Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02

by Scandal in Fair Haven

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Other Books By This Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PRAISE FOR CAROLYN G. HART

  WINNER OF THE AGATHA, ANTHONY, AND

  MACAVITY AWARDS

  AND

  SCANDAL IN FAIR HAVEN

  “Carolyn G. Hart’s thoroughly engaging and unfailingly contemporary sixtysomething sleuth drives fast, thinks faster, and isn’t afraid of the dark side. Citizens of Fair Haven be warned: Henrie O has turned down a rocking chair for an MG and replaced knitting needles with a sharp wit, keen intelligence, and pointed observations. Brava!”

  —Marilyn Wallace

  “Henrie O is the Jane Marple of the 90s—modern, mature, and chutzpadik.”

  —Aaron Elkins

  “Henrie O’s no feeble village spinster, but a dynamic woman who knows human nature all too well and utilizes her experiences in this skillfully narrated story of relationships gone sour in a perfect neighborhood.”

  —Joan Hess

  “I’ve missed Miss Marple and Miss Silver; and though we’ll never see Henri O knitting fuzzy pink thingummies, this sixtysomething sleuth is definitely their updated, street-smart sister under the skin.”

  —Margaret Maron

  DEAD MAN’S ISLAND

  “A sassy heroine … She says what she thinks (when it serves her purposes) and pulls no punches. Think of today’s no-nonsense Lauren Bacall.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “An older sleuth of forceful charm and infinite wisdom. A surefire winner!”

  —Library Journal

  Also by Carolyn G. Hart

  DEATH ON DEMAND

  DESIGN FOR MURDER

  SOMETHING WICKED

  HONEYMOON WITH MURDER

  A LITTLE CLASS ON MURDER

  DEADLY VALENTINE

  THE CHRISTIE CAPER

  SOUTHERN GHOST

  DEAD MAN’S ISLAND

  MINT JULEP MURDER

  Available from

  Bantam Books

  With love to my son, Philip.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank Joan Hess, Chris and Ellen Myrick, and Corinne Stoddard for their very good suggestions, and my agent, Deborah C. Schneider, for her encouragement and insight.

  1

  I always opt for life.

  Even when it’s desperately hard to do. Even in the midst of death and travail.

  That’s why I walked up the stairs from the intensive care unit, where my friend Margaret was struggling to survive, to the second floor of the hospital.

  I’d first found my way upstairs in mid-morning, seeking respite from the life-and-death drama that unfolds—inexorably—in the lounge that serves the intensive care unit.

  I’d slipped quietly out of the waiting area as a weary surgeon in bloodstained scrubs slowly walked toward a mid-thirties man and woman. Their faces flattened in grief as he came reluctantly closer. The doctor’s rubber soles squeaked against the marble floor. It was the only sound until the mother began to moan. Cars and youth and alcohol.

  I didn’t want to see those parents grieve. It hurt too much.

  So I slipped away, up the antiseptic gray stairs to the second floor and the maternity ward, where life was beginning.

  Yes, there could be heartbreak here too.

  But not this April afternoon.

  One of the babies, a little boy, scrunched up a red, puckered face and began to cry, the utterly unmistakable mew of the newborn. God, how precious life is. I thought of my family, of my grandchildren.

  It wasn’t the kind of nursery I’d expected, of course. But the only constant in life is change. A brisk nurse explained to me what appeared to be the dearth of babies. Babies today don’t stay in the nursery in bassinets with cards affixed, Baby Boy Jones, Baby Girl Smith. Today’s babies are in the room with their mothers, right from the first.

  Sensible, of course.

  They spend only brief periods in the nursery, for weighing, for checking.

  I wandered down the hall. Many doors were open. I had other glimpses of new babies, new mothers, new adventures beginning.

  I returned to Margaret’s bedside much refreshed.

  The nurse moved near. “She’s conscious now, Mrs. Collins. Don’t let her talk much.”

  Margaret’s hand was quiet and cool in mine. Her eyes fluttered open.

  “You’re doing fine.” I spoke quietly. “I talked to the doctor. No major damage to the heart muscle. The surgery was successful.”

  Her breathing was shallow, her lips bluish.

  “Henrie O …”

  My late husband Richard gave me, Henrietta O’Dwyer Collins, that nickname. Richard used to say I packed more surprises into a single day than O. Henry ever put in a short story.

  “Be quiet now, Margaret. Rest.”

  She licked her lips.

  I reached for the plastic cup with ice shavings, gently spooned a cool mound on her tongue.

  Margaret swallowed, closed her eyes in thanks.

  The visiting period was over.

  This time when I walked upstairs, it was during the shift change. A flurry of scrub-clad attendants, nurses, nursing assistants, doctors, orderlies, passed me.

  So why did I notice the bone-thin woman who stood in the hallway?

  Her face was hidden behind a curtain of long, straight hair as she looked down at the infant cradled in her arms.

  A pale blue receiving blanket and a tiny hand. That’s all I saw within the protective embrace. Faded green scrubs sagged against the woman’s bony shoulders, exposed her thin wrists. A stethoscope dangled around her neck.

  I’d passed dozens of men and women similarly attired since I brought Margaret to the hospital late last night in the throes of a heart attack.

  I watched as she—nurse? nurse’s aide? doctor?— passed the nursery.

  She picked up speed.

  Her scuffed black leather flats slapped against the floor.

  Faster. Faster.

  She reached the stairs, gave a swift look behind.

  And saw me.

  I didn’t hesitate.

  “One moment, please.” I held up my hand. Imperiously, if you will. And strode quickly toward her.

  She stood frozen, her face impassive, her arms curved tight as steel bands around that small, helpless bundle.

  With every step I took, I became more certain of my suspicions.

  I’ll never forget looking into her eyes, dull green eyes necked with amber and despair. Straggling light hair, darker at the roots, framed a gaunt, hollow-cheeked face. Her mouth was slack, loose, straight lips that had long ago forgotten how to smile. A pulse throbbed in her throat.

  I held out my arms.

  Her shoulders sagged. Tears edged down her wan cheeks. Slowly, as if the tiny creature were too heavy to be borne, she handed me the precious mewing bundle.

  She whirled away, yanked open the door, plunged into the stairwell. Before the heavy doo
r eased shut, I heard the clatter of her shoes on the cement stairs.

  My arrival in the nursery caused a stir, of course.

  The alarm went out immediately.

  And a sobbing new mother held her baby—tiny six-pound James Allen Wilson—cradled in the sanctuary of her arms.

  The head nurse caught me as I walked toward the stairs. Her ruddy face was touched with paleness, her commanding voice wavered. ‘They found her in the parking garage. The police are on the way. She’ll be charged with attempted kidnapping.’ The nurse stopped, swallowed, briefly closed her eyes, blocking out the frightful vision of what might have been, what almost was. “God. We’re so grateful. But how did you know? How on earth did you know?”

  I looked down and pointed at the head nurse’s Reeboks.

  “The scrubs were right. She had a stethoscope. But have you ever seen anyone who works in a hospital wearing thin-soled leather flats?”

  “Christ.” The nurse was forty-five, stocky, with an air of certitude. She cleared her throat, “I probably shouldn’t tell you. We have a doctor who wears stiletto heels. Thank God you didn’t know.”

  I left it at that.

  But it wasn’t simply the shoes, the wrong shoes. It was the almost half century I spent as a reporter. Body language tells so much. Without ever seeing her, I knew the stiletto-heeled doctor exuded assurance, command.

  The rigid back of the kidnapper shouted fear.

  And if I’d been wrong? So? I don’t embarrass easily. And I’ve learned to play my hunches. For good or ill.

  It was a good day all around. They moved Margaret out of intensive care and into her room. I was relieved enough to pick up my regular schedule the next morning, my last class before spring break.

  I still find it hard to see myself as an academic. Probably because I’m not an academic. But it is my pleasure to serve on a rather unique journalism faculty, one that employs retired professionals rather than degree-laden and experience-poor academics. The professors at this small college, nestled in the wooded rolling hills of southern Missouri, are people who have crafted ads, waged campaigns, worked public relations magic in the wake of industrial fiascos, and covered wars and famines and jugular politics for all kinds of media. Our students might not have contact with academics flourishing in the sanitized arena of juried journals (You kiss my ass, I’ll kiss yours), but they are exposed to how the media world really works.

  I carried a small box of divinity when I visited Margaret in the afternoon.

  She looked much better, her color improved, her eyes clear. Margaret has such a civilized face. I’ve seen its counterpart on tapestries in Brussels—an aquiline nose, almond-shaped eyes, a soft, rosebud mouth.

  I waved away her thanks for my vigil. I know how much a handclasp matters when life hangs in the balance. Not as much as oxygen, but more perhaps than Margaret’s beardless young doctor realized.

  She’d heard from her night nurse about yesterday’s excitement.

  “Henrie O, only you!”

  “You would have noticed in an instant.” It wasn’t simply a modest disclaimer. Margaret, also on the general news faculty, was a longtime INS correspondent in Paris. Very little escapes her.

  “Perhaps. In any event, you’ve earned your holiday.” Her soft mouth looked stubborn.

  We’d planned, before illness struck, to spend the spring break at Margaret’s cabin in the Cumberlands. I’d looked forward to our trip eagerly, our departure planned for Saturday morning. I dearly love Tennessee and never pass up an opportunity to visit there. Margaret grew up in Chattanooga, and the cabin had been in her family for years. Now there was only Margaret and a nephew who lived near Nashville.

  I sat up straight. “Margaret, I didn’t think! Your nephew —I should call him.”

  “No, no. No need. There’s nothing Craig can do and I don’t want to bother him.”

  Funny how much you can read into words when you are my age. Margaret and I have a here-and-now friendship. We enjoy driving into St. Louis for art shows (everything from Turner to Monet to Klee), discussing politics (if you think today’s press coverage is savage, take a look at Charles A. Dana’s editorial invective in the New York Sun in the 1880s), and sharing discoveries of new books (Margaret likes poetry, I prefer nonfiction).

  We don’t spend our lives in the past.

  But we know the outlines of each other’s lives, our husbands, where we’d worked and lived, what we’d written. She was a widow too. She and Paul had no children. Her sister Eileen died several years ago. Margaret’s only family was Eileen’s son, Craig. I’d seen family photos scattered about Margaret’s house as photos are scattered about mine.

  And she didn’t want me to call her nephew about her heart attack and surgery.

  “He’s been very involved with his wife and her family since he married.” Her eyes slipped away from mine.

  Translation: No time for an elderly aunt.

  I let it drop. I pulled out the box of divinity and a new paperback.

  Margaret smiled her thanks, then once again looked stubborn. “Now, I don’t want any heroics here, Henrie O. You go ahead tomorrow and take the holiday as we’d planned it. I don’t need to have my hand held. And several friends from the altar guild have phoned. They’ll be by.”

  I let myself be persuaded.

  Margaret was fine, was going to be fine.

  And I was eager for my holiday.

  A peaceful week in the Cumberlands in a solitary mountain cabin.

  What could be more restful?

  2

  I drove through Nashville at dusk. It is a city I love, elegant and southern, a city of church spires and country music tour buses, glittering new glass office buildings and treasured antebellum mansions, boot factories and insurance empires, towering oaks and ghostly gray limestone. I stopped for dinner at Houston’s, an old favorite near the Vanderbilt campus. The restaurant was jammed, as always on a Saturday night. It was almost nine o’clock when I reached my turnoff from Highway 24E some eighty miles south of Nashville.

  I had no trouble finding the cabin—Margaret’s map was excellent—though it was several miles to the east and far up a rutted gravel road. Not a gleam of moonlight penetrated the canopy of trees that interlocked above the twisting lane. My headlights stabbed into the darkness, disappeared into the night.

  In the glow of my lights, the cabin had a deserted, bleak appearance, one wooden shutter hanging on a hinge, pine needles thick on the rock path. I pulled around to the side, squeezed my MG between two pines.

  I was tired from the full day’s drive and the stress of Margaret’s illness and my hospital vigil. I did take time to breathe deeply of the cool pine-scented air, to welcome the embrace of country silence, but within a few minutes I’d unpacked the car—my luggage and provisions for a week— washed my face, made up one of the twin beds, and tumbled into it and a deep, satisfying sleep.

  I wake like a cat. Shifting in an instant from deep sleep to full alert.

  Adrenaline pumped through me. The noise that jolted me awake—the metallic rattle of the front doorknob, the faint screech as the door swung in—was startling in the silence, but perhaps even more shocking was the sudden blaze of light from the combination living room-kitchen, illumination that spilled in a harsh swath into the bedroom.

  The layout of the square cabin was simple.

  The front door opened into the small living room and kitchen area. The bedroom door—which I’d left ajar when I went to bed—was to the right of the front door. I’d had no reason to close the door. I was alone in the cabin.

  But not now.

  There was no possible good reason why someone was inside the living room of Margaret’s cabin, between me and the only exit.

  Except for the single bedroom window.

  At bedtime I’d managed, with a struggle, to raise the window almost an inch for a breath of fresh cool night air. It hadn’t been easy. The window’d obviously not been budged in years.

  Th
e intruder would certainly hear if I tried to get out that way, assuming I could wrestle the window any higher, which I doubted.

  That left the front door. And my late-night visitor.

  I was already moving, easing over the side of the bed, grabbing my key ring with its attached Mace canister and my small travel flashlight from the nightstand.

  The Mace canister? Of course. Women, old or young, pretty or ugly, sexy or plain, are always at risk. At home. At work. In hotels. On the highway. Daylight or dark. Every woman knows it.

  I uncapped the cover to the Mace, gently touched the trigger with my thumb. My hand trembled.

  The wooden floor was cool beneath my bare feet. Shoes. I’d run faster with shoes.

  I fought indecision and knew it was a form of panic. Thoughts, incomplete, inchoate, whirled in my mind. Shoes … door … Mace …

  But first I must know who was there.

  I reached the open bedroom door with only one telltale creak of the boards.

  I’ve trod a good many dangerous paths in my life. I’ve learned to look hard at faces.

  The old saw instructs that pretty is as pretty does. The converse is equally true. The discontented droop of a mouth, the venal gleam in an eye, the obsequious curve of lips, the angry lift of a chin—oh, yes, faces tell tales. And dangerous men have in common an air of reckless abandon. They are not bound by any rules, man’s or God’s, and they will kill you without qualm.

  I had to see the face of my intruder.

  He slumped in the room’s single easy chair, his dark eyes wide and staring, focused on nothing.

  His face surprised me. It was slender, almost delicate for a man. It reminded me of tintypes of Robert Louis Stevenson, oval with deepset eyes, a small, gentle mouth, a high-bridged nose. In his mid-thirties. Despite the bristly stubble fuzzing his cheeks, my intruder had a thoughtful civilized, almost professorial look. But he appeared desperately tired. More than that, his face retained a kind of incredulous astonishment, like the single survivor of a road smash surveying the crushed cars and mangled victims.