Dying for Compassion (The Lady Doc Murders Book 2)

by Dr. Barbara Golder

  She hadn’t counted on the loneliness. After years of defining herself by the man whose arm she adorned, she found herself suddenly longing to find the man who had started it all: the first one, whom she had abandoned to fate and followed with fascination. He had never married again, and not even the ugliest gossip magazine ever linked him with a woman, at least not until word reached her of this medical examiner in Colorado. She wondered whether she would be too late, whether he had finally fallen in love again. Would he recognize her?

  There was but one way to find out. She turned the big brass doorknob and stepped out in search of a man she could attach to. Now more than ever, that mattered desperately to her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Señora Doctora!” Pilar’s voice interrupted me in my attempt to dress my stubby lashes with mascara. I jerked, leaving a stinging dollop in my eye and a rake of black lines across my cheek. I sighed and dampened a washcloth to remove the damage as I called back to her.

  “Yes, Pilar. What is it?” I tried to dab the black marks without disturbing the foundation I had laid, but to no avail. A beige streak of, improbably, sunset rose discolored the white terrycloth. My reflection peered out at me from the mirror. I looked like a child playing in her mother’s makeup, which wasn’t far from the truth. What had possessed me to try to pretty myself up? I tipped a bit of the beige makeup onto my finger and attempted a repair.

  Pilar appeared at my elbow and regarded me, her dignified face wrinkled in curiosity. My attempts at camouflage only made the spot on my cheek more noticeable, and my right eye was beginning to tear. There was a dark line on the inside of my lid, and my eye was getting bloodshot.

  “Why do you bother with that?” Pilar echoed my own frustration. “Señor Eoin likes you as you are. A woman who is beautiful has no need of paint.” She looked at her own unadorned face in the mirror. The eyes in her reflection turned to me, and she smiled.

  Pilar had a point. Her iron-gray hair was pulled back in her habitual bun, her aquiline nose was raised in the tiniest gesture of disdain, and her brown face, unadorned by so much as a trace of lipstick, was striking. Crow’s feet wrinkled the corners of her eyes, and fine lines marred the line of her mouth. She is just Pilar, and I am just Jane, and neither of us has much desire for enhancement. And in my case, even had I the desire, I lacked the requisite skill. I abandoned the quest for even skin tones, shrugged at Pilar’s image in the glass, grinned, and soaped up the washcloth.

  “What’s up?” I bent over the sink, lather dripping from the cloth and running down my bare arm.

  “You cannot wear this tonight.” Pilar held up the denim skirt I had asked her to press for me. I saw the proffered skirt in the mirror. A stubby brown finger waggled through a hole in the seam up the front. “I would fix it, but the machine is still broken. Maybe these instead. They are just clean.” Pilar held up a pair of soft corduroy jeans the color of good-morning coffee.

  I stood up, drying my face with a rough cotton towel. “Sure. Just leave them on the bed. Thanks.”

  The hole was only an excuse, and I was fully aware that those nimble brown hands could have stitched up the rent in record time. Pilar had taken a proprietary interest in my dinner date with Eoin Connor, hovering as anxiously as a mother sending her daughter off to her first prom.

  “He is downstairs. He came early. You should hurry. It is not good to keep such a man waiting.”

  I glanced at the watch on my wrist. Eoin Connor was a full half-hour ahead of his time. I ran a brush through my curls. I remembered now why I hate makeup so much. I prefer the feel of a clean face. “I’ll be down as soon as I can. Please pour him a drink, would you?”

  “He is already drinking your whiskey.” Pilar’s brown eyes crinkled, and her smile reminded me that I needed to get her an appointment with the local dentist. “In your best glass. I told him not to break it.”

  “Thank you.”

  She laid the jeans on my bed, smoothed them, and stood up to face me as I came out of the bathroom, the damp towel still in my hand. She held up a sweater in tones of burnished gold and red, one I had purchased at a local shop earlier in the week. I had not even taken it out of the bag, red and white with a deer on it, now lying discarded on the floor beside the bed.

  “Wear this. Señor Eoin has been away a long time. You should look your best for him.” She dropped a pair of boots by the bed for emphasis. “I polished these for you. It is not snowing today. You can wear decent shoes.”

  “Anything else, Dueña mía?” I smiled. Pilar had taken good care of me since the first day she arrived, a little over six months ago in the midst of a string of killings and my own raw grief. She had simply arrived, settled in, and had been fussing over me ever since: mending my clothes, cleaning my house, making my dinners, and dispensing advice to me and to Isa and Lupe, the other two Mexican women who shared my house. She is the resident matriarch, and we all love her.

  “Wear perfume. You do not want to scare him away, smelling like that place.” Pilar understands how I make my living, but she disapproves, and not always vaguely. She turned from the bed to give me a final, stern look, and stopped at the door before disappearing downstairs. “And earrings. Nice ones. Big ones.” I heard her footsteps on the stair runner as she descended slowly, her knees no doubt troubling her. Her arthritis was one reason I had abandoned the first floor master suite in favor of Pilar and had taken this smaller room on the second floor, the one with a view of town.

  I glanced out the window as I pulled on the sweater and jeans, confirming the weather forecast. No white flakes reflected in the streetlight, and the sidewalks were clear of snow, though there was an accumulation that kept the lawns and peaks white this winter evening. I had missed Eoin Connor’s company these last weeks. He had been my constant companion since a string of murders in June that brought him into my life. Business with his editor in New York and the completion of his latest book had kept him away for more than a month.

  I pulled on the boots and brushed my hair. In deference to Pilar, I added a pair of tasteful gold earrings and dabbed a bit of scent behind my ears and on my wrists. I checked my appearance one last time: taller, thinner, and older than I wanted to be, silvering hair in random curls shaped and organized into a chin-length bob, black eyes under dark brows and nearly invisible wire-rimmed glasses perched on my crooked nose. As good as it gets, I thought, and left my room, more excited than I expected to be, to take the stairs down to the parlor two at a time.

  I stopped at the last landing to collect myself, but my subterfuge was unsuccessful. I heard a familiar voice boom up from the sitting room.

  “Woman, I’m not off to anywhere. Don’t be breaking your neck in your hurry to see me.” Eoin Conner rounded the corner, glass of Jameson in hand. He smiled up at me, genuinely pleased, and offered me his free hand as I came down the last four steps at a more dignified pace. He pulled me into a quick embrace, careful not to spill his whiskey, then stepped back to keep me at arm’s length.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said. “It’s a pleasure indeed to see a woman not wearing a black suit and painted up like a jam tart.” He hugged me again, and I caught a familiar whiff of peppermint and tobacco.

  “You, too. I’ve missed you.” More than I would have thought, I reflected. I was still recovering from the death of my husband, and I found my growing affection for Eoin Connor confusing. No, not confusing, I corrected myself. Unsettling, precisely because it was not confusing. I found him attractive in a mysterious sort of way, and on more than one occasion found myself daydreaming about what might lie ahead for us. I had missed our long evenings together, sipping good whiskey and talking about our lives; walks in the woods and in town; the feel of his calloused hand in mine; and his strong presence at my side during Sunday Mass. I had scarcely heard from him during his absence, but I understood his writer’s need for solitude and concentration, not unlike my own in the days when I prepared for court cases. Eventually I would resurface into the
world, and now he had, too. I wondered once again what would come next.

  “How did the meetings go?”

  “The book is ready. Dan didn’t find much to quibble about. I have to admit, it’s one of my better ones. There’s talk of a mini-series already, and if that comes through, I’ll be off to California to hammer out a screenplay. Still, considering that I was sorely distracted in the middle of it, it’s not a bad end.” He smiled and winked as he drained the last of his whiskey.

  I was all too aware that I had been the distraction, between trying to solve serial murders and nearly getting killed myself. Even so, it had ended well and with Eoin in my corner. His absence had made me wonder if he’d wormed his way into my heart. I had missed him much more than I expected.

  Two steps into the parlor, Eoin laid his glass on the sideboard and then returned to hold my down coat for me. “I’ll buy you a wee dram in the bar before dinner,” he said, as he shrugged into his own shearling jacket and held the door open for me.

  The air was crisp but not too cold. I pulled on my gloves as we walked and talked about all the things we had missed together in the last weeks: book gossip, my new assistant, the latest crisis in Telluride politics, and the news of my six children scattered to the four winds. As we turned the corner onto Pacific Street, he took my gloved hand in his.

  I relished the comfort of his grasp at the same time that I wondered about it. We had been together nearly every day since the series of murders of trust fund beneficiaries was finally solved, save for his visit to New York. I felt certain that he harbored affection for me, as I did for him, and yet, aside from holding my hand and the occasional hug, he was as chaste as a schoolboy on his first date. Actually more so, considering the public displays of affection I saw among even the youngest of Telluride’s dating population. My heart was warming to Eoin, but I wondered whether his interest was merely polite and platonic. My daydreams and I were increasingly interested in the answer.

  The Chop House was not crowded. Georges, the Maître d’, was by now an old friend; when we ate out, it was nearly always at the Chop House. He escorted us to our usual table in the corner just off the window. It gave Eoin a good view of town, to satisfy his voyeur instincts, but was not a spot easily seen from the street. The perfect combination of vista and privacy. We soon settled in with a bottle of good merlot between us and steaks on order.

  “You really are a sight for sore eyes, darling Jane,” Eoin said. “New York was a lonely place without you there.” He reached across the table to take my hand in his. A month in the city had nearly banished the calluses that testified to his habit of hard and manual labor to keep his mind clear and his body in shape. His hands were almost soft, and they were warm.

  “You can thank Pilar for that,” I said. “She picked this out for me. She’s a hard woman to resist.”

  Eoin cocked his head and his eyes glinted. “And a fine job she did,” he said, trotting out his Irish accent for effect. “Provided me a grand canvas for this.” A long, thin package wrapped in teal paper with a tidy white bow materialized on the table.

  I felt my face flush. A gift. I had not expected this.

  “Go on,” he urged. “Open it.”

  I hesitated. I wasn’t sure I could pick it up without my hands trembling, and that annoyed me. He had purchased one present for me, early on, on a lark: a shawl and a brooch that had proved the key to solving a series of murders. This was different. He’d clearly thought about this, and I recognized the very expensive shop the box was from. I looked up at Eoin’s expectant, serious face and cautiously picked up the package.

  I slit the meticulous wrapping with the knife at my place and carefully unfolded it to reveal a flocked, hinged box. I opened it slowly, almost afraid of what I might find. What I saw glittering in the light from the candle on the table made me gasp.

  “Don’t you like it?” Expectancy turned to concern.

  I couldn’t answer for a moment. Nestled on the velvet lining was a simple gold chain on which was hung a briolette emerald the size of a grape. It was simple and elegant and absolutely gorgeous. And, I suspected, ridiculously expensive.

  “It’s been a long time since I bought a real present for a woman.” Eoin hurried to fill the silence. “If you don’t like it, you can exchange it, get something else.” He now sounded like the schoolboy I had compared him to in my mind as we walked down the street.

  I reached my hand across and touched his arm, looking straight into his eyes, almost as green as the stone. “It’s beautiful. I love it, but it’s far too extravagant.”

  Relief flooded his rugged features, and his good nature returned. “Can you not just accept it, Woman?” he teased, using a nickname he knew to employ judiciously.

  “I can. Thank you, Eoin, it’s really lovely.” I pulled it out of the box and fastened it around my neck. It felt heavy and comfortable, several inches below the scoop neck of the sweater, and the green against the red was, indeed, striking. “Pilar knew,” I said, remembering that she had encouraged earrings, but nothing else. The gift pleased me a great deal, if only because it proved Eoin Connor had thought about me in the long weeks he was away with only the odd email and no phone calls to keep in touch. It pleased me more that he had engaged my makeshift family in a surprise, because it bespoke an affection that was more than just friendship.

  “A man has to take his aid where he can,” Eoin replied, smiling, and taking a sip from his glass. He looked at me for a long moment with a satisfied smile on his face. Abruptly, it faded, and he was serious, enough to make me finger the emerald and worry that I had overestimated the meaning of this expensive bauble.

  “Jane, darling girl, I have something to tell you, something that affects you and me.” Eoin took another sip of wine, and I felt my blood run cold. Conversations that start out this way never turn out well. “There’s something about me that you need to know. I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you…”

  I turned to see one of the most attractive women I have ever encountered. I had caught her out of the corner of my eye as Eoin was starting to speak, my restless gaze no longer able to hold his for fear of what I would see in their depths. The Maître d’ escorted the woman down the three steps to the main floor of the dining room and gestured in our general direction. She was not tall, perhaps five-three, but she moved with the grace and authority of royalty, oblivious of the fact that every eye in the dining room followed her; at the same time she was clearly enjoying it. She was dressed in an ivory sweater set and gold silk slacks, and her dark red hair was pulled into an elegant bun. As she approached, I realized that she was older than she looked, but her surgeon had been a good one. She looked refreshed and attractive, not nipped and tucked, but there was something about the smoothness of her face that just didn’t fit.

  Eoin noticed my distraction and looked over his shoulder just as she approached. I heard him whisper, “Oh, no!” under his breath as he stumbled to his feet. He gained his balance just in time for the woman to throw her arms around his neck and, standing on tip-toes, kiss him in a familiar way I had yet to experience.

  “Eoin, darling!” Her accent was impossible to place, the sort of neutral, upper crust European inflection of the aristocracy. “How are you?”

  For the first time since I met him, Eoin Connor was speechless. He stood flatfooted as the woman ran her hands across his shoulders, then took his face in her hands and kissed him again. I found myself fuming.

  Finally, I heard him mumble. “Fiona, what are you doing here?” He took her hands and pushed her away, taking a step back.

  The woman cocked her head and pursed her lips in a calculated little-girl pout. “Eoin, how could you? Where else should I be?” She ran her hand up his arm, and he pulled it away as though he had been shocked. The woman smiled and leaned across him to look directly at me. I had the same uncomfortable feeling I often experience in the reptile hall at the zoo.

  “This must be the famous Jane Wallace.” She reached her h
and across to me, and I regarded her cautiously as I took it. It was soft and manicured. “Fiona McLaughlin Connor. And what, Dr. Wallace, are you doing having dinner with my husband?”

  ***

  I replayed the scene over and over again in my mind as I downed a stiff whiskey. I am familiar with the concept of time standing still; I had experienced it when the security guard came to tell me that my husband had been killed. I never expected to experience it again, but I had, right there in the restaurant.

  I had no recollection of what I said in response to her announcement, except Eoin’s shocked face, his hand reaching out to me as I shoved back my chair and threw down my napkin. My clumsiness jostled the table, and my glass of wine toppled. I watched the spreading red stain for a moment, hearing Eoin’s voice only faintly through the buzzing in my ears. “Jane? Please, Jane!” Then, “Fiona, damn you, what do you think you are doing? You haven’t been Connor for 30 years…”

  A marriage half a world and half a lifetime ago, the rational part of me thought. His wife was all the rest of me heard. I remembered most of all the brush of his hand, the soft one, the unfamiliar one, as he tried to stop me from leaving. I remembered the heat in my face as I ran out of the restaurant to the stares of the diners along the way, leaving my coat and my shame behind.

  Pilar was downstairs when I arrived back home, and taking one look at my face, she shepherded my extended Mexican family upstairs. I sat now in my favorite chair with a cat in my lap, a Waterford glass in my hand, a knot in my stomach, and an ache in my heart. I didn’t hear the front door open behind me, but I recognized Eoin’s tread in the hall.

  The cat protested when I stood to face him. He held my down coat in front of him, a penitent look on his face. “You forgot this.” When I failed to respond, he placed it gingerly on the federal chair in the front hall. “Jane. Please, let me…”