Lydia looked from one earnest face to the other. “It might be him. To be perfectly honest, I doubt that Sol intends to tell me anything else about this case.”
“That’s too bad,” Mick commiserated. “It sounds like you and your detective are having your ups and downs.”
Lydia shrugged, not wanting to go into her personal life.
“I asked you to meet me because I don’t think Stefano killed Daniel.” She felt she was betraying Sol’s confidentiality, but given his behavior she ignored the pang of guilt and went on. “When I told Sol that Evelyn intended to come home in the next few days, he looked perturbed. I think the same person who struck Nicole also attacked Evelyn and killed Daniel.”
Ron and Mick thought it over.
“I don’t know,” Mick finally said. “Both women were hit on the head and both of them survived. But Daniel was another story. That was planned and carried out.”
“I think it’s safe to assume the assailant’s a man,” Ron said. “Maybe this Ringo fellow. He sounds like a bad one.”
“What about a relative?” Lydia paused, then continued. “Arnold showed up at the hospital last night. Interesting that he was on Long Island the same night his niece was attacked. For that matter, how did he know she’d been attacked and had been taken to the hospital?”
“That’s easy enough,” Ron said. “Weren’t the police questioning Denise, assuming she was part of the plot to kill her father?”
“Yes. Sol and his team spent hours questioning Denise.”
“Then it’s only logical that Arnold came to give her moral support, and he happened to be on Long Island when Denise got the call that Nicole had been attacked.”
Lydia nodded. “Then there’s Bennett. Working where he does, he had access to digitalis. And probably to needles to inject the digitalis into the candy. And he could have struck Evelyn and his cousin.”
Ron frowned. “Let’s say the kid’s capable of killing his own grandfather to get at his mother’s inheritance, that he’s willing to kill Evelyn when he realizes the money goes to her first. But why would he go after his cousin?”
A young couple sat down at the next table. Their conversation included a good deal of loud laughter. Lydia threw Mick and Ron a warning glance. The men finished up their coffee and pastries.
“The weather’s great. Let’s go for a walk,” Mick suggested. The others followed him out of the coffee shop.
They made their way to the bench, where weeks earlier Ron had related the sad tale of Timmy John. I must convince them to tell Sol how the poor boy died. It’s the right thing to do—for Timmy John’s memory and for the sake of any living relatives.
Mick sank onto the bench as though he’d walked miles instead of half a block. He was exhausted, Lydia realized, and looking extremely pale. But his blue eyes gleamed with vitality.
“Where were we?” he asked, turning from Lydia to Ron.
“We were talking about Bennett,” Lydia said, wrinkling her nose. “An unsavory character, from what I’ve seen and heard about him. He hated that his mother was dating Stefano.”
“So Bennett killed Stefano, too?” Mick asked. “Come on, Lydia. That’s a bit far-fetched.”
She thought a bit. “Unless Bennett, Stefano, and Nicole’s boyfriend were involved in drugs together.”
“How can we find out?” Ron asked.
Mick frowned. “I doubt I can find out that kind of information. Too bad your boyfriend shut you out of the loop, Lydia.”
Too bad is right.
They tossed around a few more possibilities, but nothing worth pursuing.
“I could offer Denise condolences for Stefano’s death, throw in a few questions about his dealing drugs.” Lydia said. “Of course she’ll lie, but I’ll get a sense of whether or not she or Bennett are involved.”
Mick glared at her. “Don’t you dare go anywhere near Denise. If she has a hand in all this, she’ll know you’re on to her.”
“And tell Bennett. He’ll come after you in a flash,” Ron added.
Lydia shrugged, feeling foolish. “I suppose that’s it then. Thanks for meeting me.”
“Our pleasure,” Mick said, struggling to his feet.
They stood outside Starbucks before heading for their cars.
“Let’s face it, we’re fresh out of ideas,” Ron said, sounding morose. “We’ll leave the investigating to the police, since there’s nothing more we can do.”
Lydia nodded in agreement and kissed them good-bye.
Chapter Twenty-Three
For the first time in as long as she could remember, Lydia had nothing to do. Time spread before her like the blank screen of a computer. After ten minutes of driving aimlessly around, she decided to head for Carrington House to offer Len and Jessica a few hours of her time. As she wended her way along the narrow road leading to the mansion, she had an impulse to look over the site where the Suites were to be constructed.
She cut to the right, onto the rutted path, and decided to go the rest of the way on foot. The area had been cleared of trees and underbrush, and a dozer was leveling the land. Lydia imagined the two Victorian-style houses to be built, each containing twelve suites,with a manmade pond between them.
“As artificial as our two lakes,” she murmured. But the results would be beautiful: restful rooms amid a bucolic setting. Nothing to scoff at. On the contrary, she had a healthy admiration for elegant playgrounds and vacation havens for the wealthy. They deserved it, she figured, after working hard to earn their money. While most of the people who stayed at the Suites would be attending weddings and Bar Mitzvahs at Carrington House, the company hoped to also lure guests yearning for a pampered escape from home. There were plans to build tennis courts and a swimming pool. Arrangements would be made for anyone opting for a game of golf at one of the local courses.
If she took the position, she’d have a big say in choosing the decor of the suites. That would be fun, Lydia thought. And a hell of a lot more interesting than picking out furniture forTwin Lakes’ new clubhouse.
She entered Len’s office and nearly laughed when he stared up at her bug-eyed. “Lydia, what are you doing here on a Monday?”
She shrugged. “I had some spare time so I came by to see if you wanted me to put in some hours.”
He grinned. “I can always use extra Lydia-hours.”
It turned out he had a situation that required immediate attention. A wedding scheduled for Saturday had to be postponed because the bride was in the hospital with pneumonia. Her mother called early that morning from New Hampshire, pleading with Jessica to notify the guests, the photographer, and the orchestra, as she knew nothing about the arrangements and wasn’t on speaking terms with the groom and his family or the Maid of Honor. Jessica tried to explain that notifying all those people wasn’t the responsibility of Carrington House, but after announcing she wouldn’t be paying for the affair and shouting out the Maid of Honor’s phone number, the woman hung up.
“What did the Maid of Honor say?”
“That she and the groom discovered they were mad for each other and were going away for the weekend.” Len handed her sheets of paper. “She faxed us the guest list, the numbers of the photographer and the orchestra, and said if we didn’t call, nobody would.”
“Nice friend,” Lydia said.
Jessica popped in, a wide grin on her face. “Rosalinda’s terrific. I explain something to her once, and she’s got it down in her head. As soon as I’m done going over the basics, we’ll help with the guest list.”
“All three hundred of them,” Lydia said, scanning the sheets of names.
“And they’d rented the biggest two rooms,” Len said sadly.
Jessica winked at him. “You forgot to tell Lydia the smaller of the two rooms has been rented for Saturday night.”
“Len likes us to feel sorry for him,” Lydia tossed over her shoulder as she exited his office. “He thinks we won’t work hard if anything positive happens.”
She s
pent the next few hours working her way down the guest list, informing everyone she called that the wedding had been canceled. More than half of the people weren’t home, so she left the message on a tape, glad that she didn’t have to offer the pneumonia story and feign ignorance of a future wedding date. At one o’clock, Jessica stuck her head in the door and asked if she wanted to go out for lunch with her and Rosalinda. Lydia asked her to bring back a tuna fish sandwich, then called the hospital to inquire about Nicole’s condition. She was still unconscious, a nurse informed her. Lydia thanked her and hung up. She called home to pick up phone messages. No one had called.
Damn him! She slammed down the phone. Was Sol angry because their lovemaking had been interrupted, or because she’d gotten involved in his case? Was he afraid she was going to find Daniel’s murderer before he did? Fat chance, that. She had no idea if the guilty party was Arnold, Denise, Ringo, or Bennett. Or any combination of the above.
Jessica and Rosalinda returned from lunch chatting like old friends.
“We’ll help you call the rest of the wedding guests,” Jessica said.
Lydia handed them each a list of names. She was pleased that Rosalinda accepted hers with a smile of good humor. No doubt about it, Jessica had found the perfect office worker.
She left Carrington House at four-thirty and, still reluctant to go home, drove to her daughter’s house.
“Grammy!” Brittany and little Greta shouted in welcome when their mother opened the front door.
“Mom, what are you doing here?” Meredith asked while her daughters hugged Lydia.
“I haven’t seen you guys in such a long time,” Lydia explained. She noticed the car keys in Meredith’s hand. “Are you going out?”
“Actually, we are. I have a few errands to run, then we’re meeting friends for pizza.” She paused. “Want to come along?”
“I’d love to. That is, if it won’t be any trouble.”
Meredith grinned. “Are you kidding? I can always use another pair of hands.”
Lydia climbed into the passenger seat of her daughter’s car, taking pleasure in the ongoing banter between Meredith and the girls. Despite her hectic life now that she was teaching again, Meredith seemed relaxed as she listed the four stops they were about to make, and told Brittany no, they couldn’t stop for ice cream on the way.
The small hand shaking Lydia’s shoulder made her flinch.
“Grammy, you didn’t answer me!”
“Sorry, Greta.” Lydia turned around to her three-year-old granddaughter.
“I want to know when I can play mini-a-ture golf,” Greta repeated.
“In a few weeks, sweetie. Just as soon as they put down the sod.”
“Greta’s too young to play miniature golf,” Brittany said. “Isn’t she, Grammy?”
“I am not!”
“Are, too.”
“Brittany!” Meredith warned. “Stop tormenting your sister.”
“I’m not tormenting her. I’m telling her the truth.”
Tears welled up in Greta’s grey eyes. “I can so play. Grammy said.”
“Yes, I did,” Lydia said, wondering why Brittany, usually so patient with her younger sister, was acting this way.
Meredith pulled over to the side of the road. She unhooked her seat belt and turned to face her daughters. “If I hear another word from either of you, we come straight home from errands and I make you scrambled eggs for dinner.”
“I don’t—” Brittany began, then covered her mouth. “Sorry.”
Silence reigned as Meredith pulled back into traffic, and they continued on their way.
“I’m impressed,” Lydia murmured.
“They know I mean it,” Meredith answered, but from her smile Lydia knew the praise had pleased her. “What’s new, Mom?”
Lydia glanced back at Brittany and Greta, who were now engrossed in a silly game, their past spat forgotten. In low tones, Lydia told her about Nicole. “She still hasn’t regained consciousness. I hope there’s no brain damage.”
Merry shook her head. “I’m so sorry. Poor Polly’s been through so much this past month. Do the police have any idea who attacked Nicole?”
“Maybe her boyfriend.”
“He looked pretty scruffy to me.” She glanced over at her mother. “Well, at least they’ve caught Daniel’s murderer.”
If only they had, Lydia thought, not wanting to upset Meredith.
Dashing from the cleaners to the supermarket, then eating dinner with four active little girls and their mothers in a noisy pizza parlor gave Lydia no opportunity to worry about Nicole, or to dwell on the unraveling of her relationship with Sol Molina. The one time her mind drifted, two small hands fixed on either side of her face.
“Isn’t that right, Grammy?” Greta demanded.
“Absolutely!” she agreed, and was rewarded with a garlicky hug.
Meredith, often moody in the past, exhibited good parenting and good humor throughout dinner. She allowed the girls to sit with their friends in a separate booth, and to order another soda—something she didn’t bring into the house—but stopped them from table-hopping with friends at the far end of the restaurant. When she realized Lydia was growing tired and wanted to leave, Merry brought the outing to an end.
To Lydia’s further surprise, neither Brittany nor Greta made a fuss about having to leave their friends. They simply put on their sweaters, said their good-byes, and walked out to the car ahead of their mother and grandmother.
“You’ve done a wonderful job with the girls,” Lydia said.
Meredith beamed with pride. “Thanks, Mom. Somehow it works better for me when I’m teaching.”
“Does it now?” Lydia asked, half teasing, half chiding because Meredith had resisted returning to her job.
Instead of taking offense as she would have months earlier, Meredith hugged Lydia. “I’m glad you came out with us tonight.”
“I am, too,” Lydia agreed.
She drove home in the twilight, feeling her fatigue slipping away and being replaced by the worst case of the fidgets she’d had in years. It was seven o’clock, and she hadn’t the slightest desire to go home to an empty house. What for? To watch TV and hope that Sol would call?
The balmy early summer breeze drifted into her open window, stirring up memories of June evenings when she and Izzy had first met. A yearning for something romantic or exotic overcame her, and for a moment she debated driving the long trek into Manhattan.
Instead, she settled on watching a foreign film in Huntington, forty minutes away. Lydia rarely went to the movies alone, but she felt at home in the art theatre, with its cozy snack bar and three auditoriums. The movie she chose, an edgy German film, came on shortly after she arrived. Close to twenty people made up the audience, many of them singletons like her. See, she told herself as though she were lecturing a recalcitrant child, plenty of people go to the movies alone. Though she enjoyed the film, she would have preferred to have gone with someone to discuss the story afterwards. But Barbara was out somewhere with Andrew. And Sol? God knew what Sol was up to.
As she drove home, she told herself she had no reason to feel gloomy and sad. She was a woman of means, with a lovely home and a possible new job in the wings. She had two wonderful daughters—both married—and two lovely granddaughters. She had friends, and she enjoyed good health. True, her significant romantic relationship—if that still existed—was problematic. Her lover was sexy, virile, and exciting. He was also pigheaded, macho, and resentful of what he considered her interference in his work.
Lydia felt a stab of guilt as she thought of Nicole lying unconscious in a hospital bed. She’d been so intent on filling up her day, she hadn’t bothered to check on the poor girl’s condition.
She’d remedy that right now! The hospital was no more than a ten-minute ride from her present location. Lydia glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Nine-thirty-five. Visiting hours were probably over. If that was the case, at least she could find out how Nicole was doing
.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lydia stopped at a supermarket to buy a basket of flowers and a “get well” card. She scribbled a note wishing Nicole a quick recovery as she waited to pay the cashier. That accomplished, she climbed back into her car and headed for the hospital.
The central hall was dimly lit, with only a handful of visitors mulling around. The rest appeared to be leaving. Visiting hours must be over. From years of experience, Lydia knew no one was likely to stop her if she walked briskly past the hospitality desk on her way to the bank of elevators. She remembered that Nicole was on the sixth floor. What was her room number? Six twenty-two! Down the right-hand corridor, on the left-hand side.
She was in luck. The one nurse manning the circular nurses’ station was facing the other way as she laughed at whatever her telephone friend was saying. Lydia stepped adroitly out of the path of the middle-aged couple exiting a room, their heads turned back to the patient whom they were reassuring looked marvelous and would be up and about in no time.
She glanced into the rooms as she passed. Some of the patients were already asleep. In one room, a nurse was adjusting a patient’s bedding. Lydia hurried past, not wanting to be stopped.
Nicole’s room was at the far end of the corridor. Unlike the other rooms, the door was shut, and an empty chair was placed beside it. Lydia turned the handle and peered inside. The patient in the bed closest to the door was snoring, no doubt in a medically induced deep sleep. She tiptoed into the room and stopped at the curtain drawn around the other bed—Nicole’s bed. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. Something was terribly wrong.
Over the humming of monitoring machines came the rasping sound of someone struggling to breathe. Lydia ripped aside the curtain and gasped. On the far side of the bed, Bennett was yanking a tube from Nicole’s mouth.
“Stop that! What do you think you’re doing?”
Bennett disappeared from view. Lydia turned to run. She had to get the hell out of there to save Nicole and herself.
She grabbed the door handle, about to shout for help, when a hand clapped over her mouth.
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