by Edie Claire
She found the elevators quickly enough, but a rather long walk awaited her on the tenth floor, and when she finally reached the door she sought, her head was throbbing a little. No matter, she assured herself. She would only stay a minute, then she would go straight back to bed and await her donuts.
Dublin, Trudy. Lawhead, Mary Anne, the nameplate announced. She looked both ways, then slowly opened the door. The room was still darkened by a partially closed shade, and both occupants appeared to be sleeping. The woman by the far window, who looked at least eighty years old, was snoring loudly, but it was the middle-aged woman in the near bed who immediately drew Leigh's attention.
What she had hoped to accomplish by seeing Mason's sister for herself, she hadn't fully worked out, but to deny a significant role for curiosity alone would be pointless. Cara's meeting with this woman had changed her whole mindset on her father drastically, and Leigh had always wondered exactly how that had happened. Had Cara told her everything about that horrible day? Maybe, maybe not. Somehow, in the back of her mind, it seemed that meeting Trudy Dublin herself would clarify things.
But gazing down at the limp figure, she immediately felt she had made a mistake. Mason's sister looked dreadful. She lay perfectly still in the bed, her ribs and left arm swathed in bulky padding. Her face was so badly bruised that only the waxy skin of her neck was left to betray her actual pallor, while swelling and an odd-looking brace on the right side of her mouth gave evidence to a broken and wired jaw. She breathed softly and quietly, her gaunt chest barely moving as the thin sheet rose and fell over ribs that were probably also broken. A morphine drip waited ready by the bed, good indication that sleep was probably all this woman had to look forward to for a while.
Leigh watched her in horror, remembering the news accounts of how an intruder had broken into this woman's home, beaten her, and left her for dead. It was a sad story to hear, but like most people who are unaccustomed to dealing with violence, Leigh had heard it without truly comprehending the human toll.
She stepped closer to the woman and studied her face, trying to erase the bruises and imagine her awake and smiling. Was there a resemblance to Cara? Perhaps. They had the same high cheekbones, not to mention overall petite stature. But beyond that, it was impossible to tell. And even if the woman had been alert, one thing was certain. She was in no condition to answer questions from a self-serving passerby.
Feeling like a louse for even thinking of troubling her, Leigh touched the woman's hand lightly through the sheet. It was the most she could do in the way of an apology. The poor woman might have been an alcoholic, and she might have treated her niece badly once, but she didn't deserve this.
Leigh pulled her hand back and turned to leave, resolving to ask her cousin if she would be willing to visit. If what the woman had said all those years ago was true, Cara might be Trudy Dublin's only living relative. Except, of course, for her worthless jerk of a brother.
A motion in the doorway caught Leigh's eye, and she started. Someone had just been standing there, watching her. Security? Was she in trouble for being there? She moved to the doorway and looked both ways down the hall, but none of the uniformed employees bothered to look back at her.
She whispered an empathetic farewell to Trudy and scooted out. She wondered if the police had ever caught the man who beat her up, and resolved to ask Maura. Why Trudy Dublin's welfare was suddenly of such interest to her, she wasn't sure, but she couldn't shake the feeling that this woman and Cara needed each other.
Her head was back to hurting for real when she finally reached her own room, and she fell into the uncomfortable bed gratefully. A few minutes with her eyes closed, she reasoned, and she would be fine. She had to look one hundred percent healthy by the time her husband arrived, because he had promised her hysterical mother that he wouldn't take her home until she did, and Warren—despite his political inclinations—always kept his promises. She curled up on her side and smiled, thinking of how sweet and attentive he'd been the night before, even after she had confessed her midnight rendezvous. Fling all the ball-and-chain jokes you wish, she thought happily, burrowing into her pillow, marriage is where it's at.
She was in the middle of a somewhat more graphic memory when the unmistakable feeling of being watched assaulted her once again. Her eyes flew open and her heart leapt as she saw the shadow of a figure standing above her. Flipping over in a flash, she found herself face to face with her silent visitor.
She drew in a breath as a familiar set of eyes met hers. They weren't at all threatening, only curious. And perhaps a little concerned. She had looked into their sea-green depths a thousand times, and she knew their every twinkle and expression, as well as she knew any eyes in the world.
They were Cara's eyes.
But the person standing beside her wasn't Cara.
Chapter 14
"Hello, Leigh," the man said casually, smiling.
Leigh stared back warily. Her medium height/medium build, late middle-aged visitor was wearing a plain blue scrub suit, unadorned with any particular laundry mark, much less a nametag. But she knew who he was.
She thought briefly of lunging for the call button, but her arm didn't move. His smile was disturbingly engaging. It reached right up into his eyes, which, besides being the same blue-green color as Cara's, twinkled with the same mischievous light. Windows to a restless, eternally optimistic soul.
"Didn't mean to scare you," he said kindly, still smiling. "You have a minute?"
Leigh surveyed his high cheekbones and thick crop of strawberry blond hair, which was graying softly over the ears. If not for his square jaw line and heavily weathered skin, he would almost be too pretty for a man. She took a deep breath and faced him squarely. The temptation to return his beguiling grin was strong, but she resisted it. "How did you know my name?"
He tossed his head in the direction of the hallway. "It's on the door," he said matter-of-factly. "Besides, you look like Francie."
She shifted uncomfortably on the bed, the last lingering doubts in her mind dispelled. The only people who ever called her mother "Francie" had been Frances's parents and siblings—i.e., people who could remember a time when she had deserved such a bouncy, frivolous-sounding nickname. Leigh herself was hard put to imagine her mother as anything but a Frances, even if the rumor were true that she had not always worn support hose and pearls. As for a physical resemblance between them, there was little evidence of it now, but she had to admit a certain likeness between herself and the twins' high school graduation pictures, when their naturally brown hair was still shoulder-length. Today, with Lydie's dyed boy-cuts and Frances's curly white coif, Leigh was in little danger of being accused of resembling either.
Which made her all the more certain that the man in front of her was Mason Dublin.
"What do you want?" she blurted. There were a million things she needed to ask him, not to mention the issue of tying his hands and feet and chaining him to the bed before he could slip away. But her reflexes seemed to be running slow this morning.
He paused a moment before answering with another question. "Do you know who I am?"
She nodded. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and a big part of her wanted to start asking him those million questions pronto. Why didn't you ever come back to see your daughter? How could you just abandon her—and why are you torturing her now? But she made herself try to concentrate. This was not some chummy, long-lost uncle she could invite home to dinner. He was a criminal. And he might very well be the reason her head hurt like hell again.
She crossed her arms defensively over her chest. "Tell me what you're doing here or I'm calling security."
Mason Dublin, who had the gall to look slightly amused, stepped back a few inches and raised his palms in a gesture of peace. "Didn't mean to upset you," he said softly. He was speaking in one of those husky-yet-gentle whispers that one normally heard only from actors in date movies, and it gave Leigh a clear revelation of what her poor, romance-starved aunt ha
d been up against thirty years ago.
"I'm not upset," she said coolly. "I just get a little testy around men who try to kidnap my relatives."
The twinkle in the ocean-green eyes dulled. "I heard about that on the news," he said, his expression turning serious again. He stepped away and Leigh immediately leaned toward the call button, expecting him to flee. But instead, he began to pace at the foot of the bed. "The truth is, that's why I'm here. I want to help." He fixed her with a pleading look. "I need to know… This kidnapper. Did you get a good look at him?"
She stared at him for a long time, her brow wrinkled in concentration. She wished Warren or Maura were here. She wished anyone were here who could tell her this whole scene wasn't some kind of post-concussive hallucination. With the dull ache in the back of her skull pounding to new heights, she couldn't be sure she was thinking clearly. In fact, she was pretty sure she wasn't.
"Why should I tell you?" she asked, more to stall for time than be impertinent.
Mason didn't seem offended. "Because it's important." His voice turned earnest. "Please. Was he in his mid thirties, about six-foot three, very skinny, with jet black hair and Mick Jagger lips?"
Leigh's eyebrows rose at the description, which was comical at best. She would think he was teasing her, but the look on his face was solemn. "No," she answered promptly, not seeing how denying it could hurt anybody. "He didn't look anything like that."
Mason's five-star smile returned instantly, as did the twinkle in his eyes. "Wonderful." He watched her for a moment more, during which time she had the distinct and unsettling impression that he knew much more about her than her name. "Well," he said quickly, backing up. "It was nice talking with you, finally. Goodbye, Leigh."
"Hey!" She protested, sitting up further and swinging her legs off the bed. "Not so fast!"
He turned back only halfway and looked at her regretfully. "I really can't hang around here anymore—it isn't safe for you. In fact, it would be best if you didn't tell anybody I was here at all. Could you do that?" He winked. "Appreciate it." His gaze showed clearly that he didn't expect her cooperation, but he headed towards the door anyway, not waiting for an answer.
Her heartbeat quickened, and she stood the rest of the way up. He couldn't leave now, he just couldn't. It wasn't fair. "Your name was on the ransom note!" she shrieked, hurting her own head.
To her relief, Mason Dublin stopped in his tracks. He wheeled around on his heels and stared at her, his pupils widening. "What did you say?"
"I said," she continued intently, "that whoever tried to kidnap your grandson signed your name to the ransom note. Now why would he do that? Tell me!"
Mason continued to stare at her for another moment, his eyes flashing with alarm. "What did he look like?" he asked evenly, not moving. He continued to stand quietly while she debated whether to answer, which seemed—at least to her—to take a very long time.
"He was your age, maybe a little older," she began unsteadily. "Medium height, medium build. Bald on top, with a little ring of gray hair on the sides."
She watched Mason carefully as she spoke, noting how his face gave away his emotions every bit as much as Cara's did. Clearly, he knew exactly who she was talking about. When she had finished the description, he turned his head away from her and swore under his breath. Then for a moment he simply stared at the wall beside her, alternately looking relieved and angry.
"Don't worry about him," he said finally, his eyes unwilling to meet hers. "I'll take care of him." He glanced down at his watch, then threw an anxious look towards the door. "I have to get out of here," he said distractedly, "visiting hours are starting."
Ignoring the irony of the comment, she simply stood still and glared at him expectantly. If he thought he didn't owe any explanation, he had another think coming. But before she could protest, he spoke again.
"We'll have to talk more about this, Leigh. But not here. I can't be seen with you—or anyone in your family. Give me your phone number and I'll contact you later. All right?"
No, Leigh's rational mind insisted, it wasn't all right. The man was obviously involved in the kidnapping attempt somehow, and if she had any sense she would have called security as soon as he had stepped into the room. But she hadn't. Why not?
Because she was a slave to her intuition, that was why. And for whatever undoubtedly idiotic reasons, she didn’t believe the man in front of her would intentionally hurt anybody. She listened like a third party as her phone number came shooting out of her mouth.
Mason mumbled to himself when she finished, apparently committing the number to memory. Then he nodded, turned on his heel, and left.
Leigh sat numbly on the bed, watching the last spot where he'd stood. The whole scene had been surreal, her head was pounding, and all attempts she made at processing what had just happened were failing miserably. Finally, desperate to calm the throbbing, she simply laid back down and closed her eyes.
***
"Are you sure you don't want it yourself?" Maura asked politely, a vanilla-frosted donut already in route to her mouth.
Warren shook his head. "I had a few on the way over. You two eat up."
Leigh stared at the donut in her own hand with anguish. When she couldn't eat a chocolate-frosted cake, things were bad.
"Are you sure you feel well enough to go home today?" Warren asked, looking at her worriedly. "I can tell you're hiding something. What's up? Does your head still hurt?"
"A little," Leigh said quickly. It did hurt a little. It hurt a little several dozen times over. But what was really bugging her was the prospect of relaying her recent Twilight-Zone experience without being looked at like a mental patient. She was a neurology patient. There was a difference.
"Maura," she began, forcing herself to take a small nibble of frosting, "did you know that Mason Dublin's sister was in this hospital?"
The detective nodded, speaking only after she had consumed another large bite. "Gil has got me up to date on everything the PI found out. But Trudy Dublin isn't well enough to be questioned right now."
"I know. I went to see her this morning."
Leigh’s friends both looked at her in surprise. "Aren't you supposed to be staying in bed?" Warren asked accusingly.
Pride dictated that she ignore the reprimand, but secretly, she relished his husbandly concern. "Trudy was asleep," she began, "but when I was in the room, I felt like someone was watching me. And it turns out somebody was."
Maura and Warren both looked at her expectantly. She took a deep breath and started into her story, finishing without a pause. It sounded completely nuts. Add to that that she had been sound asleep when they arrived, and they were sure to think she was lost in la-la land.
"So what you're saying," Maura began flatly, jotting in her notebook, "is that Mason Dublin (1) was in this hospital, presumably visiting his sister incognito outside of visiting hours; (2) had some reason to believe a tall man with Mick Jagger lips had kidnapped Mathias; (3) was surprised to discover that his own name was on the ransom note; (4) recognized your description of the real kidnapper; and (5) thinks it's unsafe for him to be seen with anybody in your family."
Leigh nodded with surprise. Despite all odds, Maura not only seemed to believe her but had logically organized the facts to boot. Amazing. The detective tapped her pen on her notebook for a moment, then looked up at Warren. "This makes more sense than you might think," she said confidently. Then she turned back to Leigh. "You remember asking me to check out the statute of limitations on bank robbery?"
She nodded again. It had been only yesterday, but it seemed like ages ago.
"Robbery and aggravated assault carries a five year statute—state and federal." Maura explained. Your aunt could have been charged with robbery just for driving the getaway car, but more likely, she'd have been charged with something lesser, like hindering apprehension or prosecution. That only carries a two-year statute. Either way, she's in no danger now."
Leigh smiled in relief. "What ab
out Mason?"
Maura's brow wrinkled slightly. "That's a bit trickier. The statute doesn't run if the suspect flees from justice and remains out of state—so if there had been a warrant out for him all this time, then technically he could still be prosecuted. But since it looks like he was never even named as a suspect, he's got nothing to worry about, either."
Leigh digested the news slowly. "But then, why are two different people trying to blackmail Lydie and Gil? And why is Mason skulking around like a fugitive?"
"If what you just told us is true, then Mason knows the blackmailer who tried to kidnap Mathias. My guess is he dropped some information to his buddies about how he had this rich son-in-law he could put the squeeze on whenever he wanted to. Maybe they had all just watched the Movers and Shakers episode—who knows. Anyway, neither blackmailer seemed to know the whole story about the bank robbery. They were betting on a bluff, and when it didn't work, one got desperate and tried to kidnap Mathias instead."
Leigh remembered the look on Mason's face when she had described the kidnapper. Anger—perhaps at a buddy's betrayal—but also relief. He had seemed confident he could "handle" him. But what about the man he had thought might be the kidnapper? Was he hiding from that man—or the police?
Maura addressed her unspoken question. "Mason's not in any trouble with the law right now—I checked for outstanding warrants, and there aren't any. In fact, he's been squeaky clean ever since he was released from prison on the counterfeiting conviction. He'd been living in Alabama for years, working a steady job as a bartender. But six months ago he pulled up stakes and cleared out without a trace. The PI's convinced he's on the run, and I think he's right. The question is from what. And after hearing your story, I'm betting it's our new friend Jagger-lips."