by Alan Chaput
Back in the great room after Willie left, she saw Mama’s photo and recalled their last Easter together. Patricia wasn’t looking forward to Easter without her fun-loving, effervescent mother. All Patricia had now were memories. Good memories. And gratitude for all Mama had done.
She hated the idea Mama’s good name might be sullied again by another so-called news story. But there was little Patricia could do. The reporter would write his story with or without her. A story no doubt carefully constructed with libel-proof innuendo. Like any family, her family had enough scars to guarantee a sensational story.
It was his timing for the story that troubled her most. Did he know something substantial about Mama’s death that would make his story news? Something Trey may not already know?
She tapped Trey’s phone icon on her phone display.
“Trey, honey, a Savannah Post reporter was just here asking questions about Mama. I—”
“What kind of questions?”
“Her medications. The possibility she was murdered. He said he had sources. The church. I refused to answer and sent him on his way. I’m concerned he might know something about the circumstances of her death, otherwise why would he be interested in writing an article about her death right now?”
“Did you get his name?”
“Willie Maye. The one who did that horrible story a couple of years ago. He said the church is looking into her death. That he’s going to publish a story. Trey, you have to do something.”
“I’ll get on it,” Trey said. “And don’t worry, I doubt whatever he thinks he has will be published.”
* * *
Judy strode into the ostentatious lobby of Beau’s medical practice and asked to see her husband about something important.
“He’s with a patient,” the young receptionist said with a smirk.
Without hesitation, Judy went to the mahogany door of his office and turned the knob. It was locked. No surprise there. Behind her, she heard the receptionist say, “I’m sorry, Doctor. I tried to stop her but she’s on her way in.”
Judy spun to the right and scooted down the hall toward the secondary door, just as an attractive, buxom, middle-aged woman slinked out of Beau’s office buttoning her blouse. The woman’s blond hair needed a brush.
Judy went in the back entrance and found Beau seated on the sofa, sipping what was probably scotch. Dressed in wrinkled khakis and a navy polo shirt, he didn’t look very professional. Far from it. Heck, he didn’t even have his shoes on. He opened his mouth to greet her.
“I want a divorce,” she said without preamble.
Beau stood and ambled over to her. He took a drink, gave her a cold smile. “Sure.”
Her stomach churned. There was a time when his confidence inspired her. Not anymore. Now it seemed curiously misplaced. “I want half of everything you acquired during our marriage.”
“No problem. My practice has been losing money for several years. Everything is mortgaged to the hilt. It would be nice if you took over the payments.”
She gritted her teeth. “You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t know what you mean. Enlighten me.”
“I need money to live.”
He shrugged. “Not my problem once you divorce me.”
“It will most certainly be your problem once I get done suing you for adultery.”
“Go ahead,” he said as he closed the secondary door. “I’ll countersue just to keep the record straight.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Look, Judy, I know about your affairs, just as you, apparently, know about mine. Neither of us has any business being married, especially to each other. I have no problem giving you a divorce. But you’re not getting a dime.”
With blood thundering in her ears, she moved closer and tilted her chin up. Their eyes locked. His glared. “You have no idea what you’re up against. I have the best divorce attorney in the state,” she said. “And detailed records of your indiscretions.”
“Doesn’t matter.” His face blazed red. “We’re broke. Get it through your thick skull. There. Is. No. Money!”
Her mind whirled. No. She knew better. She’d seen the deeds for his Caribbean hideaways. And Sonny, bless his heart, had found several well-financed holding companies that Beau had established. Beau had money. Plenty of it.
“That ain’t gonna work on me.” She stalked to the door. “See you in court.”
* * *
A thunderclap brought Hayley’s wandering mind back to the grim reality of her chemistry textbook. She reread another paragraph then stared out the third-floor dorm window just above her desk. Rain pounded the glass and the courtyard below appeared flooded. The weather didn’t matter. She wasn’t going anywhere. With studying her top priority, she never went anywhere. The incessant demands of college had broken her, stolen her spirit, and drained her strength.
In high school, she’d been fun-loving and full of energy and expectation. Back then she couldn’t get enough of her four buddies. They’d been friends since first grade. Now they were spread all over the country and all they did was text each other. It wasn’t the same.
She glanced down at her book, looking without seeing. Weary, she slammed the book closed. Five more weeks and she’d be free of the insanity.
From the far side of the courtyard a lone figure in a yellow slicker came into view, running toward her dorm. She perked up. Curiosity surged. She couldn’t see his face, but she’d recognize Shawn’s yellow slicker and athletic gait anywhere. He hadn’t called. Was there a problem?
Moments later, there was a knock at her door. Opening the door revealed a bedraggled Shawn. His smile pierced her concern. Rain pooled at his feet. He removed his slicker. His clothing was soaked from the waist down. Why had he gone through all this trouble?
As if reading her mind, he said, “I thought you might like help studying for tomorrow’s chemistry exam.”
“Fantastic. But look at you. You’re in no condition to study. You need to dry off first. I can put your clothes and shoes in the dryer downstairs.”
Shawn went into the bathroom and came out with a lavender bath towel wrapped around his waist. He handed her the wet clothes.
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
Five minutes later, she returned with two mugs of hot chocolate from the dorm snack bar. She handed one to Shawn. “This should warm you up a bit.”
“Perfect,” he said, cradling the hot mug between his large hands. Shawn sat on her bed. “Do you have any plans for summer vacation? Work? Travel?”
She sat at her desk, across from him, and admired his sleek, muscled chest. “Just hanging out at my parents’ beach house a lot. You?”
“I got the approval for that summer job at the American embassy in Paris.”
Hayley reached out and adjusted the towel to cover his thigh.
He chuckled.
“Clerking in the non-immigrant visa section?”
“Yeah.”
Shawn seemed so focused. School. Summer job. Career. She wished she were focused. But she wasn’t. She couldn’t seem to find a direction that interested her. Maybe she needed a summer job other than lifeguarding at the club. She wouldn’t know where to start.
“I wish I could do something interesting like that.” She envied him. His bright world was expanding. Hers was uncertain.
“Come visit.”
Images of the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame Cathedral flashed into her mind. “You think?”
“Sure. You could stay with me.”
“You already have a place to live in Paris?”
“Dad completed the paperwork a month ago. It’s an apartment not far from the embassy. There’s an extra bedroom for visitors.”
She chuckled. “Your dad thinks of everything.”
“Not really. He just wanted me to be close to the embassy, and the two-bedroom unit was the closest one.”
“I’ll talk to my parents about it,” she said.
�
�Good. Now, about this chemistry stuff.”
Her stomach tightened. “I suppose so.”
Chapter 18
Patricia had been awake since two a.m. with an active mind flooded with unanswered questions.
Every time she felt like she was getting used to the fact her mother was gone, she’d see or hear something that made her think of picking up the phone to call her mother, only for it all to come crashing back.
Now at nine a.m., she slumped at the kitchen table with her third cup of coffee and the unread newspaper. The exuberant newscasters on the countertop television provided background noise that failed to distract her from her preoccupation with those unanswered questions.
When her phone pealed Meredith’s ringtone, Patricia perked up. Perhaps Meredith had good news. However, not wanting to risk being further disappointed, she braced for bad news and picked up her phone.
“I found Henrietta’s money,” Meredith said. “What the—”
An abrupt crash sounded from the phone, followed by a sharp pop. Then hollow silence.
An electrifying bolt zapped Patricia. She shuddered. “Meredith, Meredith?”
Silence.
“Are you okay?” Patricia squeezed the phone to her ear and paced through excruciating silence. Then car sounds briefly. An accident? Adrenaline spiked. Her heart raced. “Meredith, are you there?”
Faint groaning. Muffled. Far away.
Patricia stopped. “Meredith. Meredith, talk to me! What’s going on?”
“Pa ... Patricia. It’s— Oh my God, no!”
A deafening boom exploded from the phone, blasting Patricia’s inner ear. She gasped and dropped into a crouch. A cold sweat beaded her forehead as her mind concluded the explosion had sounded like a gunshot. “Oh God, no. No! Meredith. Talk to me. Say something.” Patricia wheezed as panic grabbed her throat. “Anything.”
Solitary, ear-droning nothingness.
Meredith had been there, had just spoken. Then what sounded like a gunshot, explosively close to the phone. What had happened? Fear bubbled. Gotta call the police. Now. Her ear ringing, she lunged for the house phone and punched 911 then moved the handset to her good ear.
“911. How may I help you?” a gravely male voice asked.
“My friend just called. I think she was in her car. And then it sounded like there was a collision, an accident. She might be hurt.”
“Do you know where she was?”
“No. But then she tried to talk to me and it sounded like there was a gunshot very near the phone. Oh my God, I think Meredith has been shot. Maybe killed. You’ve got to do something.”
Pressing her bad ear failed to ease the persistent pain. She looked at her fingers as if she expected blood, but she saw none.
“What is your friend’s full name and cell phone—”
“She has OnStar, my friend has OnStar.”
“What’s her name?”
“Meredith Stanwick.”
“Did she tell you anything about the accident?”
Patricia took a long, slow breath. “No. We had just started talking. There was a crash, then a pop. Then some moaning followed by an ear-splitting boom. Please help her.”
“I have OnStar on the line. They have her location. We’re dispatching someone to investigate.”
“Where is she?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t provide details, but I need your contact information for possible follow-up.”
Patricia answered all the questions then hung up. Her mind whirled. Weak-kneed, she sat down. But she couldn’t stay still. She stood and paced. Thanks to the ringing in her ears, the horrible explosion played over and over in her mind. Oh my God, what had happened to Meredith? Trey. Trey would be able to find out. He had the contacts. If information was available, he could get it. She pressed Trey’s icon.
“I’m unavailable. Please—”
Patricia pressed the end icon. Alton and Chief Patrick were best friends. She found Alton’s number in her contact list and pushed the call icon.
“Hello, Patricia,” he said in weak voice. “It’s been a long time. How’ve you been?”
“Meredith Stanwick had an accident. Her car may have exploded.” Tears poured down Patricia’s cheek. She brushed them aside.
“Is she okay?”
“I don’t know. She was on the phone with me when it happened. I just called 911. OnStar located her car. 911 said they dispatched someone to check, but they wouldn’t tell me what happened. I thought Chief Patrick—”
“Of course. Give me ten minutes and I’ll get right back to you.”
Patricia disconnected. Her gaze locked on the now silent phone in her trembling hand, willing the phone to ring with good news but fearing the worst. She debated the alternatives and decided that regardless of what had happened she needed to be with Meredith. Patricia messaged Trey to call her, grabbed her Bible, and headed for the car.
She sat in the quiet car in her driveway waiting for Alton’s call, not knowing whether to go back into the house or to drive to the hospital. Problem was, she had no idea which hospital to go to. Her stomach churned. Stroking the smooth phone case, she thought of poor Meredith. What if Meredith was hurt? What if—
The ring of her phone broke her thought. Patricia straightened, sucked in a ragged breath, and brought the phone to her ear.
“Meredith is alive,” Alton said.
“Thank God.”
“She was shot in the head.”
“Head? Oh my—”
“She’s being rushed to Falcon Memorial. If she makes it there, she’ll go straight into surgery.”
“Since she was targeted in her car, is she safe in the hospital?”
“There will be protection for her there. Where are you, Patricia?”
“In front of my house.” Patricia wiped her eyes, started her car and backed out the driveway, pausing for at the end. Falcon Memorial was just fifteen minutes away. “I’m heading to the hospital.”
“Do you have your gun with you?”
She patted her handbag. “Yes I do.”
Patricia ended the call, then scanned the streets and sidewalks. Not a car or person in sight. She backed the Escalade out into the main street and drove two blocks before slowing to a stop for a red light. Impatience mounted. She so wanted to be at Meredith’s bedside when she came out of—
Suddenly the rear-collision warning system alarmed.
She shot a glance at the monitor.
A truck with a huge grill barreled in on her. It wasn’t going to stop.
A quick glance ahead confirmed cars crossing the intersection. Waiting cars blocked her right and left.
Trapped. Rear collision imminent.
Putting the steering wheel in a death grip, she floored the accelerator and shot into the gap between two slow moving cars. Horns blared. The side collision alarm sounded. Brakes screeched. She was almost through the intersection when a decelerating car scrapped the right rear bumper of her Escalade, jerking her steering wheel. But she held fast, keeping her vehicle straight until she cleared the intersection.
Shaking violently, she pulled over and called 911, then Trey. He was still unavailable.
The police and EMS arrived quickly. A female officer took her statement. Fortunately, no one was injured. Unfortunately, there was no trace of the truck that had tried to ram her car. The police said they were sure the intersection cameras recorded the whole incident.
Because her SUV was only slightly damaged, she was permitted to continue to the hospital.
As she neared Falcon Memorial, Patricia called Alisa.
“Meredith’s been shot and someone’s after me,” Patricia blurted. “I’m heading to the hospital.”
“What?”
“Alisa, whatever you’re doing stop, go get your gun, and go to the safest place you have.”
“Where are you?”
“Approaching Falcon Memorial.”
“Why?”
“That’s where they took Meredith.”
“It’s not safe. Stay home.”
“I’m coming.”
Patricia ended the call, then called Judy, but the call went into voicemail.
Her phone chimed. It was Trey.
“I heard about Meredith,” he said. “Where are you?”
“In front of Falcon Memorial. I was almost killed.”
“What do you mean?”
“A truck tried to ram me.”
Trey swore. “Do you have your gun?”
“Round is chambered and the safety’s off.”
“Get inside the hospital. Beau is there. I’ll be right over.”
Patricia called Beau as she drove through the hospital entrance gate and up the shaded, live oak lined drive. “Hi, Beau. Meredith is—”
“I know, Patricia,” he said. “I’m at the hospital. It doesn’t look good.”
“I’m in the parking lot. Did you let Judy know? I tried to call her and couldn’t reach her.”
“Yes. She’s on the way over.”
“Thanks, Beau. I’m parking my car right now.”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
As soon as she got out of her car, Patricia saw Beau, dressed in a white lab coat, standing at the entrance. He gave her a brief hug, then they hurried into the hospital together.
“Do you know what happened, Beau?” Patricia asked.
“A single gunshot to her head. She’s in emergency surgery. I’m in contact with the trauma surgeon. She’s in the best hands.”
A uniformed officer seated outside the waiting room stood as they approached and blocked the entrance. What was going on?
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Her cardiologist and friend,” Beau said.
“Name?”
“Dr. Beau Simpson.” Beau offered the man his hospital photo identification.
The officer turned to Patricia. “How about you?”
“She’s with me,” Beau said.
“Sorry, doctor, I’ll need her name,” the officer said, a scowl on his boyish face.
“Patricia Falcon.” Patricia put her Bible down and dug in her purse for her ID.
The officer consulted his iPad. “You’re not on my list. Sorry.”