by Judi Lind
Nodding mutely, Storm nodded toward the bare space between his right leg and the bed. “Set it down.”
Carey’s hands were trembling as he dropped the medical bag with a thump.
Storm glanced up. “You know CPR?”
Carey shook his head, his pale blue eyes nearly invisible against his pasty complexion.
Damn! Someone had to fill in so he could get out his instruments and examine Heather more thoroughly. “Anybody?” Storm shouted.
“I do.” David Welton stepped around Bowman and approached Heather’s motionless body. “What can I do to help?”
“Get down here and take over.”
Without hesitation, the normally dapper attorney dropped to his knees in the pool of blood. He flexed his shoulders, took a breath and crossed his hands. “Ready.”
“All right. On four. I’ll count.”
His face a grim mask, the lawyer nodded.
“One. Two. Three.”
At four, David slid his hands smoothly into position. Storm shifted his body into the tiny space beside the bed. Without missing a beat, the attorney took his place over Heather.
Relieved to find the other man so competent, Storm snapped open his bag. “Hank, you guys get over here and pull this bed away from me. I need room to maneuver.”
When they’d moved the bed, with Elisa still huddled in the middle, Storm barked out orders. “Carey, go tell Miriam I need another sheet. Bowman, go on the other side of the bed and help Elisa. Get her out of here. Hank, I don’t know what good it will do, but see if you can raise any emergency-service people on the shortwave.”
All three hustled to perform their assigned tasks, leaving Storm and David alone with the motionless woman.
They worked frantically for the next forty minutes, to no avail. They were too late. Heather’s death had been almost instantaneous. She’d suffered two heavy blows to her head. The first, just above her forehead, hadn’t broken the skin and didn’t look severe enough to have been fatal.
The second blow, however, had sliced a three-inch gash behind her right ear. A deep cranial groove beneath the injury strongly suggested that Heather had sustained a skull fracture, and was, in his opinion, the probable cause of her death.
Storm placed a hand on David’s shoulder. They had alternated positions several times for the strenuous chore of administering CPR. Rivulets of sweat ran down David’s face as he continued the frantic pumping. “David. You can stop now. I’m calling it.”
The attorney shook his head and continued. “No, let me keep trying.”
Storm gently disengaged his hands. “It’s over. We’ve done all that was humanly possible.”
David closed his eyes and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Rising from the dead woman’s body, he avoided looking at her face. “She was only twenty-four. And too beautiful for her own good. What a waste.”
Storm couldn’t argue. Besides, David seemed to need to talk. “Did you know her well?”
“Not really.” His face scrunched in a peculiar grimace. “I just can’t help wondering, though, if her death wasn’t somehow related to Jay Morrow’s.”
Storm’s left eyebrow arched in amazement. “In what way?”
When David didn’t respond, Storm draped a blanket over Heather and collected his bag. Both men rose to their feet in an unspoken accord. “What possible connection could tie their deaths together?”
David whispered as if he were in a cathedral. “What odds would you give that a man and his confidential secretary would both meet a violent death within a two-month period?”
“Coincidence, that’s all,” Storm averred.
“How can you say that, when we don’t even know what happened yet?” Emerging from the shock of unexpected death, David slipped easily into his courtroom demeanor.
Not caring for the feeling of being cross-examined, Storm moved the lantern until its circle of light shone on the corner of Elisa’s bedside table. “See that, where a chunk of wood is missing?”
David peered closely. “Yeah. So?”
Reaching into his bathrobe pocket, Storm held a thick splinter of wood up to the light. “I took this from the wound behind Heather’s ear. The way I see it, she fell and smashed her head against that corner. I’d have to call it a clear case of accidental death. Wouldn’t you agree, Counselor?”
David’s gaze darted from the damaged corner to the sliver of wood. He shrugged. “Maybe. I hope you’re right, Doctor. But there are still a lot of unanswered questions.”
“Such as?”
“That’s the inside corner of the nightstand, closest to the bed It would be pretty difficult to fall from a standing position beside the bed and not hit the opposite comer. It would make more sense if Heather had been on the bed when she fell.”
Storm considered his reconstruction. “More likely, I agree. But maybe she tried to break her fall or something. That inside corner is still very possible.”
“I take your point.”
“Was that your only concern?”
“No, I have several others.” David momentarily shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, damnable headache. Anyway, granting that Heather could have tripped and cracked her head on that corner doesn’t explain why she was in Elisa’s room in the first place. Especially in the middle of the night.”
“I’m sure there’s an explanation,” Storm answered, with more confidence than he felt. The lawyer had posed some significant and disturbing questions. Storm hoped Elisa held all the right answers.
IT SEEMED LIKE FOREVER before Storm and David came out of the bedroom. Despite the extremely dim lighting in the corridor, Elisa could still read their grim expressions well enough to understand the final outcome: Heather was dead.
Storm stepped forward and clasped her shoulders. “I’m so sorry, but there was nothing we could do.”
Elisa gasped and drooped against his chest. Her exclamation wasn’t one of shock, but of horror. Her mind was spinning so madly, she felt as if she were on a runaway centrifuge at the carnival. But just as the ride kept its passengers pinned against the wall, her thoughts whirled in dizzying concentric circles but held tightly to a single realization: Tonight, she’d killed her best friend.
Or at least the woman she’d thought was a true and loyal friend. But that had been before Heather stole into her bedroom and tried to smother her with her own pillow.
As the others gathered around, asking a dozen simultaneous questions, she raised her face from Storm’s chest. Moving away from his comforting nearness, she asked in a quaking voice, “Wh-what happens now?”
“I need you to tell me exactly what happened, because I’ll probably have to sign off on the death certificate.”
A sudden hush fell over the small crowd as they edged in closer to hear her explanation.
How did she begin? Would they even believe her? She hardly believed it herself. She decided to skim over the odious truth until she could gauge their reaction. Licking her parched lips, she swallowed deeply. “I—I must have killed…I mean, she must’ve fell—” No! Her conscience censured her. Heather didn’t accidentally fall. You caused her death when you smashed in her skull.
Carey Howard pushed past Miriam and stood inches from Elisa’s toes. His thin chest was heaving, and his pale blue eyes were alight with fury. “Which is it, Elisa? Did she fall or did you kill her? We want to hear the truth.”
Storm stepped between them. “If you take that tone again, I promise the only thing you’ll hear is the sound of my fist breaking your jaw. Got it?”
Carey didn’t answer immediately, but turned and faced the others. “Doesn’t this sound like a cover-up? We all know the oh-so-convenient doctor has the hots for Elisa. How can we trust either of them?”
Storm grabbed him by the shoulder, his fist cocked and ready to fire. “No, Storm!” Elisa tugged on his sleeve. “He’s just upset. Let him be.”
With a grudging snarl, Storm released the boatman.
Elisa thought her frayed nerves would surely snap if an argument or a brawl erupted. Besides, Storm was only trying to protect her, and she didn’t need or deserve his defense. This was her responsibility, and she would face up to it and answer their questions.
Holding up her hand, she said, “I’ll answer your questions if I can, but first, I need something to drink. Can’t we go downstairs and discuss this like civilized people?”
Miriam rushed forward and draped her arm around Elisa’s shoulders. “Good idea, honey. How about a nice cup of hot tea?”
“Sounds heavenly.” She was doing her best to appear normal, to hold herself together. She was so weary of being weak and vulnerable. But Heather’s death had devastated her, and she couldn’t seem to fight her way out of shock.
“Good. Hank, go down to the kitchen and light some candles. Then get that camp stove fired up and put the kettle on.”
His angular face looked even thinner than she remembered, and Elisa could have sworn new creases had etched his forehead since dinner. Her fault. Everything seemed to be her fault. Typhoid Mary had nothing on Elisa Montoya.
While Hank charged down the stairs eager to do his wife’s bidding, Miriam, who Elisa thought would have made a great drill sergeant, barked out more orders. “Mr. Welton, please escort these people down to the kitchen. Betty, would you go help that crazy old man of mine? He’ll never find the kettle, let alone the tea bags and mugs.”
“Sure,” Betty breathed, and darted down the stairs.
She looked anxious to escape, and Elisa couldn’t blame her. If that hurricane wasn’t trying to level the hotel, she’d run away, too.
Miriam turned her attention to Carey and Mark. “I can’t believe you two are still standing around gawking. Mr. Howard, why don’t you go help Hank gather candles? Mark, fetch the shortwave out of the parlor and take it to the kitchen. We need to try to raise the authorities and report that girl’s death.”
After a last resentful glare at Elisa, Carey thudded down the steps, with Mark right behind him.
Miriam sighed deeply. “Well, thank the Lord that lot’s gone. Bunch of ghouls. Oh, you poor child—standing here trembling in your little nightshirt. Storm, run downstairs to my bedroom and fetch another bathrobe out of my closet.”
“No need,” Storm uttered as he peeled off his own robe. Standing behind Elisa, he held it open for her to stuff her arms into the voluminous sleeves.
She snuggled into the terry-cloth robe, luxuriating in the residual warmth and intoxicating scent of his body. For the barest moment, the night’s ghastly events faded into the background.
“Ahem.” Miriam cleared her throat.
Plucked from her momentary sensory haven, Elisa lifted her eyes. Miriam’s gaze was darting from the ceiling to the floor and back again as she scrupulously avoided looking at Storm. Elisa’s pulse jumped as she wondered exactly what he’d been wearing beneath his bathrobe. Or not wearing, as the case might be.
But, like the older woman, she kept her head rigidly facing away from him. “Storm, maybe you should slip on some clothes before we go downstairs to meet the others.”
“Absolutely not!” Miriam blurted. “I mean, of course he should get dressed, but I thought you two might want to wait a bit before coming down. Give the others time to get over their shock. Calm down a little.”
“Good idea,” he replied softly over Elisa’s shoulder.
“Okay, I’m going downstairs and whip that bunch into shape.” Miriam started to take Elisa’s hands in hers, but stopped abruptly. “Honey, what on earth happened to your hand?”
Glancing at her open palm, Elisa was surprised to see that it was covered with blood. “Probably from Heather,” she whispered.
“No, blood’s still oozing out. You’ve cut yourself.”
He stepped in front of her. “Let me see that.”
After a cursory examination, he looked up. “You’re right, Miriam, there are several cuts here. I’ll take her to my room and get it cleaned up.”
“You do that,” Miriam said, and headed for the stairs. Her retreating footsteps were so quick and sharp, they sounded like gunfire.
“Now what do you suppose got into her?” Storm asked as he bent over to retrieve his medical bag from the floor.
“I can’t imagine,” Elisa lied, as she studied his tight backside, covered by close-fitting silk boxers.
He straightened up and took her elbow. “Let’s look at that hand, and then you can tell me exactly what happened in your room.”
Like a deflating balloon, Elisa’s brief respite from the night’s horror leaked away, plunging her once again into the black nothingness of despair.
STORM FINISHED wrapping her hand. “There were a lot of tiny glass slivers in several shallow cuts, but, fortunately, none of them looked serious. When you get back to the mainland, though, you might want to have your own doctor look at it—just in case.”
He’d taken a moment to slip on a faded gray sweat suit before he started cleaning her wounds. Although she’d found his former attire rather more…interesting, she was gratified by his sensitivity to the gravity of the situation.
He dumped the towels, along with the instruments he’d used, into a basin and carried it to the bathroom. When he returned, Elisa noted that he looked weary to the point of exhaustion. She could certainly relate to that. She was so tired she wanted to crawl under the covers and not come out until spring.
Unfortunately, her vengeful mind wouldn’t stop spinning long enough for her to grab even a moment’s rest.
Storm flopped onto his stomach beside her. He pressed his elbows into the mattress, then propped his chin on his upraised hands.
“So, you ready to talk about it?”
She had been dreading that question since they first entered his room. While she didn’t fully understand her emotional response to Storm, she instinctively knew she would be deeply hurt if he thought badly of her. Or judged her too harshly.
She also knew the longer she put off talking about Heather, the more difficult it would be. Girding her heart against the condemnation she knew was coming, she told him the entire story.
When she finished, Storm stared at her, his dark brows furrowed in bewilderment. “I must have missed something. You’re saying that Heather Gellis, your roommate and supposed buddy, snuck into your room and tried to murder you?”
“I know it sounds unbelievable, but it’s true!” Elisa felt the hot scalding of tears pooling in her eyes. He didn’t believe her! The shaft of pain thrusting through her heart was more excruciating than she’d imagined. Yet how could she expect Storm, or anyone else, for that matter, to believe her story, when she could hardly accept it herself?
He shoved his hands into his already mussed hair and rubbed his scalp in agitation. Sucking in his breath, he exhaled slowly. “Okay, so Heather tiptoed into your room, grabbed the pillow off your bed and tried to smother you. Right so far?”
Her teeth clamped tightly on her lower lip, she nodded.
“Then you fought?”
“Yes.”
“And you managed to bonk her with the kerosene lamp from your nightstand?”
She nodded again, her black hair falling over her eyes. She pushed it off her face and stared into his intense gaze, urging him to believe her, to trust her. She held up her bandaged hand. “I remember the glass chimney broke. That must have been when I cut up my hand.”
“Yeah, probably. So when Heather fell off the bed…?”
“She didn’t exactly fall. The force of the blow seemed to knock her over. I mean, she tipped over onto her back and kind of slowly rolled off the bed. Her head hit the floor with a terrible crack. And then…and then she didn’t move again.”
Storm paced across the room, as if lost in thought. He leaned against the window frame and stared, unseeing, at the plywood sheet. The board popped and pulsated as it fought valiantly against the hurricane’s fury.
Sitting on the edge of Storm’s bed, Elisa closed her eyes and hun
g her head. Even if he refused to believe her, she knew Heather had attempted to suffocate her. Although Elisa had acted in self-defense, and knew that she’d truly had no other options, she couldn’t dispel the sense of horror and guilt gnawing at her insides. She’d taken a human life—there was no denying that simple, ugly fact.
As if in an instant replay, her mind reran the film. Heather standing over her bed like the grim reaper, watching her intently. Then the slow movement as she reached over Elisa’s motionless body to seize the other pillow. And then that awful choking feeling when she couldn’t breathe! The film continued to roll. Now she was fighting back, showing a strength and will to live that she hadn’t known she possessed. The film clip ended, and another image took its place: Heather’s cold, lifeless body lying in her own blood, so like Jay’s crumpled body, on the sidewalk far below his office window.
Elisa’s eyelids flew open. But she…she hadn’t ever seen Jay’s body, so how could she know how he’d looked? She’d walked into his office after his death, but she’d never gone to the window. Never seen his broken and twisted corpse. Had she?
The flashing strobe deep in her brain chattered excitedly as fragments of her broken memory fit together like puzzle pieces, only to separate an instant later. This time, however, she retained a single distinct remembrance.
She had looked out Jay’s window that night. The image of his broken body was too clear, too explicit.
But she surely had seen something else. Something so damning that Heather had believed she had to kill Elisa to ensure that her memory never returned.
Her feminine antennae on full alert, she somehow knew when Storm left the window. Appearing in front of her like a vision, he touched her chin. “You’ve had a hell of a night, Princess. Wish I could tell you it’s over, but you still have to face the interrogation downstairs. Feel up to it?”
“No. But then, I don’t think I’ll ever feel up to anything again.”
“Sure you will,” he said softly. “Now let’s go slay the dragons.”
He kept a supportive arm around her waist while they made their way through the hotel and into the kitchen. Ignoring the empty chairs at the table, where the others were seated, she stopped just inside the doorway and leaned against a cupboard.