“I’m afraid that’s got nothing to do with this. I was jogging out at the Richards Homestead and got caught up in the middle of a blasting zone.”
“Richards!” Geneva said, slapping her forehead. “Girl, that reminds me. Strange goings-on with that Silas Richards. I got this letter from my husband’s lawyer yesterday. Seems that Mr. Vernon Young wrote to him the day before he got himself killed.” She mumbled to herself as she began to search through the large white faux-leather handbag that was slung over her shoulder. As Geneva sorted through the bag, Lindsay was astonished to see that it contained, among countless other items, a full-sized pair of sewing scissors, a packet of radish seeds, and a toddler’s shoe. After a few moments, Geneva triumphantly removed an envelope and handed it to Lindsay. “Our lawyer dropped this off at the house the other day. I kept meaning to mention it to you, with you being so close to the widow and all, but I’ve been otherwise occupied with trying to get you happily married to a handsome brain surgeon.”
Lindsay scanned the letter, her eyes growing wide with astonishment. “This says that Vernon has traced the family records of Samuel and Celia Wilcox, and that your husband may be an heir to their property. Property that includes the land known as the Richards Homestead.”
“I can read.” Geneva deftly plucked the letter from Lindsay with a lightening-quick snatch of her bony little fingers.
“Geneva, we’ve got to take this to the police. This might be evidence of....” Lindsay caught herself just before she blurted out anything about the investigation. The police did not want to tip Silas off that they were on to him. Warren had shared confidential information about the case on the condition that she should be discreet. Blabbing details to one of the town’s biggest busybodies seemed ill-advised.
Geneva’s head recoiled into the soft wrinkles of her neck. “Evidence of what?”
“You know. Crimes and things,” Lindsay said with a vague wave of her hand.
“If it’s so important, the police would’ve come to see me about it,” Geneva said.
“Why did you show it to me if you’re not going to tell the police about it?” Lindsay asked.
“I know that you are friendly with Vernon Young’s widow. I was thinking about giving this to her, since it was one of the last things her husband wrote.”
Geneva had momentarily softened when she spoke of Vernon’s death. Lindsay used it as an opportunity to grab the letter. She held it in her left hand and pointed forcefully toward it with the index finger of her right. “If it can help with the investigation, you have got to give it to the police,” she said.
Geneva seized the letter from Lindsay’s hand and began to fold it. “The last thing I need is the police to get me and my family involved in this whole mess,” she said decisively.
Lindsay thought carefully. What she had to do now was to convince Geneva to hand over the letter—without explaining why. She changed tack. “What about the land? Don’t you want to find out if you and your children are the rightful owners?”
“What do I want with some piece of dirt that some dead people may or may not have left to my husband’s great, great granddaddy?” Geneva huffed. “We worked hard to get where we are. We don’t need handouts from Silas Richards or anybody else.”
Lindsay would never be able to outflank Geneva in a straight argument—her only hope was to play dirty. “You know, you’re absolutely right. That letter should be cherished. We, as good Christians, as good citizens, have to do whatever we can do to make sure that what may very well be Vernon Young’s final written words reach out from beyond the grave. If I were his widow, that’s what I would want.” Geneva stood there hesitantly, the letter dangling from her pinched fingers. She opened her mouth to speak, but, for once, Lindsay was too quick for her. “I’ll just see that this makes it into the right hands. You don’t need to worry yourself about it anymore.” Lindsay hobbled away, as fast as her injured leg could carry her.
Chapter 33
Buford Bullard remained comatose but was now breathing without the assistance of a ventilator. He had been moved out of intensive care and into a private room overnight. When Lindsay stopped by to check on him, only Kimberlee was there, the rest of the family having gone home to sleep and shower. Kimberlee sat in an armchair near the window with her stocking feet perched on the windowsill. She absent-mindedly ran her hands over her slightly-rounded belly. The TV was tuned in to some schmaltzy soap opera, but Kimberlee faced away from it, staring out the window over the double-decked parking lot to the low, green hills beyond.
When Kimberlee noticed Lindsay, she chirped a cheerful hello and said, “The organ function tests on Daddy came back better, and, as you can see, he’s not hooked up to as many tubes as he was.” Lindsay was glad to see that some inkling of Kimberlee’s usual vigor seemed to have returned.
“I’ve got good news for you, too,” Lindsay said. “As of last night, you are off the most wanted list.”
Kimberlee’s face broke into a wide grin. “That’s the cherry on top of my banana split today!” She paused and considered a moment. “Does this mean the police are closer to catching whoever killed Vernon? Why haven’t they called me?” She crossed her arms and shook her head in disgust. “They couldn’t seem to get enough of talking to me when they thought I did it. And now that they have some news that I actually want to hear, they’re making themselves scarce. When are they gonna arrest somebody?”
“It’s not that easy, I’m afraid.”
The sound of voices reverberated down the hall and a moment later the rest of the Bullards piled into the room.
“Hey, y’all,” Kimberlee said. “Lindsay was just saying that the police don’t think I did it anymore. Weren’t you, Lindsay?”
Lindsay nodded. A barrage of questions came from Versa and her children, who circled around Lindsay like sharks in a feeding frenzy. “Who did it then?” “Have they arrested anyone?” “How did those dimwits finally figure out that it wasn’t Kimberlee?” “What about the thing with Kimberlee’s printer?” “Do they know if Daddy getting poisoned has anything to do with it?”
Lindsay held her hands up to ward them off. “I know that you want to know all the details, but I can’t really say anything right now. I wish I could. But I am literally sworn to secrecy. I will tell you, though, that they have a witness who may know something about the killer, and some evidence that may link up to the murder. They just need a few more pieces to fall into place and they can make their move.” A collective squeal of delight rose from the Bullards. “If you want any more details, you’ll have to ask the police themselves. But don’t tell them that you heard anything from me! They may not be able to say much, either. I get the impression that they are going to keep this pretty close to the vest until the right time comes.”
The Bullards continued to buffet her with questions, trying to get her to divulge what she knew. She refused to be drawn out, though, and was very grateful when Kimberlee drew everyone’s attention away by standing up on a chair and clearing her throat. “I think we need to have a little moment of celebration. They haven’t yet nailed the guy who shot my Vernon, but it sounds like the noose is tightening around the bastard’s neck! And best of all, they know it wasn’t me!” She threw her arms open and the Bullard women rushed forward to embrace her, cackling like a coven of jubilant witches. Lindsay found herself pushed to one side of the room, standing next to Keith and the comatose Buford. Keith stood there silently. Lindsay thought he looked unsteady on his feet, so she eased him down in a chair next to Buford’s bed. He glanced at her briefly, shaking his head in amazement. As Lindsay turned to make a quiet exit, she saw Keith gently caressing his father’s hand. Tears overflowed from the deep wells of his eyes.
Chapter 34
Lindsay returned to the chaplains’ office, where she planned to use her break to call Warren about the letter. It wasn’t the smoking gun, but it was proof that they were on the right track. She also needed, if she had time, to look up some informa
tion about the Burlington Royals in advance of tonight’s date. As soon as she sat down, however, she was summoned to the ER by her buzzing pager. She sighed and dutifully trekked down to the emergency room, where she found Anna waiting for her. “Glad you’re here,” Anna said. “I’ve got this woman, the wife of a patient, who is a total basket case. They were headed down to High Point to see the husband’s parents. Stopped at the rest area off of I-85, where the husband got stung on the tongue by a bee.” Lindsay raised her eyebrows quizzically. Anna just shrugged. “It was in his soda can. He had an anaphylactic reaction. The wife just ran around the parking lot, screaming like a ninny—not helpful. Luckily, someone with some common sense was there. The Good Samaritan just happened to have some children’s Benadryl and managed to pour some down the guy’s throat. Called the ambulance.
“We’ve given Mr. Beetongue some epinephrine, and he’ll be fine. Mrs. Beetongue, however, is annoying the crap out of everyone. I tried to give her a sedative, but she’s pregnant so she won’t take anything. I told her what I was giving her was perfectly safe for her and the baby, but she said that her homoeopathic doula told her that she should only use chamomile and valerian root if she needs to relax. Then she lectured me for ten minutes on the tyranny of the medical-industrial complex, paying no attention to the fact that modern medicine had just saved her husband’s life and totally ignoring the fact that herbal medicines can be just as dangerous as pharmaceuticals. Now I’m ready to give myself a sedative.”
Anna paused and gave Lindsay a quick once-over. Lindsay usually dressed a bit like a retired schoolteacher—cardigans, sensible shoes, and hair swept into a ponytail. Today, however, she wore a flattering turquoise linen dress. Her curls had been tamed into a wavy blonde halo. “Hey, you’ve got your date tonight, right?”
“Yep. Right after work.”
Anna nodded her head approvingly. She then spun Lindsay around and pointed out a woman near the end of the corridor. The woman was griping at one of the nurses—the shrill tones of her voice echoed down the hall. Anna pushed her forward. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
Lindsay cautiously drew nearer to the woman. The nurse she was speaking to (or, rather, speaking at) had his back to Lindsay. She couldn’t hear all of their conversation, but the nurse repeatedly shook his head and began taking small, but deliberate, steps backward. It was the kind of cautious retreat you might make if you found yourself stuck in a cow pen with a red-eyed bull. The woman was a good bit taller than Lindsay. Her honey-colored hair was shaped into a sleek bob that skimmed the tops of her shoulders. Her round, taut belly and full breasts were set off attractively by her well-tailored clothes.
“Hello, ma’am,” Lindsay said, extending her hand. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I am a chaplain here and I’ve been told that you’ve just suffered a terrible shock. Is there anything I can to do help you?” The nurse, sensing his chance, retreated down the hallway.
The woman looked over the top of Lindsay’s head in the direction of the fleeing nurse. She ignored the proffered handshake. She scanned the corridor, mumbling to herself, “I told that doctor that we have dinner reservations for 7pm tonight. Not that the Red Lobster in High Point really counts as a restaurant.” When she finally addressed Lindsay, her tone was patronizing. “I’m sorry, dear, did you say you were a chaplain? I’m not superstitious, you see. Now where did that doctor go? My husband needs to be discharged.”
Many times, Lindsay had been dismissed by people who were “not religious.” “Not superstitious”, however, took condescension to a whole new level. This woman was a piece of…work. “I could tell as soon as I saw you that you were a confident and cosmopolitan person. It must be very frustrating for you to be surrounded by people who just aren’t operating at your level.”
The woman looked hard at Lindsay, trying to detect any hints of sarcasm. Lindsay’s expression, however, remained inscrutable. Lindsay extended her hand again, smiling broadly. “I’m Lindsay.”
“Nikki Ruskin-Farnsworth.”
“When is the baby due?”
Nikki’s frigid expression melted—by one degree. “He’s due at the end of August.”
“So you know it’s a boy already?”
“Oh yes. We had all the prenatal screening done. All that nonsense about wanting to be surprised when the baby comes out is really only an excuse for not being well-prepared. We have established a tax-free college fund for baby Timothy and selected a day-care facility that caters to the particular developmental requirements of boys. Most nurseries and schools are very gynocentric, you know. Totally unsuitable for boys,” she said, giving her stomach a self-assured pat.
“Timothy?”
“Yes. His name is Timothy. After his father.”
“Nikki Ruskin-Farnsworth,” Lindsay could barely whisper the name. “I remember you now.” The air left her lungs as an agonizing reality dawned on her. Quivering from head to toe, she walked over and threw back the filmy green curtain that screened the patients from the corridor. There, lying in bed with raised, red splotches covering every inch of his exposed skin, was her former fiancée, Timothy Farnsworth. Although he was still groggy from the medication he’d been given, when he saw Lindsay his eyes instantly widened in recognition and astonishment.
“Gay!?” Lindsay shrieked. “Gay?!” Her voice was so high-pitched it was a wonder that her cries didn’t summon a pack of stray dogs.
Timothy’s speech was thick and garbled by his still-swollen tongue. “Windsay! Wah aw you doing heaw? Wet me expwain.”
“No, you let me explain,” she said fiercely. Everything was so clear to her now. Nikki Ruskin had been one of Timothy’s fellow students in his MBA program, a year ahead of him. Lindsay had only met her once or twice, but suddenly the memory of that woman’s supercilious little face filled the entire frame of Lindsay’s mind. Lindsay walked over and leaned in, her face an inch from Timothy’s. “You knew that I would understand if you said you were gay, because of what happened with Rob. You knew that I would let you off the hook.”
“I was young and scawed. I wassunt weady to be mawwied.”
A vase of flowers stood on the table of a neighboring patient. Without thinking, Lindsay grabbed ahold of the bouquet, wielding it like a battle axe. She began to pummel Timothy with the flowers, punctuating each phrase with the thwack of flying floral force. “You humiliated me! You broke my heart! You made me lie to all of our family and friends! You miserable, lying, sniveling little coward!”
Lindsay finally stopped her assault when only the bare stems of the flowers remained. She threw them at Timothy with a muted scream and turned her back to him in disgust. Flower petals continued to rain down around her like confetti. Nikki stood gaping at Lindsay, mute with shock and rage. Her round belly and glossy hair gave her the appearance of an over-inflated balloon, ready to pop. Lindsay narrowed her eyes as she regarded the other woman. “I’ll pray for you,” she said, and marched briskly away.
Chapter 35
That evening, Lindsay was mostly silent during the drive to the Royals’ stadium, her mind still occupied by her encounter with Timothy and his wife. Despite her sour mood, she couldn’t help but observe that the date seemed to be going rather well. She noted that Drew had opened the car door for her when he picked her up. Some guys were scared to be seen as chauvinists if they undertook such gestures of politeness. She also noted that he drove a sensible blue Volkswagen Passat. Too many surgeons cruised around town in ridiculous cars with vanity license plates that advertised their specialty. The anesthesiologist whose plate read, ISED8EM, for example, was someone that Anna aptly referred to as “a total asshat.” Lindsay’s opinion of Drew Checkoway thus far was that he was a gentleman who was not a total asshat.
When they arrived and took their seats behind home plate, the small, 3,000-seat stadium was only about half full. Children crowded around near the dugouts, hoping to get the autographs of their favorite players. Although it was nearing sundown, the day’s oppressive heat lingered. Drew re
moved his baseball cap and mopped beads of sweat from his brow. “I miss Chicago weather. I can’t believe I’m saying that, but it’s true. I feel like I am in Satan’s armpit. Chicago can get hot, but this is constant, searing, jungle heat. I’m going to miss having four seasons.”
“What do you mean? North Carolina has four glorious seasons.” Lindsay enumerated them on her fingers. “Pollen, Sauna, Drought, and Slightly Nippy.” As a lifelong Southerner, she didn’t take well to complaints about the weather, especially from outsiders. It was one thing to render an opinion: “It’s gonna be a hot one,” or “Hailstones out there are the size of pig’s balls.” But actually complaining about the weather was an undignified pastime of Northerners and the British.
A vendor came past and Drew asked for two light beers. As he handed her the cup, he said, “I hope you don’t mind me ordering for you. I should have asked.”
“Not at all.” She said, minding quite a bit, actually.
Drew opened his program and withdrew a piece of paper. It was covered in boxes and diamonds and boxes containing diamonds. In the boxes along the left-hand side, he jotted down a series of numbers. Across the top, he wrote the names of the teams, the time of the game and the weather conditions. Noticing her curious stare, Drew said, “Do you keep a scorecard when you come to games?”
“Um, no. I’d rather just sit back and enjoy the, you know, artistry of the game.”
Their conversation so far had stayed safely away from Lindsay’s alleged love of baseball. She was entirely engrossed in her musings about Timothy’s deception. Now Lindsay thought of the verse in the Book of Matthew about hypocrisy, “Why do you see the speck in your brother’s eye but fail to notice the beam in your own eye?” She blinked involuntarily. Stupid beam.
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