Taking a year off from college, Sebastian had been a Peace Corps clinic tech. “I’m sure Doc T is fine.”
He didn’t look fine. After months of not speaking to me, Sebastian stared at me, full of desperate hope. So I said, “I’m sure he’ll be okay.”
We both heard the approaching sirens, and I scrambled to my feet. “I’ll let them in…”
The Institute’s security van arrived with the police, an alarm must have triggered somewhere. After the guard opened the door for the police and paramedics, I directed them downstairs. It took ages for me to find the freight elevator for the driver and his gurney. Fifteen minutes later, two detectives arrived. The younger one, his hair a mass of baby fine, bleach blonde curls, his face pitted with old scars, took charge. The older one had tired eyes that blinked like a lizard’s and bones that showed beneath his weathered skin, reminiscent of the mules bones still on the counter. He talked little but his few words sounded like the museum’s audio file interviews of old desert men, laconic with tattered grammar, formal vocabulary, and colorful phrasing.
The paramedics worked on Doc T while the police asked Sebastian questions. His entire focus on his mentor, Sebastian answered in monosyllables.
The younger detective turned to a policeman and said, “Find anyone else on the premises? Any sign of the shooter?”
“He’s gone,” I said.
“He?” the policeman asked.
“Ye sure he’s gone?” the older detective asked. He pronounced it “gown.”
I nodded. “I saw him leave from the front parking lot. I’m assuming it was a he. I only saw the truck.”
“Truck? Can you describe it?” The younger detective took charge of interrogating me, his stylus poised over a tablet.
“Small, white, dirty, a busted left tail light, bumper half off, half on.”
“Good attention to detail,” he said approvingly. “You catch the make and model?”
I shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, I don’t know trucks.”
“Ballard, get an APB on the truck, tell them…”
“I did get the license number.”
His pale eyes lit again with approval. “Lady, if I ever get shot, I hope you’re there.”
Fervently, I said, “Sir, if anyone gets shot, I hope I’m not.”
I turned to watch the paramedics load Doc T onto the gurney, and Sebastian moved towards me. Pressing his car keys into my hand, he said, “I’m going with Henry to the hospital. You follow in my car?”
I nodded. With another squeeze of his hand, he left.
“Miss?”
The policeman tried to get my attention, but instead I watched Sebastian follow Doc T’s gurney and felt something hollow in my chest.
“Miss?”
“Leslie Greene,” I said. “My name’s Leslie Greene. Someone shot Doctor Henry Telemann. He’s a physical anthropologist. Who shoots anthropologists?”
“If I could ask you a few more questions?”
I shook my head. “Sebastian wants me to follow them to the hospital, so I should go now as I don’t know where the hospital is.” I started to shake. “I can’t drive.”
“Miss, you’re in shock. Let’s find you a chair.”
I glared at him. “I’m not in shock. Sebastian wants me to drive his car to the hospital, but I don’t know how to drive.”
* * *
For two days, we sat in a hospital waiting room, talked to the police, talked to Doctor Telemann’s department chair and college president, talked again to the police, sat next to Doc T every time the nurses would let us, talked to the doctors, talked again to the police.
Detective Jeff Salinger, the scarred detective who drove me to the hospital, showed up to ask me questions, accompanied by his older partner Donald Hoyt. I dredged up everything I could remember about what Doctor Telemann said about waiting for a friend, their plans for dinner. I explained again and again how we exited through the back of the building, and the shooter must have been waiting for us to leave before going down the front stairwell.
Sebastian never seemed to register when the police were there. He spoke almost nothing to them or me. Every time they asked if Doctor Telemann had any enemies, he’d leave me to answer, me who had known Doc T for only eleven days. Sebastian spoke in private to the college president and pelted the doctors with questions daily. In between, he prowled the waiting room like a caged tiger or sat, his face rigid with grief.
On the second day, Detective Salinger returned and sat in a waiting room chair next to me. Hoyt leaned against the door frame studying Sebastian. Since the first day, they’d directed their questions to the doctor’s college colleagues and me. All of us were perplexed that anyone would shoot someone as inoffensive as Henry Telemann.
“We found the truck,” Salinger said. Sebastian’s hand twitched, but he didn’t look up from the journal in his hand.
“It’d been reported stolen two weeks ago and abandoned in a parking lot near the mall. Wiped clean.”
“Could it have been a random shooting? You know, by a crazy person?” I spoke doubtfully, because even I, who knew nothing about the vagaries of people, couldn’t imagine a sanity-challenged person entering a locked building with no cars in the front lot hoping to find a stranger to shoot.
Salinger grimaced. “What do you think?”
“He had no enemies.” I flinched when Sebastian spoke, his voice rusty. “Loved by everyone.”
The detectives stared at Sebastian’s bent head. I added apologetically, “I only knew Doctor Telemann for about a week and a half, but Sebastian’s right. I’ve never known a nicer man.”
“His fellow professors would agree with you, along with everyone at the Palm Desert Museum and the Institute of Desert Antiquities. His students all seemed to be fans too.”
“Seemed to be?” Sebastian’s voice rose. He looked squarely at Salinger, his eyes burning with anger.
“Calm down,” I said. “Jeff’s not inferring anything.”
“Jeff? So it’s Jeff now? Well, isn’t that great.” Stuffing the journal into his backpack, he left. Loudly.
I grimaced. “Sorry about that. He was Doctor Telemann’s assistant all year. This is really hard on him.”
“Seems jealous,” Salinger said, shooting me an assessing look. “Does he have reason to be?”
Nonplused, I stared at the policeman. “What?”
“Your boyfriend. Did he have reason to be jealous of you and Doctor Telemann?”
I blinked, astonished. “Sebastian’s not my boyfriend.”
Salinger pursed his lips. “Could have fooled me.”
“And Doctor Telemann was my boss. Period. He wasn’t that kind of guy. You know, the kind to hit on his employees.”
Salinger’s meaty shoulders shifted. “No?”
You had to feel sorry for people who only saw the dregs of humanity. “No,” I said firmly. “He was one of the good guys. Trust me. None of this makes sense.”
Salinger looked thoughtfully at Sebastian’s backpack abandoned under his chair. “When all the facts are in, it will.”
CHAPTER THREE
The third day, Saturday, brought a dozen visitors: department secretaries, fellow professors and students. If school had been in session, Sebastian assured me that the hospital would have been mobbed.
Lawyers also appeared. University lawyers arrived with the college president who spoke briefly to Sebastian and me. Later that day, another lawyer showed up. One I knew.
“Donovan.” I stood up so suddenly that I spilled my cup of vending machine coffee over the waiting room table, drenching the journal that Sebastian had been reading. He swore, carefully mopping the cracked leather cover.
I hadn’t seen Donovan Reid since Christmas Eve. After my second comatose husband died, I sent Donovan texts and emails; I left voicemails and notes with his barista, barber, and doorman for days. Throughout January, I haunted his favorite Italian sidewalk café in Venice every Friday night and Sunday morning, shivering
in the Southern Californian fog. The winter quarter began, then spring, and the months sped by while coursework at UCLA consumed me. I almost forgot him. When school finished in June, I began assessing ways to win Donovan back, but except for gathering intel from Jen and sending a half dozen texts to his cell, I hadn’t initiated a serious campaign.
“Reid,” Sebastian said in a surly voice. He hadn’t seen Donovan since Christmas Eve either.
Forgetting that he’d met Sebastian the night he dumped me, Donovan raised an eyebrow. “Do we know each other?”
“Sebastian Crowder,” I said hurriedly. “Thomas Crowder’s grandson.”
Although Donovan didn’t recognize Sebastian, he recognized the Crowder name. He offered his hand. “The one underwriting the contract, yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister Crowder.”
“Underwriting what contract?” Baffled, I stared at Sebastian.
Donovan looked at me, wrinkling a fastidious nose. “Perhaps you should change, Leslie, before we meet with the doctors and Tannenbaum’s people. A shower wouldn’t be amiss either.”
I glowered. “It’s Telemann. Doctor Henry Telemann. We’ve been waiting here for three days, and I’m not leaving till I hear he’s better.”
“He’s not getting better.” Before that dreary blankness filled Sebastian’s eyes again, I saw a flash of grief. “The doctors have recommended hospice care.”
For a minute, I gaped at Sebastian, my gaze darting from the throng of students milling in the corridor and back to Sebastian. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He didn’t answer, but this I could understand. Speaking would make it real. In these sterile hospital halls, we had more reality than we could handle.
Still I felt a pang. Sebastian hadn’t considered us close enough to tell me.
Donovan flicked his index finger to get our attention. “Daniel Pons, the college president, will be here in an hour. Leslie, I urge you to change. You’re representing the agency. I would take you to your lodgings, but I’ve business here.”
“I’ll take you,” Sebastian said abruptly. He wrapped the sopping journal in a magazine and took my arm.
I started to say that I hadn’t represented the agency in eight months, but Sebastian moved too fast. I mulled over Donovan’s words and wondered if I’d signed a lifetime pledge to always look the part of an Abishag wife even when I wasn’t one.
We walked through the blistering heat where the melting asphalt of the parking lot stuck to my huarache sandals. Sebastian’s beater car suffered in its own way: the interior sweltered and the seats felt hot enough to fry my bare legs. Sebastian fished some beach towels from the trunk, laid them on the seats, and jacked up the air conditioning.
Only three days earlier, I’d dressed in shorts and t-shirts for the 120-degree days and for the grubby mule bone work. How could I’ve known I’d be sitting in hospital waiting rooms and taking spit baths in public restrooms between meeting Doc T’s college president, colleagues, students and medical doctors?
“What’s going on, Sebastian?” Although I spoke calmly, my thoughts boiled. Poor Doctor Telemann was dying. Having had two comatose husbands, I knew exactly what that meant. His organs would start shutting down soon.
I’m ashamed to say that one thought transcended the others. In all my schemes to see Donovan again, I’d really hoped to be nicely dressed when it happened. Instead I looked my worst ever.
“We have an hour.” Sebastian exited the highway to a seedier part of Palm Springs. “I’ve got a change of clothes in the trunk. May I use your shower after you take yours?”
I nodded. The way he squinted and rubbed his eyes, I knew he was exhausted.
Which should have made me feel sorry for him, but didn’t. “Sebastian?”
“I need a shower first. Then we’ll talk.”
When we got to my motel, I tried covering my embarrassment by searching my purse for the key. I had booked The Treadway because it was the least expensive in town. A trust fund baby like Sebastian Crowder probably hadn’t set foot in anything so Spartan in his life.
He didn’t seem fazed when we walked into my room, dropping his knapsack to the ground, and throwing himself in a chair. “I’ll order pizza while you get ready.” Maybe his Peace Corps work had broadened his view of niceties.
I hadn’t brought any Donovan Reid-approved upscale clothing. Sebastian had been avoiding me and dinners with the professor had been burgers and fish tacos for which my tanks and shorts had been fine. I had packed one outfit that would probably suit a meeting with lawyers, doctors, college presidents and Donovan Reid: a Juicy Couture pink paillette sleeveless top with white slacks and white sandals. I grabbed the outfit and clean underwear, and headed for the bathroom.
After drying my hair, I considered tying my streaky blonde tresses back as I had while working in the lab, but I thought—what the hey. The outfit practically screamed for an accessory, so I added a white headband with a trailing pink feather on its left side. Mascara and a dusting of blush, and I was ready for anything. But first, Sebastian owed me an explanation.
I emerged from the bathroom and didn’t see him in the darkened room. “Sebastian?”
He moved from the doorway a few feet away, startling me. Wiping his hands on a napkin, he stared at my feather headband, his lips twitching. His first smile since Christmas day in La Jolla.
Not the kind of smile I wanted. “What?” I demanded, fingering the feather. “Too much?”
He ducked his head, but his lips still twitched. “It’s perfect.”
The smell of pizza distracted me, and I headed for the greasy box on the desk. “Olives,” I said. “Hey you remembered that I like olives on pizza.” But he’d already disappeared into the bathroom.
I opened the curtains to the harsh afternoon sun, and I loaded up a plate—so much better than hospital cafeteria food. Carefully shielding my white trousers with a towel, I took a blissful bite.
I’d gladly wear the flamingo feather everyday if it would make Sebastian happy. It cheered me up too, till I thought of Doc T dying.
When I started my second slice of pizza, I stopped thinking about Donovan Reid waiting at the hospital. Sebastian appeared, his dark hair damp, looking fractionally better. He grabbed a bottle of water and sprawled on the bed.
“Before we talk about Henry, please remember you have a choice.” He glanced at the headband, but this time he didn’t smile. “He, Doc T, told me about your Abishag talks.”
“So?” I said warily. Now I had an inkling why Donovan Reid had appeared.
“Henry Telemann lived most of his 64 years alone, but he hoped not to die alone. He wasn’t a wealthy man, not the usual rich candidate for an Abishag wife, but he does have friends with money. The college also has a Last Wishes fund. They want him to have an Abishag wife for what time he has left.”
I knew the Westwood agency shared legal services with the Desert Abishag agency, so now I knew for certain why Donovan was here. “You want me to explain to the college lawyers what an Abishag wife does? If Donovan’s bringing an Abishag from the Desert office, she can explain it just as well.”
Sebastian’s gaze dropped, and my stomach tightened. “They’re hoping you’d be the professor’s Abishag wife.”
I opened my mouth, but he said quickly. “Not my idea. You gotta believe it’s the last thing I want. The college president heard you were interning with Henry, read about you in the papers, about the murders, and wants you to be the Abishag wife.”
I looked at Sebastian, but he was rubbing his eyes again. “Because he thinks I specialize in murdered husbands?”
He glanced up at that. “My grandfather wasn’t…”
I waved my hand and decided to approach this logically. “I’m registered with the Westwood agency not Palm Desert …”
“Apparently your director Florence Harcourt has authority to assign you here. Doctor Telemann lives…has a home in Claremont, which is within the Westwood agency’s jurisdiction. Besides your second husban
d was in San Diego County.”
I’d hoped he wouldn’t remember that. “I think there’s a rule that you can’t be an Abishag wife to someone you know…I mean someone you knew before they were comatose.”
Apparently he had done his homework. “Not a rule. A custom, maybe. The agency was willing to waive any objections. Reid can explain why.”
My eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Sebastian, I can’t do it. It would feel too strange. I couldn’t be objective.”
He looked at the floor, his jaw working. “Not me you have to convince, but Reid.” I held my breath. He was angry with me again, and I didn’t understand why.
No longer hungry, I tossed the rest of my lunch in the trashcan and washed my hands. Our hour was up, and we had to return to the hospital. As I shouldered my purse and avoided Sebastian’s eyes, I decided to trust my first instincts—I was finished being an Abishag. Henry Telemann would be better matched with an Abishag wife who would respect and serve her nearly-dead husband as I had with Thomas and Jordan.
Sebastian didn’t say anything on the drive back to the hospital. In the elevator to the conference room, he suddenly said, “Don’t let him, them, talk you into it.”
The elevator doors opened, and I saw Florence Harcourt pacing impatiently ten feet away.
Reinforcements had arrived.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Mrs. Harcourt.” I straightened. The woman may intimidate—well, everyone—but nothing she could say would change my mind.
The director of the Westwood Abishag Agency swooped down and hustled me into an empty office. Sebastian followed to the threshold, but she stayed him with a manicured hand and practiced smile.
“Confidential matters. We’ll be just a moment.” From inside the room, Donovan Reid appeared and shut Sebastian out.
“You lovely girl,” she crooned. “However did you manage it? The board is over the moon.”
“Excuse me?” I thought of poor Doctor Telemann shot, his brilliant mind destroyed, wires and tubes keeping his body alive.
Riddle in Bones: An Abishag’s Third Mystery (The Abishag Mysteries) Page 2