A Fairfield Romance Box Set 1

by Lydia Reeves

  “I think everyone in the ER is familiar with Mr. Templeton,” Claire quipped, but the officer didn’t crack a smile.

  “I need to know when he was last seen here, and I need access to his medical records.”

  Dr. Ashvale looked up sharply. “What is this about?”

  The officer’s expression still didn’t change. I exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Claire. “Mr. Templeton is dead, and the cause of death is under investigation. I have authorization to review his records.”

  I sucked in a sharp breath, but Dr. Ashvale just held out a hand and accepted the papers proffered by the officer. He glanced them over, then said, “Come with me. We can talk in my office.”

  The two men left together, and Claire and I stared at each other in stunned silence.

  “Poor Mr. Templeton,” I said at last. “What could have happened?”

  She just shook her head. “I’m not one to speak ill of the dead, but it’ll be much quieter around here with him gone.”

  I didn’t get a chance to respond before she was called away to see to a new patient. I only had half an hour left on my shift, but I still had work to do, and I found it hard to focus. What could have happened to the poor man that involved the police?

  In the end, I didn’t have to wait long to find out. I was just gathering my coat and purse when Dr. Ashvale came out of his office, heading directly over to the nurses station.

  “Bria.” His voice was as cold as ice, and I felt a chill run up my spine. “Come with me.”

  He didn’t wait for a response, just turned and headed back into the office. I followed.

  When I entered the office, the police officer rose to his feet. He shook hands with Dr. Ashvale, his expression never changing. “Thanks for talking with me, Dr. Ashvale. I’ll be in touch with the hospital security department for a copy of those records.” He didn’t even glance my way as he walked out of the office.

  Somehow the departure of the police officer did nothing to calm my nerves.

  “Sit down, Bria,” Dr. Asshole said. He waited while I gingerly perched on the edge of the seat before getting right to it. “Mr. Templeton died from an overdose. He had lethal amounts of alcohol and morphine in his system when he was found. His death was reported by another homeless man, who reported that apparently Mr. Templeton had been here, in the emergency department, roughly twelve hours before his death, and was turned away and refused treatment.”

  I stared at the doctor in shock, and he leveled a gimlet eye on me. “His records show you were the last one to see him, on November eighteenth.”

  “What?!” That wasn’t possible. It took a moment for the gears in my head to grind to life. Frantically, I cast my mind back to late November. Days in the ER all ran together, hell, most of the days in my life ran together, and I couldn’t pull a specific date out of my memory.

  I tried very hard to keep my voice calm, but still I could hear the tremble in it. “There must be some mistake. It’s been weeks since I treated him, but I never would have turned him away, overdosing or not.”

  “No mistake,” Dr. Ashvale said, his voice like steel. “I’ve heard the way Mr. Templeton is discussed at the nurses station. I realize he is in rather frequently, but there is no excuse for this kind of mistreatment.”

  I was trembling now, and I sat on my hands to keep them still. There had to be some kind of mistake. If only I could remember…”Can you look up who else I treated that day? If I can remember the specific day…”

  I trailed off, and Dr. Ashvale turned to the computer, swiftly tapping in a few keystrokes. “Gloria Elridge, presenting with chest pain. David Meyer, the child with flu symptoms.” Yes, I remembered both cases, but—

  Dr. Ashvale’s expression changed to one of scorn. “My son, with his knife wound.”

  My breath stopped, and it all came flooding back, every minute of the day I would never forget. Yes, of course. Mr. Templeton had been here at the same time as Geoff. It had been a full moon and we’d had the first snow of the season the night before, and he’d come in complaining of back pain, and—

  “No!” I said, leaning forward toward the desk. “I remember that day. Check my notes! He was complaining of back pain and I took all his vitals. He wasn’t overdosing; he’d been drinking, but he was fine.” I kept going, urgently trying to get it all out before he stopped me. “It had just snowed, and we were busy from the full moon, but it had finally slowed down, so I was going to let him rest inside while we had the bed space, but when I went to check on him again, he had already left.”

  Dr. Ashvale just looked at me, and it took everything I had not to quail under his unyielding stare.

  “Clearly you overlooked something. It shows here he wasn’t even checked by a doctor before he was discharged.”

  “I didn’t discharge him! He left AMA. You can’t think I would—”

  But Dr. Ashvale simply sat back in his chair and looked away, his gaze dismissing me in his signature move. “It doesn’t matter what I think,” he cut me off. “I sent Officer Brady up to security for a copy of the records. I imagine he will want to question you once he has reviewed the files more thoroughly. In the meantime, I am going to recommend to the board your suspension until this matter is settled.”

  My heart seemed to stutter, stop, then begin a freefall, dropping out of my chest and crashing down through my body. A suspension? How was any of this happening?

  “You may go,” Dr. Ashvale told me. He had turned his attention back to his computer, and clearly had no interest in the fact that my life was being ruined right in front of him.

  So, I did the only thing I could. I left.

  I ignored Claire calling my name as I hurried across the floor, not even bothering to put on my coat as I left the building. I climbed numbly into my car, and drove home in a fog, hazy thoughts tumbling in my head. Something was missing; some piece of the puzzle. The police were wrong, or the autopsy was wrong, or, or, or Dr. Asshole was setting me up because he’s always hated me.

  I felt sick.

  Could it be true? Had Mr. Templeton really been overdosing? Could I really have missed it, let my own prejudices get in the way? Could I really be at fault for a man’s death?

  I narrowly made it home without throwing up.

  It took me three tries to get my key into the door with my shaking hands. Once inside, I didn’t even bother to turn on the light. I dropped my purse on the floor, crawled into bed, pulled the covers up over my head, and cried myself to sleep.

  It took a long, long time.

  Chapter 10

  GEOFF

  One more day. One more freaking day and this would be over, and everything would go back to normal, and I’d be able to breathe again. At this point, I wasn’t sure I even cared if it was a success or not, I just wanted it to be over.

  And it would be in—I checked my watch, as I had been doing compulsively for hours now—just over ten hours. Seven hours to go before I would need to get everything over to the convention hall and set up. Another hour after that before the fundraiser started. Two hours of what would either be intense panic because it was all out of my hands, or blissful relief because it was all out of my hands. And then it would be over, and I could go home, drag Bria into bed with me, and sleep for a week.

  Bria. She’d probably be as glad as I would when this was over. I wondered if she regretted pushing me into it. I hadn’t even spoken to her in two days now. She hadn’t called me after work last night, nor this morning. I missed her, but I knew she was giving me space to work.

  I knew I hadn’t been great to her over the past couple of weeks; I’d been trying hard not to take my stress out on her, but I wasn’t sure I’d been successful. But if I could just get through tonight, I could apologize, and things could go back to the way they were. Because they’d been wonderful. She’d been wonderful.

  I took a long pull from the glass of bourbon I had sitting next to me on the counter, feeling the blaze of heat trailing through me as I swa
llowed. I’d promised myself I would stick to wine to calm my nerves as I worked, but the wine bottle was empty, and my nerves were still jangling. To be fair, the wine bottle hadn’t been full to start with, and I was taking the bourbon slow—this was only my second glass.

  The timer on the oven beeped, and I started, the spatula I’d been holding motionless in my other hand falling to the countertop. I mentally chastised myself. Pull yourself together. Ten hours, then you can daydream.

  I pulled the last tray of custard tarts out of the oven, setting them on the stove top to cool, then got back to my mixing bowl. This was it, the last of it. Everything else was done, filling the fridge and stacked on the counters, waiting to be packed up for transport. I had macarons in five flavors, eclairs, and mille feuilles, and I’d gone ahead with the mini-trifles. I also had the custard tarts, shortbread cookies, and squares of honey-drenched baklava.

  The only thing I’d left to the last minute had been the chocolate mousse, which didn’t take long to make and always seemed to taste best when fresh.

  I already had the chocolate melted together with butter and coffee, cooling on the countertop. The bowl in front of me, sitting over a pot of simmering water, held practically more egg yolks than I could count, and I began to whisk them, adding in water and a generous splash of rum. I’d used up my current bag of sugar in the tarts, so I dug another bag out of the cabinet and poured sugar into the mix, whisking until my eyes began to glaze over.

  I took another quick sip of bourbon to keep myself awake—funny that it seemed to be having the opposite effect—and moved the bowl into an ice bath before beating it further. Fortunately, I could make chocolate mousse in my sleep, so I beat in the chocolate mixture, beat the egg whites with some more sugar and a splash of vanilla, then folded it all together in record time. It took longer than I’d hoped to portion it all out into individual servings, but I got it all into the fridge with plenty of time to chill before I had to leave.

  There was still more to do—cleaning up and packing everything for transport, but I desperately needed a break. There should still be enough time. Taking my bourbon with me, I sank down to the floor, where I leaned back against the counter and let my head roll back. My breath escaped in a long, low sigh.

  A few minutes later I roused myself just enough to set an alarm on my phone, before letting myself drift off again.

  Just a few more hours to go.

  * * *

  When the alarm on my phone went off, I jumped so high I nearly smashed my head on the lip of the counter. My glass of bourbon had fallen out of my hand at some point and was now a sticky puddle spreading across the floor. Thank god I was the only person using the commercial kitchen today. This wasn’t exactly a good look.

  It was best that I hadn’t drank it though, I thought as I mopped up the spill; I needed to be sober enough to get to the convention center.

  Shaking the fog of sleep from my head, I staggered to my feet and forced myself back to work. This was it, the home stretch. Packing containers. Loading the van I’d rented. Back and forth between the van and the kitchen a million times.

  A quick stop at my apartment to shower and get dressed, and then I was off to the convention center. More trips back and forth from the van, unloading, transferring food to the huge fridges there, setting up displays, sneaking sips of bourbon as I hurried back and forth from the kitchen.

  The big ballroom they’d chosen for the fundraiser looked amazing. With the holidays approaching fast, they’d gone all out with the festive decor—twinkling lights, wreaths on the doors and pine boughs on the tables, an enormous, ceiling-high tree in one corner decked out with glittering tinsel and ornaments. Long tables covered with decorative cloths framed the perimeter, one entire wall set up for my delicacies, a drink station in one corner. Another long table for the other caterer who was providing hors d’oeuvres. The tables along the other walls were all set up with displays of local artwork and other donated items for the silent auction. The center of the room was filled with small tables and chairs, suitable for mingling and schmoozing. I felt very out of place, and my head was feeling a bit fuzzy. I was glad I would be spending my time primarily in the kitchen.

  The doors opened at precisely seven o’clock, admitting a throng of well-dressed hospital patrons into the ballroom. I scanned the crowd for Bria, but her blue hair was nowhere to be seen. She must not have arrived yet. I did see her friend Claire’s blonde head though, and caught a glimpse of my father just in time to make a beeline for the kitchen.

  At first, I hadn’t been sure if I should tell him I would be catering the event, or even if I would be there at all. And while I dithered about it, unable to decide which option would be less painful, the mayhem of preparation had taken over all my attention, until suddenly the fundraiser had started and I still hadn’t spoken to him. Well, it was too late now. Maybe I could hide out in the kitchen the whole—

  “Geoff?”

  Shit.

  Apparently, I hadn’t been fast enough. I turned, a little too quickly, and the room wavered alarmingly in my vision. I focused on the frowning face of my father and tried to stay calm. I wished Bria were here, holding my hand so I could pull her support into myself by osmosis. I tried to think of what she would tell me. She’d tell you to calm down. She’d tell you your baking is amazing. She’d tell you that you don’t need his approval. I took a deep breath.

  “What are you doing here?” my dad asked, his features set in their requisite frown.

  “I, um.” I wished I could be anywhere else in the world. The beach in Florida with my mom. The North Pole. Maybe home in bed with the rest of that bottle of bourbon.

  “Speak up. Don’t stammer.”

  Suddenly I caught a flash of blue over by the door, and relief swept through me like a wave. Bria had arrived. I heard her voice in my head. Dammit, stand up for yourself.

  I tried again, and my voice was stronger this time. “I’m the caterer.”

  “You what?” He looked at me like I was speaking gibberish.

  The room was filling up, the noise level rising, and people were beginning to drift toward the dessert table.

  “I catered the fundraiser.” I tried to match his expression. Like he was the idiot here, not me. “The desserts. I made them.”

  His eyes inched up. “You cater now? What happened to the bookstore?”

  The word “bookstore” sounded like “trash heap,” but I soldiered on, keeping my voice calm. “I still work there, I’m just branching out a bit. The hospital Foundation offered me this opportunity, and I thought it would be good.”

  “Good? Good for what?”

  “Good for the future. I don’t want to stay at the bookstore forever.”

  His lined face relaxed minutely. “Oh, thank god. You’ve come to your senses.”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling strangely defiant. “I’ve been thinking about expanding into catering. Possibly opening a bakery at some point.”

  His face hardened again, and I could see a vein throb in his temple. Why had I thought it would be a good idea to have this conversation here? Oh, right—because he wouldn’t kill me in public. Where had Bria gone?

  “What are you talking about? You—” He broke off as a colleague waved from across the room, and when he spoke again, his voice wasn’t angry, it was dismissive. The knife he had planted in my chest twisted painfully. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “We’ll talk about this later. Right now I have to—”

  He broke off again at the sound of a commotion from the far end of the room, a raised voice, then two. We both turned, and I caught sight of Bria, standing only a few paces behind us, also turned toward the commotion. I had only enough time to register that she didn’t look like herself—sick, or upset, I couldn’t tell, but something wasn’t right—before the raised voices from across the room suddenly became clear.

  An elderly woman in a long, stately red dress had her hand over her mouth and was coughing, her face a shade to match her dre
ss. My dad started across the room, not sparing me a glance, and I followed close on his heels. Only when we got closer did I realize what was happening. Whatever residual effects I’d been feeling from the alcohol evaporated, cold sobriety washing over me like a tidal wave.

  The woman in red was holding one of the small glasses of chocolate mousse in her hand, gesturing wildly with the spoon she held clutched in the other one. “What is this?” she gasped out between coughs. Another man at the far end of the table began to cough as well, discreetly spitting something back out onto his plate.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Oh, that’s vile!”

  My heart plummeted like a stone.

  My father, upon realizing that no medical assistance was needed, turned to look at me, his eyebrow raised in condescending speculation. Without looking away from me he reached out, helping himself to one of the tiny decorative glasses filled with chocolate mousse that I’d spent the afternoon working on, each one topped with a swirl of cream and a mint leaf. He lifted the spoon and took a bite. It seemed to happen in slow motion.

  I watched the expression on his face slowly morph into one of disgusted horror, but he made himself swallow before setting the glass carefully back on the table.

  I didn’t wait for him to speak. I grabbed my own glass, digging out a spoonful and shoving it in my mouth.

  Salt.

  It was immediately obvious. I’d used salt instead of sugar. I must have opened the wrong bag, and not bothered to check. What a completely ridiculous, novice-level mistake. Something that only would have happened to an idiot who was too busy drinking and panicking and feeling sorry for himself to pay attention to what he was doing.

  My father opened his mouth, but I didn’t wait to hear what was going to come out. Something I would agree with, no doubt. I set the glass on the table, turned, and fled into the kitchen.

  “Geoff!” Bria’s voice sounded behind me, but I ignored her as well, mortification burning in my chest.