by Gail Lukasik
“If you hadn’t given that interview, maybe you could,” I told her. “The media is probably staked out at your place waiting for you.”
“You know sometimes, Leigh, you’re a real bitch.”
I should have just shut up, but I was annoyed with her carelessness and her shutting me out. “You’re mad at yourself, not me,” I spat back.
“Oh, so now you’re a therapist in addition to being a detective, a journalist and an ex-teacher?”
Where was all this anger coming from? “I thought we were friends. What’s going on with you?”
“Yeah, I thought so too.”
When we pulled up in front of Joe’s house, Lydia was out of the truck before I turned the engine off.
As I opened my door, Salinger leapt out of the truck and ran in the direction of the open field beside Joe’s house. I didn’t call after her. I was tired of fighting difficult females.
Joe’s Gills Rock house suited him. It was a single-story, modular, blue-sided house, modest with white shutters and surrounded by open fields and savannahs. Next to the house rested several canoes on sawhorses.
By the time I reached the front door, Lydia was already inside. I could hear her apologizing. “Sorry about this. But Leigh and I . . . well, you know how she can be.”
I let the screen door slam behind me. “How can I be?”
Joe interrupted. “Got some iced tea in the fridge. Or there’s soft drinks, wine, beer?”
“Water’s fine,” I said, hoping Lydia would follow suit.
“This is only for one night,” Lydia explained to Joe. “By tomorrow I’m going back home, no matter what. Mind if we turn on the TV? It’s almost five.”
Joe looked at me questioningly.
“Lydia gave an interview to Alison Foster from Channel Ten, Green Bay.”
Joe turned on the small TV and, instantly, Alison appeared behind the ubiquitous anchor desk. She was still wearing the sky-blue cotton jacket, her hair as polished as before.
“Actor Nate Ryan died suddenly this morning in Fish Creek after a private yoga class at the Crystal Door Spa. Lydia Crane, the instructor, was with him at the time of his death. We have an exclusive interview with Lydia Crane.”
Then the screen cut away to the interview. There was the mobile home in the background and Lydia standing outside it addressing the camera.
“Can you tell us what happened?” Alison asked.
“Everything seemed fine. Then at the end of the class when he did the last pose, you know, Savasana, the corpse pose”—Lydia grinned stupidly—“he sat up, grabbed his chest, let out a pained cry, then fell back.”
For some reason she’d left out his vomiting.
“I understand you’re a nurse. Did you try to revive him?”
Lydia’s eyes looked glassy and unfocused. “Yes, but it was too late. I mean, he had no pulse. I could tell he was dead. But I still tried CPR.”
The screen cut back to the live news show. “That was Lydia Crane, the woman who tried to save Nate Ryan.”
Her male anchor, Ben Santos, wearing a grim expression, said, “Very eerie, what she said about that pose. Don’t you think so, Alison?”
“Very.”
Joe clicked the remote and the room fell into silence.
“I’ll get you a glass of water, Leigh. Lydia, what do you want?”
“I don’t care. I really don’t care.” She sat on the couch, hugging her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth.
As I waited for Joe to return, I considered what I could say to ease Lydia’s distress. You did everything you could to save him. Stop beating yourself up!You have to know that having sex with him last night didn’t cause his death. Before I could say anything, Joe returned with a glass of water and a tumbler of something amber.
“Whiskey,” he said, handing the tumbler to Lydia, who sniffed it. “Good for the nerves.” Lydia took a long pull then edged herself back, letting go of her legs.
I quickly drank the water while Joe filled the silence with gossip about work and the marina and anything to keep off the topic of Ryan’s death. Finally, even he ran out of things to say.
It was past six o’clock. “I’m going to head out,” I said. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Lydia stared at the tumbler as if I were already gone.
Joe walked me outside.
“What do you think is going on with Lydia?” I asked.
“Shock, that’s all.”
“I’m not so sure it’s just shock.”
He rested his hand on my arm. His touch felt warm and soothing, full of strength and reassurance. I’d forgotten how secure he made me feel. Or maybe I didn’t want to remember. “Leigh, a man died at her place, and there was nothing she could do. Take my word for it, no matter how many times you deal with it, you never get used to something like that.”
Salinger took that moment to come bounding out of the field, weeds tangled around her neck. Joe let go of my arm.
I bent down and disentangled her from the weeds, then opened the truck’s door. It took two jumps before Salinger settled herself in the passenger seat. After I climbed in the other side, Joe handed me a torn piece of paper. “Here’s the address to that cabin I was telling you about.” He was leaning in the window, and I caught his familiar piney-outdoorsy scent.
I glanced down at the address, Timberline Road, down the road from Joe’s house. “You gotta be kidding.”
“Like I said, it’s clean and cheap. What have you got to lose?”
“Nothing, I guess.”
Before heading to Fish Creek, I drove south on Timberline Road. What did I have to lose, right? The mailbox was in a culvert, and trees hid the green county address marker, so I missed the house and had to double back. The truck bumped down the winding gravel driveway, low-lying tree branches scraping the top of my truck and causing Salinger to let out menacing growls. The driveway ended in a turnaround in front of the cabin. White cedar logs, if I knew my wood, mortar between the logs, and white lacy curtains on the windows. The cabin had to be at least a hundred years old. Salinger let out a series of barks as a squirrel scurried up one of the tall pine trees surrounding the cabin.
“It’s okay, girl,” I said, running my fingers through her matted fur. “In fact, it’s better than okay.”
That sly fox, Joe Stillwater, I thought as I got out of the truck to check out my future home. How did he know I’d fall in love with this charming house? Even before I peered in the windows and saw the stone fireplace and rustic furniture, the walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, I’d made my mind up.
For once Salinger didn’t go tearing off into the woods. Instead, she stood beside me, her nose twitching with the earthy, dark scents of the place.
“I know,” I said, crouching beside her, “it’s kinda magical.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was after eleven p.m. when I parked the truck on a side street across from Founder’s Square. I’d driven by after leaving Joe’s house but hadn’t stopped, glimpsing a plethora of reporters and camera people on the sidewalk and in the parking lot behind Lydia’s studio. Rather than risk the media gauntlet, I’d gone home and waited.
Now only a few tourists were ambling past the shops. And when I walked behind Lydia’s studio, the parking lot was empty. The media must have moved on to the next big story.
Even so, I took my time glancing right and left before I unlocked the door and went inside. Immediately the lingering incense scent and the underlying stink of vomit assaulted me. I put my hand over my nose as I entered the studio where Ryan had died. All Ryan’s stuff was gone, and his vomit had been cleaned up.
If it wasn’t for the smell, the studio was as it was before. I figured the police had done a thorough search of the studio, so there was no need to look around. I hurried up the back steps to Lydia’s living quarters. At the top of the stairs was a large carpeted room that served as a combination great room and office. Piled against one wall were large floor pil
lows that Lydia used for her monthly women’s circle, sort of a New Age bull session. There were three doors leading from the room. I took the first door on the right, which led into her bedroom. The bed was made, so if there’d been any further sexual antics this morning, they hadn’t happened here.
In the bedroom closet I found her carry-on black suitcase and stuffed it with an assortment of clothes from her closet and dresser drawers. Then I went into her bathroom, took her nightgown from behind the door, rifled through the bathroom medicine cabinet for her toothbrush, hairbrush, and an assortment of other toiletries. I was about to leave her bathroom, when I thought I heard a noise from downstairs. I froze. Had I locked the door behind me? In my hurry I couldn’t remember. For a moment I didn’t move as I strained to hear any sounds.
Silence. I let out a deep breath, gathered up Lydia’s remaining things, threw them into her suitcase and hustled down the stairs into the studio. Then I stopped. The studio was in total darkness. I distinctly remembered switching on the tiny table lamp at the entrance to the studio.
Someone else was in the studio. I could run back upstairs, and then what? There were no locks on any of the doors. If someone were here, I’d be trapped upstairs. Or I could make a run for the hallway, which led to the parking lot door. Not liking either choice, I decided to run.
Awkwardly clutching Lydia’s suitcase to my chest, I sprinted toward the hallway. Just as I reached the hallway, I sensed movement behind me, started to turn, then never made it around. The blow struck my head hard and fast. I reached out toward the wall as I fell forward. Just before everything went black, I knew I was in trouble.
When I awoke, I was flat on my back, Lydia’s suitcase beside me, all its contents scattered across the hallway as if it’d exploded.
My head was throbbing, banded in pain. Gingerly I felt around the back of my head and grimaced when I touched a marble-sized bump. Ouch! I touched it again, feeling for blood. There wasn’t any, just pulsating pain.
Slowly I inched myself up to a seated position, and a wave of nausea washed over me. I eased myself back down, taking in deep breaths to settle my stomach while listening for any sounds. The studio was silent except for the whoosh of the A/C. Whoever had attacked me was gone.
Finally, my stomach quieted and I tried sitting up again. This time there was no nausea. Crawling around the hallway, I gathered up Lydia’s stuff and slowly got to my feet, using the wall for support. For a few minutes I leaned against the wall to steady myself.
Looking around the dark space, I chided myself for not making sure the door was locked behind me. Most likely my attacker had sneaked in after me, hid, then hit me over the head as I was leaving with the suitcase. But why not stay hidden and wait for me to leave? He or she thought there was something in Lydia’s suitcase, since the attacker had obviously searched the suitcase. What for?
As I moved gingerly down the hallway toward the door, something shiny near the threshold caught my eye. Slowly I reached down and waited as dizziness washed over me before picking it up. A tiny gold key. Was this the good luck charm Harper’d told me about? I turned it in my hand, studying the exposed edges, where the gilt had worn away over time.
Had Harper been my attacker? Or had someone wanted me to think that Harper was my attacker? And if so, why? I slipped the key into my pocket and exited the studio, locking the door and jiggling the knob twice to make sure it was locked.
The warm summer air was sticky with humidity and a breeze blew off the Bay as I walked to my truck. It must be really late because no one was on the street.
As I drove east on Route A toward home, my head was throbbing and my stomach was roiling again. Whether Harper had been my attacker or someone wanted me to think it was Harper, someone had been looking for something in Lydia’s studio. What could that have been? Lydia was going to tell me what she was holding back one way or another.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THURSDAY, JULY 13
Joe’s truck was gone when I pulled up to his house the next morning. I grabbed Lydia’s suitcase and strode up the porch steps, determined to wheedle out of Lydia what she wasn’t telling me. Someone had attacked me last night, and I wanted to know why.
Without knocking I went inside, following the acrid scent of strong coffee.
Lydia sat at the kitchen table, hugging a mug with her hands and staring out the screen door toward the endless stretch of burnt yellow fields. She didn’t even look away when I set her suitcase on the floor and went over to the coffee maker and poured myself a cup.
Without saying a word, I sat across from Lydia, purposely blocking her view. She stared at me as if she needed to get me in focus. Then she looked down at her hands and back up at me.
“Thanks, you know, for getting my stuff.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
I shook my head and instantly regretted it as a stab of pain radiated through my skull. Automatically I reached back and fingered the bump.
“You okay?” Lydia asked. “You look kinda green.”
“Someone whacked me over the head last night.” I’d taken two analgesics when I’d gotten home last night and two more this morning, which had only dulled the pain.
“What? When you went to my place?”
“Yeah.” I was about to demand what she was holding back when she jumped up out of her chair and started feeling around the back of my head, making me gasp with pain.
“Ouch! Go easy, will you?” I pushed her hand away.
“Why didn’t you call me? Did you ice it?” Before I could answer, she went to the counter top, tore off a strip of paper towels, took out a bunch of ice cubes from the freezer, wrapped the paper towel around the ice cubes, and then pressed the makeshift ice pack to the lump.
“Hold it there for ten minutes,” she instructed me, taking my left hand and placing it on the ice pack. Then she sat down again, chewing on her bottom lip.
The ice felt good, and the pain began to lessen. “You’re seeing a doctor. I mean it,” she sounded like the old, self-confident Lydia. “You could have a concussion. This is nothing to fool around with. You could develop a blood clot.”
“Lydia, stop,” I demanded. With the old Lydia back, now was the time to probe. “If you want to help me, tell me what you’re hiding.”
Her gaze bounced around the room, then finally came back to me. “I can’t. He swore me to secrecy.”
“Who? Nate Ryan?”
She nodded. “I don’t think he meant to tell me. But he was so angry when he showed up at the studio. He was like another person. At first I thought he might be on something. He was practically jumping out of his skin, pacing back and forth, flushed and agitated. But no, he wasn’t. I could tell.” She took in a deep breath, and I readied myself for whatever it was that Ryan had told her, expecting the worst.
“He changed his mind. You know that half mill he was going to donate for the rebuilding of the theater? He wasn’t going to do it. Something changed his mind.”
“Did you ask him what it was?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. All he would say was he almost wished he had hit her. You know, Nina, his ex-wife.”
“But he’d already announced his donation to the BT before the play,” I reasoned. “How could he withdraw it? I’m sure he signed something before the announcement.”
“He said he didn’t care what he signed or what people thought about him. They were going to think it anyway. Something about there being worse things in life. When I asked him what he meant by that, he shut down.”
“Did you tell Chet about this?”
“I was going to, then I thought, why? Ryan’s dead, and the BT needs that new theater. Why start some kind of legal wrangling? I mean, I don’t even know if what he told me would hold up in court. And maybe if he hadn’t died, he would have left things as they were once he’d calmed down.”
“You can’t know that,” I countered. “You have to tell Chet.” Her reasoning was totally skewed.
“Look who’s talking.” She let out a t
ight laugh.
She was right. In the past I’d held back my share of info from Chet, but this was different. If the autopsy showed foul play, she’d have to tell Chet.
“I don’t see what difference it makes anyway.” Lydia shrugged her shoulders dismissively. “I just want this whole thing over with.”
“And there’s nothing else?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, Lydia. Someone bonked me on the head so they could search through your stuff. Humor me.”
“Maybe it was the paparazzi or someone like that. Thinking there was something in my studio that would make a great story.”
“As much as I’d like to blame this on them, I don’t think so. You’re sure Nate didn’t give you anything that said he was withdrawing his donation?”
“Don’t you think I’d give it to the police if he had?”
“You didn’t tell Chet about his wanting to withdraw the money,” I countered.
“That’s different.” Her protest sounded half-hearted.
With my free hand, I reached into my pocket, pulled out the gold key charm and put it on the table. “Have you ever seen this before?”
She didn’t touch it, just stared at it. “No, why?”
“After I came to, I found it in your hallway. I think whoever attacked me dropped it or left it there on purpose.” Until I knew for sure, there was no point in upsetting Lydia more by telling her it might be Harper Kennedy’s key charm.
“Left it there on purpose? Dropped it? Stop it, okay?” She held up both hands. “I can’t take your probing and leaps of imagination right now.” Her eyes filled with tears, which she blinked away. “A man died in my arms and there wasn’t a thing I could do to save him. Nothing. So keep whatever crazy thoughts you’re having to yourself.”
She pushed back on her chair and stood up.
“I’m sorry,” I said, really meaning it. I’d never seen Lydia so vulnerable and upset. Still dressed in my oversized sweats and t-shirt, she looked like a little kid. All my protective instincts were in high gear.