“Hey, where are you?” John demanded. “They’re almost out of Swedish meatballs.”
“Listen,” I told him, “I’m gonna have to take a rain check on lunch. I think I’ve got a lead on this story I’ve been working on. Keep your fingers crossed that my hunch pans out. I could really use a break.”
“This must be big,” John said. “It’s not like you to pass up a free lunch.”
I clicked off with John and my stomach roared in protest. My digestive juices had been really looking forward to those meatballs. I punched in redial. “Can you get me some meatballs to go?” I asked. “And those little powdered cookies for dessert? I’ll swing by your place later to pick them up.”
The light turned green. I stepped on the gas and began slogging my way through mid-town traffic. I was headed for Hillgarden Convalescent Home, the current residence of Laura Stewart’s stroke-afflicted father, Bill. With any luck, I’d have my credible witness within the hour.
The way I figured it, Bill Stewart was my best hope—and my last chance—for finding out what really happened to Laura. According to Laura’s diary, she’d tried to talk to her dad about what was bothering her, but he’d refused to accept what she had to say.
On some level, Stewart had to have known what was going on between Ethan and Laura, but until she flat-out told him, he could go on denying the truth. But what if Tamra confirmed his suspicions the day she visited the house? Mrs. Stewart said Bill was very agitated after Tamra’s visit, but he wouldn’t discuss it with his wife. He did however, talk to Ethan.
Ethan had blamed Tamra for Mr. Stewart’s stroke. But Bill was alive and kicking after Tamara left, which was more than one could say after his conversation with his stepson. Maybe he’d put two and two together and realized that Laura’s murderer wasn’t some random stranger, but her own half brother.
Mrs. Stewart was so grateful that Ethan was there when Bill went down for the count. But there had been no one around to dispute Ethan’s version of what had taken place that night. What if Bill had confronted Ethan with his suspicions? Did the realization that his biggest nightmare was true cause Bill’s stroke?
If that were the case, Ethan would have a vested interest in seeing that his stepfather keep those suspicions to himself. For all anyone knew, Bill could have been unconscious for several life-threatening minutes before Ethan called the paramedics.
Would he have even made that call to 911, had his mother not walked into the den and discovered her husband lying half-dead on the floor?
I pulled up in front of Hillgarden Convalescent Home and jumped out of the truck. My grandmother had spent a fair amount of time at Hillgarden before she died so I knew my way around. There was a reception area on the first floor, with the patients’ rooms laid out in a square overlooking a garden.
My first order of business was to find out if anyone was in the room with Mr. Stewart, before I marched in demanding he rat out his stepson in the literal blink of an eye. This was going to be difficult enough without having to explain my presence there, should his wife be keeping a bedside vigil. I mean, what would I say? “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Stewart. I just dropped by to collect incriminating evidence from your dying husband about your son, who, I’m pretty sure murdered your daughter… is this a good time?”
I began walking towards the reception area when I saw a man emerge from a room at the far end of the hallway. He was pushing a guy in a wheel chair, along with one of those portable stands that had an I.V. bag hanging from it. The rig got stuck in the door and I was about to run over and offer my assistance, when I recognized the man pushing the chair. It was Ethan and he was headed in my direction. Oy.
Since I didn’t have time to whip out the Groucho glasses and fake mustache, I yanked up my hood and turned my back to them, finding a sudden interest in the abstract paintings hanging on the wall. As they shuffled past me I stole a glance at the two of them. Bill Stewart was strapped into his chair like the guest of honor at an electrocution. He was bundled in blankets up to his neck, his jaw muscles slack against his chest. The only sign of life was in his eyes, which were darting around in his head like a human pinball machine.
As they reached the visitors’ desk, Stewart raised his head to the receptionist and emitted a series of garbled sounds, his neck muscles straining from the effort. She smiled kindly at him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stewart, I can’t understand you.”
I gave myself points for not vaulting over the desk and shouting, “He clearly said, ‘Ethan’s trying to kill me,’ you moron,” and hunkered back against the wall.
“Claudia, I’m taking my stepfather out to the garden for a while,” Ethan cut in. “He seems a bit sluggish today. I think a change of scenery and some fresh air will do him good.” The poor guy didn’t seem sluggish to me. He seemed freakin’ terrified.
Stewart’s head began to rock back and forth, the noises emanating from his throat gaining momentum. Claudia praised his efforts like a proud mother. “Oh, Mr. Stewart, you’ve made so much progress over the past few days. You keep this up and you’ll be speaking again in no time.”
Ethan blanched under the fluorescent lighting. With Stewart starting to regain his speech, it would be only a matter of time before he’d be able to tell people what Ethan had done. That was the good news. It was also the bad news, since Ethan knew that and wasn’t shy about saving his own neck at the expense of someone else’s.
I didn’t think he would try anything with visitors and nursing home staff cruising around. I figured I’d wait until he left for the day and then go back in and talk to Bill.
I inched my way out the front door, ran back to the truck and hopped in. From this vantage point I could see both the courtyard and the front door of the convalescent home.
I was cold and hungry and I really had to pee. I popped open Nick’s glove compartment on the off chance he had a bag of M&M’s or a Snicker’s bar stashed away somewhere. All I could find was a box of raisins and they weren’t even chocolate coated. They were the regular kind and a little on the stale side. I poured out a handful and stuffed them into my mouth. Then I got out a pair of mini binoculars from my pocketbook, settled back in the seat and trained my eyes on the courtyard.
I don’t think I could make a career out of being a spy. Surveillance work isn’t really my thing. There’s too much waiting around for stuff to happen. I’m more of an “instant gratification” kind of gal. I put the binoculars back in my bag and waited some more.
To pass the time I drummed out Christmas carols on the dashboard and played a couple of games of Five Card Draw on my cell phone. That ate up about ten minutes. I was about to start making my birthday wish-list when the phone rang. I checked the readout and smiled.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hello, Angel.” Nick’s voice was rich and warm as hot fudge, and a rush of heat spread throughout my body. “Where are you?” he asked.
“I’m sitting in your truck outside Hillgarden Convalescent Home. Girard’s in there with his stepfather. I’m waiting for him to leave so that I can talk to Stewart.”
“Oh? What’s the occasion?”
“I found Laura’s journal. Ethan killed his sister, Nick. After reading her last entry, I’m sure of it and I think Stewart knows it too. I just need him to confirm it for me.”
Nick hesitated a beat and when he spoke again there was an uncharacteristic quality in his tone. Something that bordered on worried.
“Does DiCarlo know where you are?”
“No. Why?”
“No reason. Just be careful, darlin’. This guy is desperate, and desperate people do desperate things.”
After we hung up, I rooted through the glove compartment some more and found a book on tape, which would have passed the time quite nicely had it been in English, but, as luck would have it, was in Russian. Oh jeez, as if I don’t feel inadequate enough around Nick. I mean how many languages does this guy know? Note to self: Stop pretending that speaking Pig Latin makes me bilingual and
learn a real second language.
I picked up the binoculars again in time to catch Ethan wheel his stepdad back inside through the garden side entrance. Fifteen minutes later he emerged alone and headed towards the parking lot. I waited until he pulled into traffic and then hopped out of the car and made a beeline back to the building.
To keep things uncomplicated I decided to circumvent the front desk and sneak in through the service entrance. That put me directly in front of Mr. Stewart’s room. The door was made of metal, with a small, rectangular, wire mesh window that hit almost eye level to me. I stood on tiptoe and peered in.
He was propped up in a semi-sitting position on the bed, the covers drawn to just under his chin. I could see the soft rise and fall of his chest as he lie there, eyes closed, his head resting against the pillows. According to Eric, Bill Stewart was a powerful man, but there was no indication of that now. I knocked softly so as not to startle him and entered and approached the bed. His eyelids fluttered open and he stared at me blankly.
I figured I might as well plunge right in. The guy wasn’t exactly in a position to throw me out. “Mr. Stewart, my name is Brandy Alexander and I’m a reporter with WINN news. I’m very sorry to intrude on you like this but it’s imperative that I speak with you. I need to ask you some questions about your daughter and your stepson.”
Stewart opened his mouth and emitted a barrage of noise akin to a seal pup in distress. It took me a minute to realize he was saying, “Laura.” His eyes filled with tears and instantly I felt ashamed of myself. Oh God, I’ve made him cry. I’m a terrible person.
I grabbed a tissue off the bed stand and wiped his eyes for him. “Look, Mr. Stewart, I realize you don’t know me, so you have absolutely no reason to trust me. But I think you may be in danger and I want to help you. Only you have to work with me here. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
Stewart blinked two watery eyes at me.
“Good.” I took a deep breath. “You know something about the night Laura was killed, don’t you? Something to do with Ethan.”
The muscles in his jaw began to twitch and he gave an excruciatingly slow and painful nod of his head.
I tried to sound as non-judgmental as possible. As if there were any way to make an accusation about incest and sorocide appear like polite bedside chit chat. “Mr. Stewart, would you prefer lime Jell-O with those lamb chops or did you want to go with the sorbet? And, oh, by the way, I think your stepson boffed and offed your daughter and if you could just confirm that for me, that’d be great.”
“Um, here’s what I think, Mr. Stewart. I think Ethan was molesting Laura and when she threatened to tell people about it, he killed her.” I took the waterworks that sprang from his eyes as a “yes” and moved on.
“You confronted Ethan about this on the day you had your stroke, didn’t you?” Another head nod, accompanied by a huge, strangled sob. “And then he left you there to die.” I had no more questions. The look of anguish in his eyes said it all.
“Mr. Stewart. I don’t mean to scare you, but I’m pretty sure Ethan sees your recovery as a liability. You’ve got to make a statement to the police before he comes back to finish the job. Would you be willing to do that?”
He nodded his head again, and I swear I saw relief in that semi frozen face.
“Listen,” I said, walking towards the door, “I’m just going to get one of the hospital staff in here so they can verify what you indicated to me. And then I’ll call the police and have them come down here to help you. Okay?” I didn’t wait for an answer.
I began to pull open the door, but something stopped me. Through the wire mesh window I spied a man dressed in a white hospital attendant’s uniform slip out of the service entrance and head straight for Bill Stewart’s room. Only I got the distinct feeling he wasn’t there to aid and comfort.
My heart pounding in my ears, I backed away from the door and dove towards the bathroom, issuing a directive along the way to the paralyzed man in the bed. “Ethan’s coming. Act natural!”
I had barely wedged myself behind the bathroom door when Ethan entered the room, carefully shutting the main door behind him. He stopped at the foot of the bed, gazing with chilling impassivity at the motionless figure lying prone in front of him.
Stewart stared back at him, eyes unblinking, willing himself to see past the man standing before him to the boy he loved like his own son. A moment passed and once again the tears flowed freely, only this time they were Ethan’s.
Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he shook his head, emitting a short, embarrassed cough. Then he walked around to the side of the bed, his back to the bathroom. I closed one eye, straining to see through the crack in the door and praying he didn’t get a sudden urge to take a leak before finishing off the old man.
Ethan fumbled in his pocket for a moment and extracted a hypodermic needle. Maybe he came back to give him a B12 shot. I hear that does wonders for your energy level. Oh shit, probably not.
Bill Stewart lay helpless in the bed, his eyes never straying from Ethan’s. Ethan began to speak again, his voice soft and apologetic, a direct contrast to the unthinkable act he was about to commit.
“I don’t want to do this, Bill. I really don’t. You’ve been good to me, but you’ve left me no choice… none of them did. I see how you look at me now, like I’m some kind of a monster. But I never forced her. It wasn’t that way between Laura and me. I gave her what she wanted, what she needed. I loved her, dad, you know I did.”
He held the needle to the light, gently flicking out the bubbles. “You’ll have to trust me though; this is really for the best. You wouldn’t want to live like this anyway. Look, don’t worry. You won’t feel a thing.”
Mr. Stewart’s jaw dropped open and he began an assault of mind-numbing sounds which I’m sure, roughly translated to “For the love of God, Alexander, do something!”
I dropped to my knees and slowly opened the bathroom door. If Stewart could just keep up his dolphin-speak long enough to distract his step son…
I belly crawled along the floor, barely breathing, inching my way towards Ethan with stealth-like precision. He was hyper focused on Stewart, quietly imploring him to shut the hell up. I was almost there. Just a few more feet and—my cell phone went off.
I froze, mid crawl, listening to the absurdly tinny sound of Green Day’s Good Riddance, an eerily fitting choice under the circumstances. I looked wildly around to see where I’d left my phone. And then I spied it, sitting on the floor in the corner of the room. It must have fallen out of my bag when I first came in.
I watched in horror as Ethan strode over and picked it up. He examined it for a beat, flipped it open and waited.
Even with his ear pressed against the receiver, my mother’s dulcet tones permeated the room.
“Hello? Brandy, is that you? Helloooo.” Oh, crap.
I scrambled under the bed, which was really stupid, considering all Ethan had to do was look down to see me trapped there like a beached whale. The sudden movement must have caught his eye because the next thing I knew we were eyeball to eyeball.
He reached out and grabbed for me, catching me by my coat collar. I began to scream and he tightened his grip, yanking me forward by the lapels. His look murderous, he stood and dragged me to my feet. “You never learn, do you?” he hissed in my ear.
I whipped around, balled up my fist and punched him square in the face. Blood spurted from his perfect nose. He cursed and reeled back and I kicked him hard in the shin, catching him off balance.
Ethan toppled over, pulling me down with him. I struggled free of his grip and stumbled towards the door. He crawled to his knees and lunged for me, catching me around the middle. I screamed again and was clawing desperately at his arms, when in a flash, the door flung open and Nick appeared in the entry, a colt forty-five gripped tightly in his hand. It was trained at Ethan’s head.
Ethan snaked his arm around my neck and dragged me up alongside him, the hypodermic ne
edle still clutched in his hand. Now he raised it and pressed it firmly against my jugular vein. If I gulped I was a goner.
“Drop the gun or she’s dead,” Ethan warned.
Drop the gun, Nick. I don’t want to be dead. Drop the gun!
“I can’t do that,” Nick said calmly.
Shit. Why not?
As if he could read my thoughts, Nick locked eyes with me, silently asking me to trust him. “Because this scumbag is going to use you as a human shield until he’s safe and then he’s going to kill you anyway, darlin’. Isn’t that right, Girard?”
Ethan didn’t bother to deny it. Nudging me forward, our heads less than an inch apart, he began a slow shuffle towards the door. Suddenly, I had trouble breathing. My skin felt clammy and black spots swam before my eyes. “Nick,” I implored, and in that instant I heard the crack of the gun as it blew a bullet past my head and imbedded itself into the front of Ethan’s skull.
Chapter Eighteen
“…and then he pulled the trigger.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah, just like that.”
“Wow.”
Seated on my couch, Carla curled her feet beneath her and passed around a pitcher of margaritas. We all took deep slugs including my mother, not bothering with glasses. Franny eyed the pitcher longingly and rubbed her stomach.
“Do you think you can manage to stay out of trouble long enough for me to give birth?” she asked. “It’s not fair that you almost died and I have to deal with it sober.”
“I definitely should have taken that into consideration. I’ll try to time my escapades better in the future,” I told her.
Bobby had called everyone from the police station to fill them in on what happened. I was grateful that he’d given them a heads-up. I didn’t have the energy to relive the ordeal without major liquid fortification.
“So how did Nick know you were in trouble?” Janine wanted to know, taking the pitcher out of my mom’s hands. “They’re stronger than they taste, Mrs. Alexander.”
No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) Page 25