by Mary Daheim
“Checking sources, maybe,” I said. “So what do we do besides wait for official confirmation from Doc Dewey about JoAnne’s death?”
“Call the hospital in Seattle to see how Dodge’s daughter is doing?” Mitch suggested. “Did you hear how badly she was wounded?”
“No,” I replied. “But it had to be more than a graze or they wouldn’t have airlifted her to Harborview.”
“Do you know her very well?”
I shook my head. “I never met her or any of his children. Or Tricia, for that matter, although you may recall that she was up here in October to discuss Tanya’s wedding plans with Milo.”
“Sounds like Dodge just saved himself big bucks on a wedding.” Mitch cocked his head to one side. “You sure the sheriff didn’t shoot Buster just to save ten, twenty grand?”
Ordinarily, I would’ve laughed, but all I could manage was a weak smile. “I don’t think Milo was ever inside his ex-wife’s house today. You’re right. We should call Harborview. It’s your story. You do it.”
Mitch looked uncertain. “It is? No problem, but I didn’t realize I’d gotten the assignment. Isn’t it better if you handle this one? You know Dodge better than I do. I sense he’s kind of touchy about personal stuff.”
It occurred to me that Mitch might be one of the few people in town who didn’t know that Milo and I had a long and often tumultuous history. “Well … let me think about it. But would you mind calling Harborview? I’ve already had my share of dealing with the medical profession the last few days.”
“Sure.” He pulled a Seattle phone book out from somewhere under his desk. “You want me to call the local hospital, too? That is my story.”
“What?” My mind was eighty-five miles away, high on a hill overlooking Elliott Bay, wondering what Milo was doing and how he felt. “Oh—yes. I’m going to see if Vida’s home yet.”
I left Mitch to his calls and went into my cubbyhole to make my own. Vida didn’t answer at her home, which meant she was probably still at the ski lodge. I tried to call Kip again, but he didn’t pick up. Then, gritting my teeth, I dialed KSKY’s number.
Bree answered. Her warm, chummy radio voice turned frosty when she heard my voice. “Spencer is busy. Can he call you back later if he has time?”
“No,” I said, and hung up. I, too, could play the cut-off game.
Mitch was still on the phone when I went back into the newsroom. He held up his index finger to indicate the call was almost finished. “Thanks, Olga. I’m sorry about your loss. Take care.”
“Death confirmed?” I said.
“Afraid so,” Mitch replied. “That was JoAnne’s sister, the nurse. She’d ridden to the hospital in the ambulance.”
“Cousin,” I said, crossing myself in a haphazard manner for JoAnne and the rest of her family.
“Oh.” Mitch wasn’t fazed, either by my correction or my prayerful gesture. “Lucky I knew they were related. All the Petersen offspring were at the hospital when their mother died. Maybe they’ll try to get along better with two dead parents on their hands.”
“A truce anyway,” I remarked. “My God, that family’s had more than its share of misery.” But my priority wasn’t what was left of the once-exalted Petersen dynasty. “Did you get through to anybody at Harborview? I got nowhere trying to talk to Fleetwood. That blond bitch he’s got working for him is probably sleeping with him, too.”
“Moonlighting?”
“In more ways than one,” I said. “Well? What about Tanya?”
Mitch shook his head. “Zip. Unless I was family, they weren’t giving out any information regarding Tanya Dodge’s condition. I tried the local press angle, but it didn’t cut any ice. I don’t suppose you have any contacts with hospital personnel there.”
“Not that I can think of.” It had been thirty years since I’d lived in my hometown of Seattle. “They’d talk to Doc, I’ll bet.”
“There you go,” Mitch said, leaning back in his chair again. “Meanwhile, since you can’t get Kip, do you want me to post JoAnne’s demise on the website? I’ve got the time of death, and I can tactfully phrase the overdose as accidental for now.”
“Hold off,” I said. “I’m going to the hospital.”
“You think Doc’s still there?”
“I don’t know.”
Mitch regarded me curiously. “You want me to tag along?”
“No. I want you to talk to the Cederbergs. In person.” I picked up a blank piece of paper off Leo’s desk and wrote down two sentences and a question. “Here’s what I want you to ask them, and don’t let either of them stonewall you. I don’t care if you have to use bodily force. They may be the only ones in town who have the answer.”
Mitch took his time absorbing what I’d written. “Well.” He chuckled softly. “I’m not sure how you came to this conclusion or even exactly what it all means, but I can do this.”
“You’d better. It’s your story.” I grabbed my purse, shrugged into my coat, and hurried out of the newsroom.
The rain had let up, just a drizzle that required the lowest setting on my windshield wipers. There was a parking place right across the street from the hospital’s main entrance. Whoever was behind the front desk wasn’t Jenny Bjornson. I didn’t pause to find out who the dark-haired older woman was, but went straight to the elevator and up to the second floor.
Ruth Sharp was still on duty, but she’d lost her aura of taut composure. When I approached the desk, she gave a start. “Visiting hours are almost over,” she said in an uncertain voice.
“Where are all the Petersens?” I asked.
Ruth licked her thin lips. “They’re in the visitors’ lounge with Mr. Driggers. You mustn’t bother them.”
“I won’t,” I said. “I’m here to see Mr. Laurentis. How is he?”
“I haven’t made rounds yet,” she responded. “We’ve had a hectic evening in the ER. I was called away for some time. So was the other nurse on duty.”
“Right.” I headed down the hall to Craig’s room. He was asleep. At least I hoped he was asleep. A glance at the monitor showed me that he hadn’t flatlined, but his pulse, heartbeat, and blood pressure were all dropping at what looked like an alarming rate. I pressed the call button, wishing I’d dragged Ruth Sharp along with me.
“Craig!” I called, shaking the mattress. “Craig! Can you hear me?”
There was no response except for the faint sound of shallow breathing. I ran out into the hall. “Nurse! Ruth!” I couldn’t see the station from the end of the hall where Craig’s room was located. Glancing into the room opposite his, I could make out only an inert form under a couple of blankets. No help there. I spotted a service cart a few feet away. Grabbing with all my might, I tilted it until it crashed on its side. Basins, towels, cleaning bottles, and God-only-knew-what-else clattered onto the floor.
Ruth Sharp appeared in the hallway at once, as if someone had shot a rocket up her prim rear end. “What on earth are you doing?” she demanded, stomping toward me. “Are you insane?”
“Craig’s dying,” I said. “Can’t you read a monitor, you dumbshit?”
Ruth was shocked. “I’m calling the police.” She started to turn away, but I dove after her, yanking at the back of her uniform. “Do your job! I’ll call the police!”
I don’t know if it was my reminder of her vocation or the wild look in my eyes, but suddenly she seemed to realize I wasn’t kidding. I followed her to Craig’s room, but didn’t go beyond the threshold. I saw her checking the patient and the monitor before picking up the phone, pressing a single button, and saying loudly, “Crash cart, Room 210!”
I knew that was my signal to get out of the way. Feeling guilty, I hastily began picking up the debris I’d dumped on the floor in my attempt to get Ruth’s attention. The last thing I wanted was to be blamed for turning the hall into an obstacle course for the crash cart. I managed to remove almost everything when I heard voices from the other end of the hall. Stepping into a recessed supply nook to m
ake way, I held my breath until two orderlies and a man I recognized as a physician’s assistant came racing past with the cart. By the time they entered Craig’s room, Elvis Sung entered the hallway from the stairwell. If he saw me, he gave no sign. Dr. Sung had a life to save.
And I had prayers to say. It dawned on me how little I’d prayed in the past chaotic twenty-four hours. I’d even fallen behind with my Nativity set—again. St. Mildred’s was catty-corner from the hospital. Father Kelly would have said a five o’clock vigil Mass, but the church was probably closed and locked now. When the hospital had been built fifty years ago, Old Doc Dewey had wanted to put in a chapel. But Old Doc, like Young Doc, was an Episcopalian, and the Lutheran majority had been convinced that whatever he had in mind would be “too Romish.” The Baptists and the Methodists felt that an Episcopal overseer would create something “too Anglican.” And the Presbyterians didn’t want to spend the money. Or so Vida had explained to me years ago. “It’s a medical facility,” she’d added, defending her own religion. “It wasn’t prudent to spend money on frills. We already had plenty of churches.”
Thus, I was resigned to standing in the stairwell to say my prayers. I was still there when I heard footsteps from lower down, apparently coming up from the first floor. The owner’s tread was light and unrushed. I had a feeling I knew who was approaching the second floor in what I guessed was a stealthy manner. I moved closer to the door, out of sight until the new arrival reached the top step.
“Hi, Denise,” I said. “Are you making rounds tonight?”
“Oh. Hi. I left something up here.” She waited for me to move away from the door.
I stayed put. “What was it?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
There was a slight pause. “My bracelet. The clasp broke.”
“What does it look like?”
“It’s … gold.” She licked her lips, which seemed to have gone dry. “Small links. It’s really thin and hard to see.”
“I know where it is,” I said. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
She frowned. “Are you sure it’s mine?”
I shrugged. “Who else would it belong to?”
“I can get it myself.” She made a lunge for the door, trying to shove me out of the way.
I wouldn’t budge. But I’d underestimated Denise’s strength. She elbowed me so hard that I doubled over, gasping for breath. Then, with a frenzied look in her eyes, she came at me again, her arms wrapping my upper body in a painful grip. The battleground was small, only a few square feet between the door and the top of the steps. I tried to shake her off, but it was useless. Denise was younger, stronger, and desperate.
My only chance was to use my feet. Just as I felt she was about to send me plummeting down the stairwell, I managed to hook my right foot around her left ankle. I used the heel of my boot to gain enough leverage on the handrail to get her offbalance. Her grip slackened just enough for me to twist around and gain a momentary advantage. I caught my breath. Denise let out a growl like a cornered animal, clawing at my face and hair. I raised my left knee and caught her in the stomach. She gaped at me in shocked horror. Her hands dropped to her sides, her footing gave way, and she fell backwards, tumbling down the cement stairs to the first landing. Gasping for breath, I stared at her. She was lying on her back, eyes still open. But Denise wasn’t seeing anything. At least nothing that was of this world.
I sank to the floor, leaned against the door, and threw up just before I passed out.
The first person I saw after I came to was Ruth Sharp. She wasn’t the last person I wanted to see, but she was pretty low on the list. “I’m taking your vitals,” she said. “Please do not ask me any questions other than about your condition.”
“What is my condition?”
“Shh.” Nurse Sharp was taking my pulse. She didn’t look much better than I felt. Her uniform was no longer crisp or unblemished, and the little pleated cap was askew.
I realized I was on a cot by the nurses’ station. I could see Dwight Gould and Doe Jamison in the hallway, talking to Dr. Sung. Ruth Sharp finished with my vitals. “Well?” I said.
“Your blood pressure is elevated, one-fifty over eighty-five, but your pulse and heart rates are satisfactory. I suggest that you lie here for a few minutes and try not to become agitated.” She moved away from me, taking the portable monitor with her.
Doe hurried over to the cot. “What’s happened around here? Denise Petersen is dead.”
“Am I being charged?” I asked in all seriousness.
“I don’t know. I mean …” Doe, who is usually the stoic type, looked rattled. “Maybe you should wait to say anything more.”
“Fine. How’s Craig Laurentis?”
“They don’t know yet, but they sound hopeful.” Doe lowered her voice. “Dr. Sung thinks somebody put the wrong medication into Laurentis’s IV. That’s malpractice, if I ever heard of it.”
“It wasn’t malpractice,” I said. “It was attempted homicide.”
Doe’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. It was Denise. She came back to make sure her second attempt to kill Craig was successful.”
Doe still looked incredulous. “Denise is a semi-moron. Is she crazy, too? I mean, was. Damn, I don’t know what I mean.”
“That’s okay, Doe,” I assured her. “We all thought she didn’t have a brain in her head. But she certainly was a cunning piece of work.” I made an effort to sit up. “What’s going on?”
“They’ve taken Denise down to the morgue,” Doe replied. “Doc Dewey is going to do a postmortem. My God, Emma, Denise is down there with her mother! I can’t get my head around this.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Mitch Laskey, who was now talking to Dwight. Maybe Mitch had been there all along, but I hadn’t seen him until I raised my head. “Hang on, Doe. Can you tell Mitch to come over here when he’s finished with Dwight?”
“Sure.” She started to turn around, but I stopped her.
“Any word on Tanya Dodge?”
Doe threw up her hands. “That’s the other thing! We didn’t know anything about the Bellevue catastrophe until one of Dustin’s relatives called from Seattle a couple of hours ago.”
“But is Tanya going to be okay?”
“Dodge checked in with Dwight about fifteen minutes ago. Tanya’s still in surgery. The bullet just missed her heart.”
“Oh, God. Poor Milo.”
“I know.” Doe shook her head. “He doesn’t need this.”
“Nobody needs what’s happened around here lately,” I murmured.
“Right,” Doe conceded, “but as much of a jerk as he can be sometimes as a boss, I like Dodge. I respect him, too. He’s had kind of a crappy life, hasn’t he?”
I sensed it wasn’t a rhetorical question. Those dark Muckle-shoot eyes of Doe’s had a mystical quality, perhaps tribal wisdom passed from generation to generation. Her people had lived in the region for thousands of years, back to when the Cascades’ last glaciers had receded. But I didn’t know how to answer the question. Maybe Doe thought I was responsible for a share of Milo’s misfortune. Or maybe she believed I was the answer. Fortunately, Mitch rescued me from saying anything at all.
“Damn!” he said cheerfully. “I missed my chance to be a superhero. I guess I’ll never see the headline ‘Reporter Saves Publisher from Crazed Killer.’ ”
Doe literally backed off, presumably to give Mitch and me some privacy.
“What did the Cederbergs tell you?” I asked him.
“Just what you thought they would,” Mitch replied, half kneeling next to the cot. “Greg sent those letters. He’d figured out that Denise was a head case fairly early on in their marriage. But he got scared once he began to realize that maybe it was her, not her father, who’d murdered Linda. She’d say or do things that made him realize Larry had taken the rap for her. Sometimes
she’d lash out at Greg for some minor criticism, and then rant about her aunt and
how mean and critical and nasty she could be. Or else she’d talk about her father, how he’d always been so protective of her and never let anything bad happen to his little princess. Then she’d ask Greg questions like ‘Would you take a bullet for me?’ It tore the poor guy to pieces.”
I was surprised by the depth of Mitch’s knowledge. “Andy and Reba told you all this?”
Mitch shook his head. “No. Andy finally got hold of Greg on the phone to tell him about JoAnne. Greg was in Sultan, at his mother’s house, trying to figure out what to do. He showed up at the Cederbergs’ just as I was leaving. Andy and Reba had already told me about Greg sending the letters. He’d called them last night after he took off from the townhouse. I got to spend at least ten minutes with Greg at the Cederbergs’ before I came over here. He’d originally planned to spend Thanksgiving in Palm Desert, where his mother’s spending the winter, but when he dropped Doofus off with Denise last week, he suddenly felt that he had to act on his suspicions. That’s why he screwed up about being at the pub watching football. Wrong Monday night. You can imagine the state his mind was in the past week or so, and probably even before that.”
“What set him off when he saw Denise again?”
“He wasn’t sure,” Mitch replied. “The best he could come up with was that Denise acted too nice. He almost changed his mind about leaving the dog with her, then decided not to do anything that might set her off. He canceled the California trip and tried to figure out how to get Dodge to reopen the murder investigation. The letters were his answer.”
“Why did he word them in such a threatening manner?” I asked.
“His reasoning was fairly sound,” Mitch said. “Greg was afraid to come right out with his suspicions, but he wanted to get the attention of someone in authority that he could trust. He had no way of knowing Larry was going to die. That really threw him, which is why there was a lapse between the last letter to Milo and the one to you. He wondered if somehow he’d hexed Larry.”
I nodded. “That’s understandable, if off-base.”
Mitch nodded. “He shook off that idea pretty fast, though he didn’t feel he’d made any impression on Dodge. After he heard Laurentis had been shot, Greg realized that he and Denise often walked the dog in that part of the woods. She seemed to have an affinity—not his word for it, but I knew what he meant—for the area. He wondered if Denise had taken Doofus there, but couldn’t imagine why she’d shoot the recluse.”