by Jenna Ryan
Verity frowned. “What do you mean, Niki? What default?”
“If the hospital is closed down because of Laverne’s murder, the estate reverts to Manny and his sister.”
Verity stared at Manny’s receding back. “Really. Can, uh, we keep walking?”
Nikita glanced at Vachon, who shrugged and fell into step beside her. If only, she thought regretfully, she could forget about that kiss they’d shared on Wednesday.
Verity seemed to relax once Manny was gone. “Gabriel and Lucifer, that’s how I picture you,” she said with a haunted smile. “One of you has the goodness and one all the appearance of it.” At Vachon’s surprised expression, she confessed, “I’m not being profound, Detective. Niki said that to me during our last session.”
Nikita could cheerfully have pushed her into a snowdrift. Instead she looked away and tugged lightly on a snowladen branch.
“Your friend sees more in people than she cares to admit,” Vachon remarked to Verity. His eyes remained on Nikita. “I wonder how much goodness a half-Scottish, half-Russian head doctor might possess when pressed?”
Was he playing clever games? Nikita didn’t think so. There was an underlying edge of resentment in his tone, though whether it was directed at her specifically or at psychiatrists in general she couldn’t have said.
A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the man beside her swept across her skin. Dark-haired man of mystery, son of a magician and, she devoutly hoped, as good a cop as he was a kisser.
“You knew Laverne Fox before you came here,” he said, and Verity nodded.
“We worked together at Baylor. She left eight months ago and came here.”
Vachon glanced at Nikita. “Why here?”
Nikita shook her head. Verity explained. “Laverne and I were friends of a sort once. I told her about Niki, who was working in Arizona at the time, and about Deana, who’d won the post here at Beldon-Drake.”
“Go on,” Nikita prompted when she paused.
“Once, about a year ago, Laverne suggested we go out together, she and her new friend and me and my fiancé, Chris. Chris and I had been together forever, since early high school. He was the only man for me. I thought—” her forlorn gaze strayed to the trees “—that I was the only woman or him. I was wrong. Four months went by. We met Laverne at parties and sometimes had her over for dinner with whatever man she happened to be dating. Chris is an accountant. Baylor was facing staff cutbacks. We were both ridiculously busy. In that four-month period, my mother died, and one of Chris’s cousins was diagnosed with leukemia. Life was frantic. Chris had always been my pillar of strength. One day, shortly after Mother’s funeral, he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. I didn’t go in to work but went home instead. And there he was, in our bed with Laverne Fox.”
Vachon slid Nikita a sideways look, but said nothing.
Nikita set a hand on Verity’s slumped shoulder. “Do you want to stop?”
“No.” She swiped at a tear. “There isn’t much else to tell, actually. Chris promised that he would never see her again. Laverne assured me that she’d be leaving Baylor immediately. But if you could have seen the smirk on her face, Niki. She’d destroyed my trust in Chris, and she knew it. I think in some sadistic way she was proud of it. It gave her a certain twisted power over me.”
“What made her decide to come to Boston?” Vachon asked.
“I don’t know. Perversity, maybe. I’d talked about wanting to work here myself. She wangled a letter of recommendation from Ted Bottoms, the director at Baylor, and within a week she was gone.”
Vachon regarded Nikita. “Did she come straight here?”
Nikita tried to recall. “There’s a gap of two or three weeks, I think. Nothing major. We should probably head back to the hospital now,” she added gently.
Verity’s features contorted. “I knew Laverne was here when I had my breakdown, Detective. I came because of Niki and Dee, but I knew Laverne was here, too.” Her eyes glittered in a way that made Nikita want to clap a restraining hand across her mouth. An unreadable smile trembled on her lips as she reaffirmed her statement. “Oh, yes, I knew she was here, all right. I didn’t kill her, but you can believe me when I tell you that I fantasized more than once about doing it.”
Chapter Seven
Lally Monk had woken up in possession of Laverne Fox’s ring. Verity Whyte had admitted to wanting the woman dead. Orderly Sammy Slide had quarreled with her. Manny had…Damn it, no!
Vachon refused to think about Manny’s motives. For all his recent unpleasantness, Manny Belden was a good cop. Resentful of his great grandfather’s will, yes, but not the type to murder a woman in order to affect the situation.
A headache throbbed at the base of Vachon’s skull. As much as he didn’t want to think about Manny, he didn’t want to think about Nikita even more. God knew she wouldn’t want him to. She’d all but dared him to use any of what Lally and Verity had said against them in a court of law.
He leaned his elbows on the polished health bar, rubbing his closed eyelids with his fingers and willing the pain behind them into oblivion. Unfortunately, all that accomplished was to increase the pounding, and each painful pulse resurrected a picture of Nikita’s hauntingly beautiful features. Royal blue eyes, Slavic cheekbones and a mass of silky brown-black hair that begged to be caught and brought close to his face…
Damn the woman! He did not need images like this hammering at him night and day. She’d even taken to following him into his dreams.
“Detective Vachon?” A perky blonde tapped his shoulder then smiled brightly when he cracked an eyelid to regard her from under the curtain of his hair. “Sammy’s out of the tanning booth. He’s gone into the gym.”
“Thanks.” Grabbing his coat and one last swig of pineapple juice, Vachon headed toward the Zanzibar Fitness Center’s gymnasium.
It was a typical workout area, complete with carrot juice, sleek instructors and fake palm trees in ceramic pots. Funny that someone of Sammy Slide’s ilk would choose this place over a regular gym, but then again Slide came from good stock on his mother’s side. No money, just breeding, the kind that could marry wealth.
The lights were low in the glass-walled fitness room. Sheryl Crow blared from high-amp speakers, out of time with the snowflakes that tumbled carelessly from the early evening sky.
There were three people working on the exercise bikes, one on a treadmill and two doing bench presses. Vachon spotted Sammy in a yellow muscle shirt, glistening with sweat while he struggled not to displace the few limp strands of hair that covered his balding head.
“Hey, Sarge.” He greeted Vachon with a cocky curl of lip and arm. “Dr. N. called. Said you wanted to see me.”
Vachon strolled over and hoisted himself onto the broad windowsill. “Where were you on Tuesday night?” he asked straight out. “Your schedule said your shift ended at eight.”
Sammy grunted and curled the other arm. “It did. I went down to the pool for a swim.”
“In the dark?”
“It didn’t go dark till later.”
“So you were still at the hospital when the lights went out.”
Sammy hesitated, grunted again and finally dropped his weights to the floor. Using the towel around his neck, he mopped the sweat from his round face. “I hung around, yeah. I don’t drive in blizzards.”
Vachon’s expression remained pleasant. “Do you have access to the drug supply rooms?”
“What? Uh, yeah. Some. Not all the keys, just—”
“Do you know which barbiturates are which?”
“Not likely.”
“What about Laverne Fox?”
“What about her?”
The sharp retort probably said more than Sammy in tended. “How well did you know her?”
“Not as well as Martin Sorensen did.”
“I didn’t ask about Martin Sorensen. How well did you know her?”
Sammy flexed his biceps. “Hardly at all.�
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“Have you met her boyfriend?” At the other man’s guilty look, Vachon smiled. “I saw Laverne’s diamond ring. Everyone assumes it was an engagement ring. It went missing from her finger the night of the murder and showed up in the hospital the next day.”
Sammy’s eyes darted from Vachon to the exit and back. “Yeah?”
Vachon noted the thickness in Sammy’s voice and spoke casually. “I checked the jeweler’s stamp inside. I followed that, and whose name do you think I found on the sales receipt?”
Sammy’s face hardened. “We were friends, that’s all. I gave her the ring as a present.”
“Some present,” Vachon murmured. “Did her boyfriend know about it?”
“He works in Cleveland,” Sammy muttered. His hammy right fist clenched and unclenched at his side.
“Lucky for you, huh?”
Vachon saw the blow coming before he finished the remark. With reflexes that would have done a cheetah proud, he shot from the ledge, ducked under the punch, caught Sammy’s wrist in both hands and, in a single movement, wrenched it up painfully to rest against his back. Only an inch shorter than Sammy, he pressed his head intimidatingly close to the other man’s from behind.
“You and I are going to take a walk, Slide,” he said in a level tone. “Out to my car and down to the station. I want to know every move you made the night Laverne Fox was killed.”
“To hell with you, pal!” Sammy jerked free and grabbed for one of the weights. “You can just—”
The rest of the words stuck in his bull throat when he saw Vachon’s face—and realized he was staring down the barrel of a gun.
“OH, GOD!”
One hand pressed to her racing heart, Nikita leaned against the door of the rear staircase and laughed at Dean Hawthorne’s startled expression.
“Sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t expect anyone to be here. Hardly anyone uses this staircase.”
“Out of which you burst like a Tasmanian devil,” Dean reproached, adjusting his plaid wool scarf and walking stick. “I met Finnigan in the parking lot and ushered him in through the kitchen. His paws are muddy.” A faded twinkle came into the man’s eyes as he reached out a finger to tug at a loose strand of her hair. “Have you seen my Deana?”
“She’s making rounds, I think. I’m on my way out for a walk.”
“At eight o’clock? After a woman has just been murdered in your woods?” Dean clucked his disapproval. “What would Adeline say to such reckless behavior?”
“She’d probably tell me to enjoy myself.” Nikita pulled a Russian fur hat around her head. “I need some fresh air, Dean. The police have been here all day, off and on.”
“They’re on again,” Dean told her, brushing fussily at melting snowflakes trapped in his goatee. “At least that dark-haired young man is.”
“Vachon?” Nikita’s heart leaped into her throat. “Why?”
“One assumes he has more questions. Do you like him, my dear? Your grandmother does. I see a matchmaking gleam in those bright blue eyes of hers.”
“She wants great-grandchildren. So far, we haven’t produced any. It’s a great disappointment to her.”
“Well, my Deana has her career, you know.”
And a bounder of a husband, Nikita thought. She pulled on her gloves. “Good luck tracking down your daughter,” she said. “She’s a busy woman these days.”
“She can handle it,” Dean assured her. “You know how good she is under pressure.”
Nikita smiled and left.
Dean might choose to ignore it, but like the rest of the staff, Deana had been showing signs of strain. She’d known about Martin’s fling with Laverne Fox. But resort to murder? Even stretching things out of all proportion, Nikita couldn’t visualize it. Deana had been too well trained by her father. Control was his motto. He demanded it of himself and assumed it naturally over others. He’d drummed that same quality into Deana’s head from day one.
Sparing a regretful glance at the distant parking lot, Nikita struck determinedly along the nearest path to the woods. At all costs, she did not want to bump into Daniel Vachon. He’d done enough damage to her mental balance already. More contact would only create a bigger jumble in her mind and in her heart.
Sexy eyes—who needed them? Nikita desired her career and nothing else right now. No relationships to distract her, only work and some day, she hoped soon, the achievement of her elusive dream. Her own psychiatric clinic, where people like Lally would be attended to on an even more personal level than at Beldon-Drake.
Her ivory boots crunched in the softening layers of snow. Leafless trees shimmered in the silvery glow of moon and stars. She heard night sounds but couldn’t identify them—tiny cracks and the whisper of little paws as they scrambled across icy puddles. She saw nothing behind or in front of her. No murderers, no patients. No Vachon…
Damn, she thought, closing her eyes and pausing beside a crooked, grinning snowman, no doubt erected by Mr. Bedrosian. She had to stop thinking of that man. She would concentrate on Lally and her myriad psychological problems.
Where to start, though? Nikita trudged up a winding, seldom used path to the top of Cottage Hill. With Lally or Talia? Although one and the same, the two were not synonymous. Talia was bold. To be honest, from what little Nikita had been able to ascertain in her short time at Beldon-Drake, Talia could be downright brazen in her opinions of people and situations. On the other hand, Lally presented the image of a timid little mouse, unwilling to express anything resembling a personal opinion. That was Talia’s province.
Nikita had only met Talia once. Deana said she was lucky. Talia was not a force to be trifled with.
“Whatever you do,” Deana had advised, “whatever course of treatment you ultimately choose, don’t encourage Talia’s emergence. Trust me, she’s a hellcat in sheep’s clothing.”
Nikita understood. She was to do her utmost to eliminate, not incorporate Talia, without damaging Lally in the process.
Verity was another matter entirely.
Nikita had to use her hands and scramble to negotiate the slippery slope. Wet snow shot out from under her boots, causing her to slip, but her persistence paid off and she arrived at last, panting slightly, at the crest.
Below her, in a pretty clearing marked by holly bushes and a stand of majestic live oaks, stood the estate cottage. Before it sat the pond, brimming with ducks and geese in the warmer seasons, currently transformed to a glistening sheet of black ice.
Lally, Verity, Vachon. Names and faces flashed through Nikita’s head. How could she help her patients through this horrible time? How could she hope to deal with her feelings for Vachon? It was strictly a physical attraction. It must be. She barely knew the man. And when it came to the murder of Laverne Fox, she wasn’t sure she trusted him, either. Not when his partner and friend had a strong motive for killing the woman.
Tiny shards of ice tinkled as they fell from tree limb to snow. She heard a loud snap in the bushes behind her and looked swiftly back.
Nothing stirred, in or out of the shadows. A branch weakened by the blizzard must have broken from the extra winter weight.
Moving cautiously, Nikita worked her way to the edge of the hill. The sheer drop was too steep for tobogganing, and the snow was too wet in any case. The temperature had risen at least fifteen degrees since afternoon.
She spied Beauty and the Beast in the distance, silhouetted by the gauzy January moon. The hospital was more remote, a mere splotch of black against the starlit horizon.
A puff of wind ruffled the faux fur of her hat. “Oh, Gran,” she murmured, thinking of Vachon as she surveyed the frosted landscape. “I wish I could let myself care about him.”
The tantalizing image of Vachon’s narrow face and long, dark hair lingered in her mind. Diverted, her ears picked out the quick crunch of snow behind her a split second too late.
One running step, two, three. Before she could spin to confront the person or duck away from the charging figure
, a pair of gloved hands landed hard on her right shoulder.
The impact rattled her teeth and made her neck snap sideways. She groped for the trunk of a nearby sapling, then promptly lost her grip on the slippery snow.
Her attacker wore black from head to toe. Nikita saw no face and received no impression of size. Her startled mind registered a looming black shadow, like the Grim Reaper minus his sickle, and a tangle of confused images as she began to fall.
Her footing gave out first, sending her onto her backside with a thump that chattered all the way up her spine. A foot between her shoulder blades completed the attack. She fell forward, slamming her cheek into a snowy rock and her shoulder into—she didn’t know what.
A cry of pain broke from her lungs. Panic seized fleeting control of her muscles. There was nothing to grab, no roots or vines or dormant bushes. All she could do was curl up, roll—and pray she wouldn’t crash into any rocks.
A rock jabbed her arm, bringing tears to her eyes. She lost her hat halfway down and heard her coat rip. The hill seemed to go on forever.
She banged into a rough ledge with her knee, twisted, then hit a flat surface and skidded, spinning in wild circles on her tailbone. It finally occurred to her that she’d stopped.
The night settled slowly around her. Her head continued to swim. The smallest movement, even breathing, hurt.
She had no energy to combat the fear. Her limbs felt shaky and sore, but she knew she needed to move, had to get out of here before whoever had pushed her closed in for—what? The kill?
A chill feathered along her spine. Why kill her? What had she done to harm anyone?
A tremor born of terror replaced the chill. Her mind worked feverishly to orient itself. She must have fallen onto the fringe of the pond. If she could make her way across it to the cottage she could…She frowned. Did she have keys for the cottage? Yes, but so might the person who’d pushed her.
She couldn’t think about that now. Get off the ice first. Deal with the what-ifs later.