye? The sick SOB.” He slammed his hand on the steering wheel and proceeded to singe my ears with a string of expletives that would have filled a quarter jar.
“Keep cursing if it’ll get us there faster.”
“Sorry, but this guy sounds dangerous. Hard to believe it could be Beardsley. Maybe you should call 911.”
“What am I supposed to tell them? Someone might be assaulting a llama?”
“Good point,” Quinn said, “but no matter what we find, I’m not letting you stay out there alone.”
“Letting me? Who made you the boss of me?”
In the light from an oncoming car, I saw his lips twist into an ironic grin. “The TMC Governing Board.”
“This is my personal life,” I said. “I only answer to you at work.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, that line has blurred. You’re trying to protect your brother, but he’s in trouble because Beardsley’s wife is dead. You can’t separate this situation from your job, Aimee.”
“I’d give up a thousand jobs if it would keep Harry safe, so don’t try to pull rank on me.”
“Understood. Now you have to understand where I’m coming from. I’m not as cavalier about my career as you are about yours.”
“So you’re trying to protect Vane Beardsley and Timbergate Medical Center to save your career? How noble.”
“I can’t afford to be noble. I’m one of five siblings and my parents kicked every one of us out of the nest after we finished our educations. My stint in Ethiopia and my six-day marriage cost me more than a scar on my eyebrow. There were legal bills and medical bills, and this job allows me to keep my head above water. I’ve grown to like it and I want to keep it. This Beardsley mess is not going to send me back to dodging bullets in some third world desert.” He glanced over at me. “How much farther to the exit?”
“It’s coming up now. Then go left, under the overpass.”
We rode in silence the rest of the way. Quinn cut his lights as we pulled into Jack and Amah’s driveway. There were no strange vehicles on the property.
“Stay in the car,” he said. “Keep the doors locked.”
“Forget it.” I opened my door. “If the scumbag is here, he’s mine. I’m the one he’s been harassing.”
We crept around to the back of the main house. The doors and windows all looked secure. I counted six woolly mounds—five large and one small—settled for the night in the dark pasture.
“Let’s look around inside,” Quinn said.
I unlocked the house and we checked every room. Nothing was disturbed.
“Which room is yours?” Quinn said.
“None. I don’t live in this house.”
He looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Then what the hell are we doing here?”
“This is Jack and Amah’s house.”
“Who are they?”
“My grandparents.”
“So where exactly do you live?”
“In the llama barn.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“No. It’s a studio apartment. Above the barn.”
Quinn sighed and shook his head. “Let’s have a look at your apartment.”
We walked down the lane under the light of a crescent moon. A distant coyote howled, prompting a muted chorus of barking from the dogs on a neighboring ranch. The scent of clover sweetened the balmy night air as we approached the barn.
We checked outside and saw nothing suspicious. Quinn went first up the stairs to the deck where he pronounced the door and windows secure. I unlocked the door and we stepped into the kitchen. Fanny trotted over to Quinn and rubbed against his legs. Behind the room divider, out of Quinn’s line of sight, Bosco delivered his Dirty Harry impersonation with more malice than usual.
“Go ahead, make my day.”
Quinn pushed me behind him. A pistol appeared in his left hand.
“Don’t shoot,” I yelled, “it’s a bird.”
Quinn lowered the gun and drew a deep breath.
“Mother of God, woman, you’re going to put me in my own cardiac care unit before this night is over.”
“And whose fault is that? I don’t recall asking you to spy on Beardsley and me.”
“I suppose you didn’t ask me to drive you out here to your crazy animal farm.” He slipped the gun into what looked a like a holster inside the waistband of his pants.
“Why are you carrying a gun?”
“Ask the murdering thugs who killed my wife.”
“Do you always carry it?”
“No. I thought tonight might be special. Do you have a gun?”
“No.” I pointed to the kitchen counter. “I have bear spray.”
“Good.” Quinn checked the bathroom and closet. “This place is clear. Now what?”
“Now you leave, and I call a tow service.”
“How will you get to work tomorrow?”
“I’ll call my brother for a ride.”
“It makes more sense for me to stay,” Quinn said. “If your tire-slashing friend decides to show up, whoever he is, I want to be around. I’ll go get the Navigator and park downstairs.”
In spite of my attempt at bravado, the idea of Quinn and his gun guarding me held major appeal. I needed sleep, and I wasn’t going to get it if he left me home alone. And I didn’t want to call Harry to act as a bodyguard. That would mean telling him about my date with Beardsley, which he’d pass on to Nick. It made sense to let Quinn stay over and drive me to work in the morning.
“Do you want to sleep in the main house?” I asked.
“No. It’s too far away.”
“Then you’ll have to sleep in your car. All I have in here is a fold-out futon.”
“No problem, the car’s big.”
I made a pot of decaf while Quinn drove his car down the lane and parked in the stable yard. He came up and sat at my kitchen table with Fanny on his
lap while I called the twenty-four hour tow service and arranged to have them deliver the Buick to the tire shop in the morning. I’d already paid for one tire repair on credit. The thought of buying four new tires made my eyes water. I was going to be living in the barn a lot longer than I had expected.
I’d just sat at the table with my coffee when Quinn jumped up and looked out my kitchen window toward the main house.
“Turn off the light,” he said.
I flipped the switch. “Why?”
“I saw headlights. Someone turned into your lane.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“The headlights just went out. When did you say your grandparents are due back?”
“Not until Saturday.”
“Any chance they’d come back early?”
“Not this early.”
“Look.” Quinn pointed out the window. I saw the silhouette of a pickup making slow progress down the lane toward us. Then it stopped abruptly, its headlights flashed on, and it reversed, wheels churning dirt and gravel, until it reached the street.
“Hell and damn,” Quinn said, “he must have spotted the Navigator.” He opened the door and took the stairs two at a time. He crouched behind his car and watched the pickup as it backed onto the street, slammed into forward gear, and sped away.
By that time, I had reached ground level. “Could you make out the plate number?”
“No. Too dark. Too far away.” He shook his head in disgust.
“Color?”
“Sorry.”
Quinn followed me back up the stairs. “At least we know the tire slasher was up to no good.”
“I wonder what took him so long to get here.”
“Maybe he had trouble finding his way. It’s not exactly on the beaten path.”
“Assuming it’s the same guy, he was here before. To paint the cria and spray the message on my door.”
“Good point. Maybe with your four flat tires, he thought he had plenty of time.”
“He would have, if you hadn’t been at the country club tonight. If I’d had to call a taxi, I’d still be waiting.”
“What I’d like to know is how the slasher knew your car would be at the country club tonight. Who knew you were going there?”
“You and Dr. Beardsley.” I hesitated. “That’s not what you wanted to hear, is it?”
Quinn looked out the kitchen window into the darkness. “No.”
“Sorry,” I said, “but Beardsley must be involved. Maybe he cut the tires himself and called an accomplice to show up here.”
“It’s hard to imagine, but if he is involved, I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe and to see that your brother is cleared.”
“Thank you.” I blinked and felt a tear roll down my cheek.
He reached out and touched it. “No tears, Aimee. It’s going to be all right.”
I read the look in his eyes and felt my cheeks turn warm. I had to clear my throat before I could say anything more. “So, we’d better call it a night. Do you need a pillow or blanket or anything?”
“For sleeping in the car, right?” The husky quality of his voice tested my will power, and made me wonder if I would feel the same spark of desire for Quinn if Nick and I were still together. I hoped not.
“Right. In the car.”
“It’s a warm night,” Quinn said. “The blanket’s optional, but a pillow would be nice.”
I took a pillow from my daybed and pulled a blanket from the top shelf in my closet. When I walked toward Quinn, he took them from me and put them on the table. He looked into my eyes for a long moment, and a fleeting wave of longing rushed through me. He enfolded me in a gentle, lingering hug, then just when I thought he might try to kiss me, he pulled away.
“Sorry,” he said. “For a moment there you looked so forlorn, I couldn’t help myself.”
“It’s okay. I’m sorry you have to sleep outside, but—”
He touched a finger to my lips. “Don’t apologize. Just get some sleep.” He opened the door and stepped out onto the deck. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I went to bed and eventually slipped into a dream where Jared Quinn and Nick Alexander were conjoined twins, one dark and one fair, and I was dating both of them.
Chapter 36
Wednesday morning began with the surreal experience of having breakfast with my sexy, enigmatic boss. It was a dicey way to cement an employer-employee relationship, but I was stuck, so I buttered toast while Quinn poured coffee.
The intimacy left me more tongue-tied than if we’d actually slept together. I had never shared a morning-after breakfast with any man except Nick Alexander. Starting the day with Jared Quinn served as a painful reminder of what I’d lost.
On our drive to town, the atmospheric pressure in the car felt too close to sexual tension for comfort. Our conversation consisted of long, awkward silences interrupted occasionally by banal observations about the weather and the traffic.
None too soon, Quinn pulled up at the entrance to the library where Orrie Mercer stood guard once again. The guard’s gaze skipped from me to Quinn and back to me. He squinted at his watch. I read his mind. At seven-thirty in the morning, the new TMC librarian is arriving at work with Administrator Jared Quinn. How fast could he spread that prime piece of gossip? At the speed of light, if he mentioned it to Maybelline.
Quinn angled his head toward Mercer. “I spoke to him about the library’s private restroom. Told him it was off limits. If he so much as steps foot in the library, I want to hear about it.”
“I’ll let you know.”
As Quinn pulled away I called out, “Thanks for the lift,” for Mercer’s benefit. When I walked past him, I said, “Flat tire,” annoyed with myself that it mattered what he thought.
I had just locked my purse in a desk drawer when Dr. Beardsley appeared. He covered the distance from the library entrance to my desk with his right hand hidden behind his back. “Miss Machado, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Maybelline left word that she will not be in today. Can you manage without her?”
Two thoughts sprang to mind in quick succession. Relief that I wouldn’t have to put up with her increasingly bizarre behavior, then guilt for feeling relief at her suffering.
“I hope she isn’t ill.”
“Nothing serious. Would you like a replacement? Someone to fill in for Maybelline?”
“No, that’s not necessary.”
“Fine, then. There’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
Dr. Beardsley beamed, and with a flourish produced an exquisite bouquet of pink roses from behind his back.
“These are for you. To make up for abandoning you at dinner last night.” He seemed so genuinely contrite, so pleased with himself for his thoughtful gesture, that I would have been charmed if I hadn’t had other things on my mind.
“I hope you can find a vase around here somewhere.” Beardsley glanced around the room. “I’m sure Maybelline has some extras tucked away. She does enjoy plants and flowers.”
I glanced at Veronica, the hand-me-down violet in glorious bloom on the corner of my desk. “Yes, she does. Don’t worry, I’ll find something. And thank you, they’re lovely.”
“Think nothing of it.” He hesitated at the door and glanced at the coat tree. “I almost forgot. Maybelline mentioned something about her volunteer’s jacket. Apparently she forgot where she left it. Do you know where it might be?”
“It got soiled on her last shift, so I took it to be cleaned.”
“Ah. That’s probably why she asked about it.”
“Shall I let her know?”
“Don’t bother. I’m sure it’s not important.”
After Beardsley left, I opened a low cupboard in the library’s tiny break room and found it crowded with dozens of vases. Remains of orphaned floral arrangements Maybelline had confiscated from patient rooms.
I filled a cut-glass vase with water from the restroom sink and arranged the bouquet. As
I carried it back to my desk, my appreciation for the gesture evaporated. I thought about the events of the previous evening. When Beardsley left, he had encouraged me to stay behind and finish my dinner. Did he have an ulterior motive? Had he planned to lie in wait at the ranch and silence me? Or had he sent someone else to do the job?
I had forgotten to retrieve Maybelline’s jacket and have it ready for her next shift, so I made a quick run to housekeeping. I returned with the cleaned and pressed garment and hung it on the coat tree where Maybelline had left it.
Her prescription was still in my purse. I took it out and considered whether to remind her to get it filled. I decided to put it back in her jacket pocket and mind my own business. After all, I wasn’t responsible for Maybelline’s medical care. She was a grown woman, capable of fending for herself.
Or was she? Now that I knew she’d mentioned her jacket to Beardsley, I was even more curious about the rumpled, ink-streaked prescription she had left unfilled in her pocket. What if Maybelline wasn’t capable of fending for herself? What if she suffered from a mental problem? If she’d gone off her meds, that would explain the strange incident with the patient who had doused her with water. Maybe she had antagonized him somehow. She had said some off-the-wall things about Orrie Mercer, too. He’s a lying dirt bag, you know. And he’s not my boyfriend.
Instead of being amused by Maybelline’s strange antics, I should have looked beyond the humor for something that would explain her personality quirks. I spread the paper flat on my desk and took another look. I couldn’t help thinking of Verna Beardsley, who was also on medication. Verna Beardsley, who could be involved in the death of Vane Beardsley’s wife. With a whopping head rush, I followed this train of thought to a staggering conclusion. Maybe the Verna Beardsley we’re looking for is right under my nose. Maybe it’s Maybelline!
I needed to know what drugs she was on. The name of the medication was badly smeared, and the handwriting was terrible, but it might be legible to a doctor or a pharmacist, someone familiar with the name of the drug. I was fresh out of friends in either profession who would decipher it for me if they knew it wasn’t mine.
I photocopied the original before returning it to her jacket pocket. What to do with this new and potentially crucial information? For starters, I wasn’t going to mention the mysterious prescription to Dr. Beardsley. If Maybelline Black was Verna Beardsley, she wasn’t strong enough to strangle Bonnie, stuff her limp body into a deer bag and hoist her into a Dumpster by herself. She had to have an accomplice. Her cuckold brother had my vote.
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