A large brown paper sack sat on the floor, and Belinda looked at it. “That’s her uniform. There’s blood on it. Her poor head was bleeding so much.”
I gripped her hand, and Kara put her arm around Belinda’s shoulders. We all sat in a row, silent except for Belinda’s small hiccuping sobs.
Finally she seemed to gather herself. “Candace would be so angry with me for crying like a baby. But she’s not a mother, and—”
“She wouldn’t be angry,” I said. “I’ll bet she’s in there right now telling them they need to make sure you’re all right.”
“I saw her in the emergency room,” Belinda said softly. “She was so still, and her beautiful hair was all matted with blood, and they said they’d have to shave some of it away to stitch up the gash, and—”
“Shh.” I squeezed her cold hand tighter. “Everything will—”
A balding man came out through the ICU doors and said, “Mrs. Carson?”
Belinda stood. “That’s me. How is my girl? Will she be all right?”
The man walked over and introduced himself as Dr. Patrick, a neurologist. He then said, “Your daughter woke up about five minutes ago. She is hungry and thirsty and quite irritable.” He smiled. “Those are all good signs.”
Belinda’s knees buckled, and it was a good thing Kara and I were on either side to catch her or the ICU might have had another patient.
“Can we see her?” Belinda said.
“Sure.” He looked at Kara and then at me. “But are these ladies relatives?”
“As good as family. Why do you ask?”
“I want her visitors limited to family, but if she has these two sisters, well, I see no problem.” Dr. Patrick winked. “Do you mind if we discuss your daughter’s condition with them present?”
“I do not mind in the least. They might have to explain everything to me later, the state I’m in.” Belinda smiled for the first time. Candace’s smile. It tugged at my heart.
Dr. Patrick said, “Before you visit her—and family can come in one at a time on the half hour—we’re going to give Candace a mild sedative. She’s being quite, um . . . animated right now, but since she has a grade-three concussion, she needs rest. Encourage her to stay calm. We’ll be observing her for any signs of bleeding in the brain for the next twenty-four hours. I have to say, you daughter has one hard head. No fractured skull. She does have twenty-three stitches, though.”
“Twenty-three? Oh my word,” Belinda said.
“But you’re saying she’ll be okay? With this grade-three concussion? What does that mean, anyway?” I said.
Dr. Patrick looked at me. “Sorry. We do have to code injuries. Grade three simply means someone has lost consciousness for longer than, say, thirty minutes and thus the concussion is more severe. That doesn’t mean she won’t have a full recovery. But I also expect her to have mild neurological symptoms for the next few weeks. Short-term memory loss, the irritability we’re already seeing, headaches, trouble finding the right word for something. All of these symptoms should clear up with time.”
Belinda said, “You sound like a very competent doctor, so don’t take this the wrong way, but the ICU seems so . . . intimidating. Can I just take her home and—”
“Absolutely not,” Dr. Patrick said. “As I said, we’ll be taking more pictures of her brain to make sure there’s no slow bleeding in there. This is the safest place for her right now. We treat our peace officers with the special care they deserve.”
“Don’t forget she was attacked, Belinda,” Kara said. “As far as I know, they haven’t caught who did this. She needs to be here.”
“I know you’re right. It’s just that—” Belinda’s tears started again, and I put my arm around her shoulders.
“I will see you in the morning for an update, Mrs. Carson. Right now, I have to inform all the others waiting to hear about her condition,” the doctor said. I had the feeling that tears and this man did not mix, because he hurried off down the hall like a cat with its tail on fire.
While I waited with Belinda, who was told by the woman at the desk that it would be about thirty minutes before she could see Candace, Kara went back to where all the others were waiting. She might hear or learn something that she could add to the article I was sure would appear in tomorrow’s paper. The next half hour passed much more quickly thanks to the good news we’d heard. Belinda was soon her old chatty self and said that she told Candace not to give up her vacation because of a murder—that she wouldn’t have been in that parking lot if she’d listened. At last she was ushered into the ICU while I waited for her.
Belinda’s time with her daughter must have been great, because she wore a broad smile when she came back out through the double doors. “Candace is awake and cranky. That’s my girl,” she said.
“Does she remember what happened?” I asked.
“I didn’t ask. I’ll leave that to you. Right now, I need a Coca-Cola. Do you want one?” When I refused, she started off down the hall.
Meanwhile, Kara and Tom came by. Tom took a spot beside me, and Kara said she had to get her story to the paper as quickly as possible. She headed for the elevators after telling me to get word to Candace that she was glad she was awake and talking and probably giving the nurses hell.
I whispered to Tom how I was now officially Candace’s sister—and that meant I could I visit her. Belinda returned with her Coke, and the three of us waited together.
When I was allowed in for my five-minute visit with Candace, I signed a visitor sheet and went inside the ICU accompanied by the woman who sat at the desk. She pointed out Candace’s curtained-off area in the circular room.
I went to her bedside. Her eyes were closed, an IV dripped into a vein, and she had a blood pressure cuff around her upper arm. The machinery behind her bed beeped and displayed numbers and graphs. They made me so nervous; I tried to ignore them. How could patients rest with all this going on? But they were being well cared for, and that was all that mattered.
I sat and took a deep breath, exhaling quietly so as not to wake Candace up. I was content to sit by her side and watch her breathe. But her eyes fluttered open and widened when she saw me.
In a thick voice she said, “I thought you were Mom again and I had to pretend to be too drugged up to talk. Poor thing needs to chill. I’m fine as can be.”
“You got a new hairdo, I see.” I smiled and rested a hand over hers. It was so darn cold in here, and her fingers felt like ice.
“What did they do to my hair?” She started to lift her hand, but I stopped her.
“Check the mirror tomorrow and have a gasp. For now, you need to stay still if you want to get out of here.” I squeezed her frosty fingers.
“Listen, Jillian. I couldn’t ask my mother this because she’d give the guy in that next bed another heart attack by freaking out, but what the hell happened to me?”
I smiled. “Someone bonked you on the head. Good thing you have concerned neighbors. One of them found you and called 911.”
“They catch the jerk?” Her eyes closed, and she almost seemed to be nodding off.
I now understood about the five-minute visiting regulation.
“Not yet. But we will.” To myself, I added, If it’s the last thing any of us do.
Candace laughed the sarcastic laugh I was familiar with. “ ‘Officer down. Officer down.’ I can hear those words spewing out on radios all over the place. What they should have been saying is ‘Idiot officer let someone get the jump on her.’ ”
“Hey, don’t get worked up over something you can do nothing about. You need to chill more than your mom right now. Can I do anything for you before my time is up? You want some of these yummy ice chips I see?”
“I asked for a steak, but that’s all they brought me. But there is something. My notes about the Longworths are in my RAV4—I think. Did I even get out of my car?”
“You must have, because they found you in the parking lot,” I said.
“Anyway, find
the notes. Get my keys from the uniform they took off me. Mom says she has it in a bag from the emergency room.”
“You sure you don’t want Mike to take care of this?” I asked.
“No. You get them.” She grinned. “I went to that big old house and talked to the crazy family, but the details are fuzzy.”
“You remember where you were earlier in the day,” I said. “That’s a good sign.”
“I remember ole Chief Mike Baca making a fool of himself over Justine Longworth. She’s gotta be a whole lot older than him. Why does he always pick the wrong woman?”
“Candace, your notebook contains police business. I shouldn’t—”
“I’m with-it enough to know that the chief is gonna shut me down. So I want you to read them. My banged-up brain won’t let me remember.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I hate that.”
“Your brain will be fine and you’ll solve this case. For now—”
“He’ll put me on stupid sick leave. But you can help me stay connected. You and Tom. Yeah. We should get Tom on the case.” She giggled. “Yup. All hands on deck.”
She’d obviously forgotten that Tom was already on the case. If Candace was in her right mind—and she sure wasn’t—she wouldn’t want me reading her notes.
Candace reached through the bars on the side of the bed and gripped my arm. “Bring me the book tomorrow and read it to me. You and Tom want to help old lady Longworth. You believed her when I didn’t. You should know what I know. Or what I don’t know. Or—Jeez, I sound stupid, don’t I?”
“Not at all. I’ll get your notes. I promise.”
But would I give them to Mike or bring them here?
Twenty-Five
Candace’s mother had been happy to give me the keys to her daughter’s RAV4. “If that’s what my baby wants, then you can have them.”
Tom and I drove to the apartment complex parking lot, now cleared of any police presence. But when Tom opened her vehicle with the remote and the headlights flashed, Mercy police deputy Jerry Raymond jumped from behind a row of shrubs, weapon drawn.
He shouted, “Mercy PD. Hands in the air.” He held his flashlight and gun together, pointed right at our faces. The light was blinding.
We both did as we were told, and Tom said, “Jerry, it’s me and Jillian. Candace wanted to make sure her stuff was safe. See the keys in my hand?” Tom jangled them.
“You scared the living crap out of me, Stewart,” Jerry said.
We lowered our arms.
“Candy’s talking?” Jerry said. “That is some major good news, man.”
“She’s awake and she’ll be fine,” I said. “But she was worried about her evidence kit, stuff like that.”
“Just like her,” Jerry said. “Always worried about some evidence goin’ missin’. But I’ve been watching her RAV like a hawk. Ain’t nobody stealin’ nothin’ from our Candy.”
“She asked me to keep her things at my house until she’s released tomorrow. Would that be all right?” I said.
“I can take her stuff. Drop it at the station when I clock out in the mornin’,” he said.
“She wants Jillian’s eyes on this,” Tom said. “You know how she is.”
“Do I? Guess it would be all right, ’cause, man, I do not want to be on Candy’s bad side. Not never. But that evidence kit is police property. I gotta take care of that or the chief will be all up in my—sorry, Miss Jillian. I almost cussed. Anyways, take her personal stuff just to say you did what she asked. I’ll take her evidence kit to the station.”
And that was how we ended up with Candace’s notebook. It was on the front floorboard along with her baton, a flashlight and an umbrella. For some reason I’d expected the notes to be in her evidence kit, where I’d seen them before. I took the time to clean out the RAV of empty coffee cups and fast-food wrappers. I also collected several sweaters that had probably been in Candace’s backseat since last winter. She might not recognize her car when she got out of the hospital.
Tom and I returned to my place at about two in the morning. True to her word, Nancy Shelton was parked on the road outside my house. She got out of her car when we pulled into the driveway, told us that everything was fine and that she hadn’t even bothered Ritaestelle. The tiredlooking police chief went back to her car and drove off.
Ritaestelle, still dressed, was asleep on the sofa surrounded by cats.
Tom whispered, “Read through the notes if you’re not too tired. I’ll see you in the morning.” He kissed me lightly on the lips and left quietly.
Read through the notes? I had a problem with that.
I turned to see Syrah stretch his legs before approaching me. He had such lovely long legs and stretched so gracefully. I heard once from a breeder that cats live into their teens or twenties because they stretch all the time. The activity apparently activates their lymph system. Maybe I should take up yoga so my fur friends wouldn’t outlive me.
Syrah sat at my feet, and I knelt to scratch him behind the ears. Pretty soon I had all four cats looking for a little middle-of-the-night affection. Deciding I should wake Ritaestelle up and tell her about Candace, then make sure she slept in a bed, I walked over to the couch. I gently touched her shoulder.
Her eyes opened so quickly, I almost jumped backward. She was probably so anxious after all that had gone on that she was only half asleep.
“Oh my good gracious, you have come home.” She sat up, and I heard a few bones creak. “By your expression I am willing to wager that your friend will recover?”
“You’d win that bet,” I said. “She’s groggy and acting a little wacky, but the doctor said she’ll recover completely. She’ll probably be released tomorrow. But getting her to rest up will be a chore I do not envy her mother.”
Isis jumped in Ritaestelle’s lap as she said, “Deputy Carson is a very dedicated police officer. I cannot imagine her remaining on the sidelines for long.”
“I can’t either. Come on. It’s late. We both need a pillow and a quilt.” I picked up Isis, much to the cat’s chagrin—and earned a hiss for doing that. Then I helped Ritaestelle to her feet. All this maneuvering was done with the notebook tucked under my left arm. Maybe I was a good candidate for yoga.
Ten minutes later, after I’d washed my face and brushed my teeth, I settled into bed, the notebook on my bedside table. I couldn’t bring myself to open it, and yet I didn’t turn out the light. Syrah showed great interest in me just lying there, eyes on the ceiling. Merlot and Chablis cared only about sleeping. I’d put three kitty quilts at the foot of the bed, mostly to collect the summer shedding, but Syrah and Merlot rarely slept on theirs. That left Chablis to enjoy all three at various times. But tonight, Merlot curled up on the one at my feet, a nine-patch with a wild-goose-chase border in blues and whites. I wondered if he was feeling insecure because of having both cat and human houseguests, not to mention so many people coming in and out. He is a sensitive soul and used to routine. We’d had anything but routine in the last few days.
Try as I might, I couldn’t get the notebook out of my head. What if I only checked out what Candace had observed about the family and staff at the Longworth Estate?
Okay. But that was all I’d look at.
Propped up by several pillows, I opened the small spiral and immediately realized reading her notes would be easier said than done. I was aware that she always transferred these scribblings—and that was what they were, messy scribblings—to her computer as soon as she was able. She had grumbled about this chore on more than one occasion.
The first page had a giant red check mark through the writing, and I guessed that was her way of indicating she’d done the computer work. The first phrase was, “Morris keeping murder book.”
Murder book? What the heck was that? If I couldn’t even understand the first sentence, how would any of this make sense? The next words weren’t what I wanted to read: “Female, white, deceased.”
I skipped over pages until I found what she’d wanted me to re
ad to her tomorrow—her interview notes. There was a semblance of order here. I saw the full name of the first person she’d talked to—the butler, George Robertson. He’d given her the names of everyone who resided in the house—and even knew their middle initials. Smart to talk to him first, I thought.
But that was the last thought I had for hours. I woke up to Chablis, paws tucked, sitting on my chest on top of Candace’s notebook. She was purring. Because I was half sitting, my neck had a serious crick and the sunlight sneaking through the wood blinds seemed way too bright. What time was it, anyway?
I glanced over at the clock and saw that it was eight thirty. I never slept until eight thirty. I carefully removed Chablis from the notebook, closed it up and headed for the shower.
After I dressed and tried to do something with my uncooperative hair, I left the bedroom, only to see buttons littering the hallway. Where were they getting all these darn buttons? I gathered up about a dozen and dropped them off in my quilting room on the way to the kitchen. I smelled coffee and was a little amazed that Ritaestelle could even make coffee. After all, she did have people who did everything for her.
She and Tom were sitting in my living room. Huge muffins and three large coffees from Belle’s Beans sat on the coffee table. But Ritaestelle held a cup and saucer in front of her.
“Good morning, dear. Mr. Stewart brought us breakfast,” she said. “I did make a feeble attempt at making coffee myself. My George makes me the most wonderful morning coffee. I do miss him, but I can say I most sincerely do not miss the rest of my family.”
Isis, who was sharing the window seat with Merlot, raised her head and meowed after Ritaestelle spoke. I wonder if she knew the word family. Bet it was tossed around a lot at the Longworth house.
Tom picked up one of the to-go cups and brought it to me. “We all need some of this today.”
“I’m eyeing those muffins,” I said.
“How about taking one with us?” he said.
“Where are we going?” I asked, my mind still muddled by too little sleep.
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