"How did he seem that night? Dr. Phipps, I mean?"
She thought a moment. "Excited about something. He kept looking at his watch like there was somewhere else he wanted to be."
Fairview. He'd wanted to be on Hurricane Harbor, admiring the estate he'd assumed would shortly be his ...
Darby nodded at the nurse and walked slowly back to the reception room. Alicia was engrossed in a conversation but managed a little wave and smile. Darby waved and then walked toward the exit sign. If Alicia was right about the storm, she needed to get on the highway as soon as possible.
Darby located the elevator and pushed Level 1. As she waited for the doors to open, she thought about the hospital's Wall of Remembrance. It was a way to pay tribute to those who had passed on, similar to the honor rolls found on New England town greens memorializing those who had lost their lives in military service. She hadn't seen something like it in an institution before, but she supposed it did comfort family members and even bereaved staff.
For some reason, the image of the wall wouldn't leave her mind. She felt as if the bronze plaque with its many names was burned on her retinas.
She waited for the elevator to arrive. It was time to drive to Maine, storm or no storm, to deal with her aunt's service and the work that awaited. Nevertheless, she could not shake the feeling that she needed to see the bronze plaque one more time.
Darby gave an exasperated sigh. She made it a point to listen to her intuition, although at times following its lead was darn right annoying. She retraced her steps through the reception area, thankful that Alicia was engaged in conversation. Entering the hallway where a few people were standing and talking quietly, she noted that the ponytailed nurse was gone.
Once more, Darby studied Emerson Phipps' name.
The "S"-his middle initial-was probably for Samuel. Hadn't Alicia said that one of the boys was named for her brother? She glanced toward the buffet and smiled at the youngsters' antics. Samuel and Michael were chasing each other around the small cocktail tables, nearly knocking down the remaining guests with their exuberance. They needed to be outside, tossing a football or climbing on a jungle gym, whatever it was that boys that age did these days.
Just then, something caught her eye, drawing her gaze once more to the Wall of Remembrance. It was the name etched in bronze two lines above Phipps'. A name she recognized. Her body went cold.
The helpful administrator who had taken her to the wall in the first place was at the buffet table scooping another helping of egg salad when Darby found her. "Oh yes," she said, adding a croissant to an already overloaded plate. "I remember Linda. She was a nurse in neonatology."
"Did you know her?"
"I'm afraid not."
Darby asked for directions to the neonatology wing and the administrator gave her a curious look. After explaining the quickest route, she turned her attention back to the buffet and Darby turned to leave. She was barely aware of anyone else in the room as she moved through the hallway. She had never sleepwalked, but her body felt as if she were in a dream.
The neonatology wing was off limits to those without an electronic pass. The young receptionist at the desk, however, smiled and buzzed a nurse to come and assist Darby.
The nurse appeared seconds later, a frown on her face.
"Of course I remember her," she said briskly. "Linda was an extremely capable nurse who served at Boston Memorial for years. Her death was a real blow to us all." "
"How did she die?"
"Automobile accident."
"Did she have any relatives?"
I don't really know. We're too busy to socialize in this department."
She gave a dismissive nod to Darby and a reproachful glance at the receptionist and turned abruptly away. The younger woman rolled her eyes as the woman departed. "Nurse Gray is always like that," she confided. "Super grouchy." She smiled. "I'm Tiffany. I'd been here about two months when Linda died. We all took it pretty hard."
Darby nodded in what she hoped was a sympathetic manner. Her throat felt dry and she swallowed with difficulty.
"Water fountain's over there," said Tiffany, noticing Darby's distress. "Help yourself."
Darby walked to the fountain and took a quick sip of water and a deep steadying breath. Focus, she told herself. Find out what you need to know...
She returned to Tiffany's desk, her head clearer. "I'm interested in Linda because I think I may know her sister."
"The one who was in the accident?"
"I'm not sure."
"Must have been. The sister was driving and the roads were slippery. You know, that stuff they call black ice, the kind you can't see very well? They hit a patch and went flying off the road. Linda was on all kinds of machines in the ICU, and her sister stayed right by her side."
"Here at Boston Memorial?"
"Yes"
"Did a doctor named Emerson Phipps operate on her?"
"God, you mean the Emerson Phipps? Well if he had, she'd probably be alive today. I don't know if he was involved. But hang on, I can call my friend Mindy in scheduling."
Darby waited, hardly breathing, while the receptionist whipped out a cell phone and pressed a button. "We're not supposed to use them in the building," she said. "But what the hell."
Tiffany spoke quickly into the receiver and nodded, then clicked her cell phone closed. "Mindy checked her computer. Dr. Phipps was scheduled to operate, but Linda died before the operation. She was in very bad shape, I guess. One thing you learn in a hospital: you can't save everyone"
She leaned closer to Darby and lowered her voice. "I'll tell you this about Linda: she was in some kind of trouble before the car accident. A preemie died, and the parents said she'd done something to cause it."
"Wrongful death."
"That's what they called it, all right."
"Were charges brought against her?"
"I don't think they got a chance before that accident... " She thought a moment. "The whole thing kind of disappeared after Linda died." She shrugged. "Maybe they settled it with the family." Her face brightened. "Hey! I've got an old recruiting flyer around here somewhere with Linda's picture. Want to see it?" Tiffany rummaged in a desk drawer.
Darby nodded. She took the glossy brochure from Tiffany and looked down at a photo of a smiling nurse holding a baby. The nurse wore pastel scrubs and had short blonde hair. She looks exactly like her, Darby thought. Exactly ...
Without meaning to, Darby whispered, "Laura... "
Tiffany shook her head. "No, that's Linda. Linda Gefferelli. They looked so alike though, you'd have sworn they were twins. Sometimes her sister came to meet Linda here and none of us could tell them apart. I thought it was cool, you know, the jokes they could play on people? Anyway, after Linda died I heard that Laura left the state and went up north-Vermont, I think. Imagine how awful you'd feel if that was you, driving a car that kills your own sister? Luckily, she's real churchy-a nun I think. That would help."
"Yes," Darby said, handing the brochure back to Tiffany, "that would help."
Donny Pease was battening down the hatches, a job generations of islanders before him had done when a storm was headed up the coast.
He began with his own house, pushing his rusted wheelbarrow into the barn and looking for any lawn tools that could, in high winds, become airborne. Next, he made sure his screen doors were tightly latched and that the windows were down. He regarded an old apple tree that he'd been meaning to prune of dead wood and shook his head. Chances were good that this storm would do the trimming for him.
He recalled his father talking about a hurricane that caused untold damage to Maine in 1938. "You were just a small boy in britches," he'd say, "when that storm swept up from the Connecticut River Valley. Lost half our barn in that gale, although the horses and cows were still standing there later, right as rain."
He knew, as had his father, that preparing for a severe storm took place during the sunshine. It was too late to do much of anything once the storm sta
rted. At that point, it was just a matter of waiting it out and praying.
Satisfied that his own house was ready for the storm, Donny headed over in his truck to Fairview. No one was there, which was just fine and dandy. He did not need to find any other surprises, not after what had happened on Monday.
He walked around the old estate, doing the same things he'd done at his farmhouse, securing all of the main house's exterior doors and checking to be sure the windows were nearly closed.
If predictions for this storm had suggested a severe hurricane, Donny would have needed to board up Fairview's many windows. He'd done it before, and it was a time-consuming chore. Back in the day, Donny spent a whole day preparing for bad weather. In addition to boarding up the windows, there would have been about a dozen porch rockers to lug inside, all of Mrs. Trimble's pots of geraniums to shelter, and baskets of hanging impatiens to tuck safely away. Donny would have disassembled lawn games such as croquet and badminton, making any number of trips to the garden cottage with wickets, nets, mallets, and racquets.
He sighed. Those days were long gone, the days of finding a discarded highball glass in the gazebo, its owner having enjoyed its contents while watching the sun sink behind the Manatuck hills. Donny Pease missed those busy times, God knows he missed them, but they were behind him now, mere memories with a hazy, happy edge.
After closing the garden cottage's doors, Donny crossed the lawn to the edge of the cliff, listening to the waves crash against the granite rocks. June was the start of hurricane season, although it seemed that most of Maine's tropical depressions and hurricanes took place in the fall. From Fairview, Donny would head to the harbor, where he'd get his boat ready to ride out the storm and help any other boaters who needed a hand. Donny watched the spray rise from the clash of water against rock for a moment longer. The sea was rougher than usual; the effects of the changing weather were already underway.
Within the cool confines of the rented Chrysler, Darby attempted to make sense of the information she'd just received. While the traffic raced by her on Interstate 95, she once again recited the facts.
Laura's sister Linda worked in the same hospital as Emerson Phipps. She was injured in a car accident and was supposed to be operated on by him.
She couldn't stop thinking about the surprising connection, and yet she didn't quite know what it implied. Was there a link between Emerson Phipps and Laura Gefferelli? She chided herself. There's a good chance the whole thing's coincidental. Linda Gefferelli had been a nurse in neonatology, and Laura, her look-alike sister, had visited her department. If Laura knew Emerson Phipps personally or by reputation on account of her occasional visits to Boston Memorial Hospital, surely she would have mentioned it at the time Phipps' body was discovered. It was the kind of thing Darby could picture Laura saying in her thoughtful, calm, manner. I've heard of Emerson Phipps. He worked at the same hospital as my sister...
But Laura Gefferelli had never mentioned knowing Emerson Phipps. That's because she never heard of him, Darby told herself. It made perfect sense that Laura, a very occasional visitor to Boston Memorial Hospital, would not be acquainted with any of the medical staff. And yet why hadn't Laura ever commented on the fact that her sister and Phipps had worked at the same institution?
Darby put on her blinker and moved smoothly into the left lane, passing a car whose driver was chatting away on a cell phone. She thought of her dead battery and groaned. I wish that I could call Miles or Tina.
She let a safe distance get between her and the car and glided back into the right lane. You need to get back on the island, that's what you need to do. As if to add to her urgency, she could feel the wind intensifying, the storm beginning its march northward, hot on the heels of the rental car. With this bad weather coming I won't even stop, she thought, passing a rest area with a twinge of regret. I should have used the hospital's restroom when I had the chance.
The music on the radio was interrupted by a National Weather Service warning for hurricane force winds along the coast within the next twenty-four hours. Darby grimaced and stepped harder on the gas.
Her determination to make good time while the weather remained stable paid off. Darby sped through New Hampshire and straight up the coast, pulling onto the five P.M. ferry at Manatuck. When she finally turned off the car's ignition, she breathed a sigh of relief. Soon after, she felt the boat start to move away from the Manatuck dock.
Darby got out of the car, needing to stretch her legs and find the ferry's restroom.
The restrooms were located up a narrow set of metal stairs on the top deck of the ferry. Darby climbed up, passing a few other passengers who were doing the same thing. The art show was tomorrow and the tourists would descend in full force-that is, unless news of the storm had scared them off. Hurricane Harbor's summer rush was officially underway, and Darby was pleased to see a number of passengers who were clearly visitors to the island.
Once out of the restroom, Darby took her time on the upper deck, pausing to take in the surrounding ocean and outcroppings. Dark, low clouds to the southwest and the increasing chop of the waves foretold the changing weather, and yet the little islands looked serene. Darby felt her mood begin to lighten, despite the ominous skies.
The air was cool on Darby's face, the breeze gaining strength seemingly by the minute. One of the ferry officials looked anxiously at the sky before motioning that it was time for car owners to return to their vehicles. Darby glanced ahead. Sure enough, the boat was fast approaching the Hurricane Harbor dock.
Darby climbed back down the metal stairs to the parking lot, located the rental car, and climbed into the front seat. She reached into the pocket of her jacket for the keys and pulled them out.
Just as she was about to put the keys into the ignition, she heard a sharp crack, reminiscent of the sound of a sudden summer storm. Like a shove, she felt the jolt of 150,000 volts of electricity wham her in the back. Darby collapsed onto the seat of the car, twitching uncontrollably.
The surprise of the sudden blow and the jumble of the electrical signals in her brain left Darby unfocused and uncomprehending. She saw a lithe figure climb over the seat and felt her body pushed onto the passenger floor of the car. She heard the car start and sensed that it was moving off the ferry and onto the island.
Some impulse told Darby to flee, and she tried getting up from her fetal crouch on the floor, but movement of any kind was impossible. She tried lifting an arm, but that was futile as well. I'm paralyzed, she realized. I can't move at all.
The car turned to the left and Darby rolled slightly. She was stunned, too stunned to be frightened. She tried to form the words to ask her attacker what the hell was going on, but found she could not speak. The road grew bumpy. Darby's head bounced against the floor of the car, but she felt no pain, even as a red welt began to rise on her cheek.
We're on a dirt road, she thought. There were more than fifty unpaved fire roads that wove across the island's interior.
Abruptly the car stopped. Darby heard a door open and then the sound of the trunk popping. A moment later the passenger door opened and the face of Laura Gefferelli, normally so calm and kind, looked down at her with disgust.
"Just couldn't leave it alone, could you," she sneered. She clutched what Darby guessed was a large sail bag against her navy striped shirt. She yanked at the bag's metal grommets and reached for Darby's legs.
Helplessly Darby watched Laura stuff her feet into the sail bag. Once her legs were enclosed, Laura grabbed both sides of the sturdy nylon and yanked it upward, so that the sail bag covered her entirely. The top was pulled over Darby's head, shutting out any daylight.
Encased in the bag, Darby heard Laura's muffled grunt of approval. She heard the car door close and the engine start. From the jostling, Darby knew they were driving down the dirt road once more.
After a few more jolts, the road became smooth and Darby sensed the car was back on pavement. Where is she taking me? Why? Darby's thoughts were disordered and co
nfused. Laura Gefferelli shot me with a taser, and now she's stuffed me in a sail bag. Suddenly the situation became crystal clear. She's going to kill me ...
Several minutes later, the car came to a stop. As horrified as she was feeling, Darby forced herself to listen intently. Was that the sound of waves? Were they at the harbor, where someone might notice something out of the ordinary? There's nothing strange about a sailor and a sail bag, she thought, fear seeping into her pores.
The passenger side door opened. With a grunt, the sail bag was heaved upwards. Darby heard a thumping sound as her body landed on a surface, but still she felt nothing. It was as if her physical self was a separate entity from her mind. Her brain and senses were functioning but they were disconnected from the rest of her ...
The sound of something scraping caused Darby to think she was being dragged. Suddenly the bag lifted again, only to thud down moments later. Darby caught the strong scent of the sea at low tide and guessed she was on a dock. She heard footsteps, and then Laura's grunts of exertion as the bag was hefted up and onto something else. She's getting tired, she thought. If only I could move! Darby tried to wiggle a finger. Was it wishful thinking, or did it seem to stir? The plaintive cry of a gull echoed Darby's despair.
Moments later, a motor started and Darby knew they were pulling away from land. It was not very powerful-maybe seven or eight horsepower-the size typically used on small sailboats. It seemed to whine in protest against the waves now slapping against the bow of the boat with unusual force. We're on Laura's boat, she thought. What's in a Name. Her heart sank: the farther they were from a dock, the less likely anyone was to hear or see her.
Darby willed herself to stay hopeful. She knew the effects of the taser were temporary: at some point her mobility would return. She tried again to wiggle her fingers. Yes! She was regaining feeling, although she had no idea how long it would take before she could move more than an index finger. As the motor droned on in the background, Darby forced her brain to keep trying to fire her muscles. She knew it was her only chance.
A House to Die For (A Darby Farr Mystery) Page 23