by Gail Lukasik
At least she has the solace of her faith, I thought, hanging up the phone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: THURSDAY, JULY 20
“Could Nate Ryan Have Been Saved?” The headline blared across the front cover of PopQ. Below the headline was a full-page photo of Nate Ryan at the peak of his career: thick blondish hair, perfect bone structure and those blue eyes, dangerous and devilish. On the bottom right was a small photo of Lydia looking tense and harried.
“They’ve been flying off the shelf since we opened at six,” said Jenny, the market’s owner, as she rang up the magazine, a pink lemonade, a turkey sandwich and a bag of peanut butter–flavored doggie treats, Salinger’s favorite. “Been selling a lot of the Gazette as well. Liked your article better, though. You tell Lydia when you see her, there’s nothing she could have done.”
After paying for my purchases, I went to the truck, where Salinger was waiting patiently for her well-deserved reward. She’d been my guinea pig for this morning’s assignment—an article on the new doggie day care operation in Liberty Grove called Pet Adventures. Tag line: “Even your pet deserves a vacation.” The facility catered to pet owners who wanted to travel with their pets. If the pet stayed overnight, you could choose a themed-adventure room from African Safari to Amazon Rainforest. Salinger was near exhaustion when I finished the interview after zooming—running around the enclosure with a pack of dogs—for two hours. Now maybe she’d sleep deeply tonight.
Since chasing the mysterious car, she’d been acting skittish all week, waking me up at night, growling and scratching at the window. Tuesday night she’d been so agitated, I threw on a robe, grabbed a flashlight and pepper spray and walked around the cabin, finding nothing. Last night I’d locked her in the kitchen and cranked my box fan to high in order to muffle her growls. After an uninterrupted sleep, I felt revitalized today.
It was another gloriously hot and clear blue-sky day so I decided to eat my lunch down by the Egg Harbor marina, where I could absorb the painterly view of the yachts and sailboats bobbing listlessly in the water. In the distance lay a lush green island like some promise of serenity, which I was craving.
I’d spent the week reporting on fluff stories that catered to the tourists, from the opening of a new gallery to a shop that sold only popcorn. I didn’t see much future in the popcorn shop, but the gallery had promise, featuring oversized paintings, mostly vague dreamy scenes that could be Door County. It was hard to tell for sure.
So I’d had little time to work on the BT piece. Jake wanted me to report on the last performance of The Importance of Being Earnest on Sunday, celebrating the BT’s sixty-fifth anniversary. After the performance, Nina was expected to announce that the fundraising goal for the rebuilding of the theater had been reached, thanks in large part to Nate Ryan’s generous donation. Another celebratory after-party at Serenity House was planned for Sunday night’s performance. Donors, cast and crew were invited.
When I complained to Jake about the endless stream of fluff assignments, he’d said, “When are you spending a weekend at the BT?”
“Still waiting to hear back from Barbara.” I’d left a dozen phone messages, which had gone unanswered.
“I’ll give Webber a call today.”
“Knock yourself out.” I was still miffed that Webber had told Jake instead of me about Sunday’s party celebrating their fund-raising success.
Neither of us said anything about our “date,” the chaste kiss, or if we were ready for another date. Like drag-racing teenagers playing chicken, we were waiting for the other to blink, swerve off the road and say, “You win.” I wasn’t budging. This time I wanted to be courted and wooed. Or maybe I wanted a respite from men and the intricacies of what they called love.
There were no parking slots by the marina, so I parked in the small lot overlooking the harbor. I gave Salinger a peanut butter treat, took a sip of the lemonade and a bite of the turkey sandwich, then started reading Lydia’s PopQ article. Before calling Lydia, I needed to assess the damage—and I was convinced there would be damage.
PopQ thrived on lurid gossip about celebrities. They had a weekly section called “What were they thinking!” where so-called experts rated celebs on their fashion faux pas, giving them percentage points: the worse the attire, the higher the percentage. Of all the magazines Lydia could have given an interview to, this was near the bottom of the proverbial barrel, often crossing the boundary between truth and reality in an effort to sell magazines. I shuddered just thinking what webs of fantasy they’d woven with Lydia’s self-incriminating statements.
The article was positioned dead center, subtitled “Nate’s Golden Hour.” It was told from Lydia’s point of view and full of self-blame. Lydia came across as incompetent at best and negligent at worse. “I knelt over him and didn’t know what to do.” Had she really said those words?
By her own admission, she didn’t call 9-1-1 immediately. Instead, she’d given him CPR, even though she thought he was already dead—thought, not knew. Did it really happen that way? Lydia told me so many versions of that morning, changing the details with each telling, that I wondered if she even knew what happened.
As if the writer wanted to give legitimacy to the article, there was a sidebar titled “The Golden Hour,” giving symptoms of cardiac arrest and, in a gesture either of momentary conscience or fear of a lawsuit, pointing out that Nate Ryan had exhibited only three of the signs. But the article added that even two signs should be taken seriously, according to Blaine Ving, MD.
The glossy colored photos made Lydia look hard, her yoga studio stark and her building shabby. Nate Ryan’s photos showed him as a younger man full of promise and amazingly handsome and virile. The visual message was obvious: this hard woman had robbed the world of this beautiful man by not doing her job. There was no mention of Ryan’s years of drug abuse. If Lydia’s intention was to punish herself before the whole world, this article was her scarlet letter—there for everyone to see and to judge.
I read the article again, this time more slowly, jotting down what facts I could glean from the sensationalism and exaggerations. There weren’t many, and most of them came from Dr. Ving’s reported signs of a heart attack and the golden hour. Nate had complained of indigestion, tiredness and nausea. I flashed back on the vomit. The confusion Lydia had told me about wasn’t one of the signs. But maybe when you’re in the middle of a cardiac event, you’re confused. Or maybe the joint he’d smoked had resulted in his confusion. Again, I speculated that Lydia might have joined him in that joint, which would account for her slow reaction time and spaciness. And that led me to question whether Lydia had even been capable of giving a yoga class. What had really gone on in Lydia’s studio that morning?
I fished my phone out of my bag and speed-dialed Lydia’s cell phone. After one ring it went to voice mail, telling me her mailbox was full.
Though I doubted Lydia was back at her living quarters above the studio, especially in light of the PopQ article, I called her shop anyway. Another voice message. It was Lydia explaining that the Crystal Door was closed until further notice. That meant Carrie was no longer holding down the fort.
There must be a stream of gawkers at her place, peering in the windows, taking photos and posing in front of the shop/studio. I imagined the Facebook entries: “Wonderful time in Door County. Good beach weather. Here’s where Nate Ryan died.”
My last option was the Bay Hospital. Maybe she’d gone back to work to keep her mind off Nate’s death. When I asked for Lydia Crane, the operator told me she wasn’t on duty today.
“How about Joe Stillwater? Is he there?” Joe might know where Lydia was.
“I’ll transfer you to the ER.”
Before I could ask about Lydia, Joe launched into a tirade. “You seen that article on Lydia yet? Piece of crap, if you ask me. There’s no way she could have saved that guy. I told her that. You know how many cardiac patients survive that golden hour? Not many. I suppose you’re looking for her? She was at my place whe
n I left around one o’clock for my shift. She said something about taking off. But she didn’t say when. I think she was regretting giving that interview though. She looked real scared to me. And Lydia doesn’t do scared.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“Nope. But she was on my computer most of the night. I only know that because I got up to go to the bathroom, and she was sitting at the kitchen table hunched over it. When I left for the hospital, she was back on the computer.” He stopped. “Hey, she told me about your divorce. How you holding up?”
At the mention of the divorce, my chest tightened. “It’s not like it was a surprise.” I kept my tone casual and light—the gay divorcée, that was me.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Leigh, but your husband was a real asshole.”
In a moment of weakness I’d confided in Joe about Tom’s inability to cope with my breast cancer. “I gotta go.”
“I guess you’re not ready yet to talk?”
“I’m fine, really, Joe. There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Okay, water woman. Whatever you say.” Calling me water woman brought back that night when I’d let Joe in; not just into my bed, but into the emotional side of me I’d let no one see, not even Jake.
“I’ll be fine,” I repeated. And if I said it enough, maybe I’d convince myself.
“When you’re through being fine, I’m here for you,” Joe offered.
After I hung up, I stared out at that island. In the shimmering heat, it looked like an oasis.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
My relief at finding Lydia’s sporty red car parked in Joe’s driveway vanished as I peered inside. The passenger’s side window was smashed in, her glove box hung open, and the contents were scattered across the floor and the passenger seat. Lying on the ground beside the car was the PopQ magazine, its pages fluttering in the breeze.
I glanced toward the blue house. The front screen door was ajar, tapping manically.
Driving up the peninsula, I’d phoned Joe’s house repeatedly, getting a busy signal every time. Had Lydia taken the phone off the hook to escape the media? She might have. But would the media even know she was at Joe’s? They did have their ways. And that PopQ article had been inflammatory enough to garner Lydia even more attention.
I went to the front door and called through the screen, “Lydia.” No answer. Then I walked inside the tiny foyer and looked left into the living room. The room was a mess, sofa cushions tossed, books scattered and a blank space where the TV had been.
I froze and listened, afraid whoever had ransacked the living room was still there. But the only sounds were a clock ticking, the clattering of window blinds and a muted buzzing.
“Lydia!” I called again. Still no answer. Maybe she’s gone for a walk and someone broke in while she was away, I told myself as I strode down the narrow hallway looking into the two bedrooms, which had also been searched, mattresses overturned, dresser drawers open.
My heart was thudding as I hurried toward the kitchen at the back of the house, praying that Lydia was not here, that she’d gone for a walk. But even before I reached the kitchen, I knew it was too late for prayers.
Lydia lay on the kitchen floor, an overturned chair behind her as if she’d merely fallen over in a deep sleep.
I knelt down beside her and touched her face. She was warm.
“Lydia. Lydia.” I tried to wake her, but there was no response. Then I spotted the small pool of blood by her head. I pressed my fingers to her neck and felt for a pulse; faint but there. Quickly I ran to the living room, tripping over cushions and books to find the phone, which was on the fireplace ledge under a pillow still off the hook. Frantically I dialed 9-1-1.
“I need an ambulance. My friend’s been attacked. She’s bleeding from her head. She’s not waking up.”
After giving Joe’s address and my name, I called the police station. The dispatcher told me to stay put and someone would be there shortly. “And don’t touch anything, ma’am,” she warned me.
It took the ambulance too long to arrive. Thoughts of the golden hour kept whirling around in my brain as I sat on the floor next to Lydia.
“Hurry, hurry, please hurry,” I kept repeating aloud. What? Did I think Lydia’s eyes would flutter open at the sound of my voice? I wanted to cradle her, but I knew that would be a mistake. She’d been hit on the back of the head, and she shouldn’t be moved. So instead I held her hand, as if I could keep her alive, as if my energy would save her. Suddenly, I heard Salinger whining and scratching at the back screen door, wanting to come in. I’d totally forgotten about her.
“No, Salinger,” I commanded, “stay there.”
She quieted, sat down and stood guard. “Good girl,” I praised her.
As I waited, my eyes roamed the kitchen, thinking through what might have happened. If Lydia had been on the computer when she was attacked, the computer was gone. There was nothing on the table except an overturned coffee cup and spilled coffee. Strangely, this room hadn’t been ransacked like the other rooms. Dishes were stacked by the sink, dishcloths hung over the stove handle, and the coffee pot was half full and still turned on, filling the room with a burnt coffee smell. A robbery gone bad? It looked that way. Or was it made to look that way? Joe had nothing worth stealing, as far as I knew. His missing TV was an old box model, his computer at least ten years old. The only logical conclusion was that Lydia had been the target.
The sound of the ambulance’s siren broke into my musings. I let out a sigh of relief as the siren’s wail grew louder and louder.
“Lydia, it’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay,” I said, gently squeezing her hand.
The siren suddenly went silent. Then Salinger started barking as doors slammed outside, followed by the crunch of gravel from footsteps hurrying toward the house.
“I’m back here in the kitchen,” I shouted, glancing up at the kitchen clock. As two burly EMTs rushed into the room carrying medical cases, I calculated that the ambulance had taken thirty minutes to arrive. How long since she’d been attacked? I wondered. Was there time left in her golden hour?
“Ma’am, we’ll take it from here,” directed the EMT with the shaved head and bear tattoo on his forearm. The other EMT, a blond with dark eyebrows who was taking Lydia’s pulse, smiled reassuringly at me.
My legs wobbled as I moved to a corner near the stove, watching in a daze as the EMTs worked on Lydia, trying to save her life. What horrified me were her stillness and the white lucidity of her skin.
As if I needed to explain, I said, “I found her like that.”
Neither man looked up, just moved briskly, checking vital signs, starting fluids, prepping Lydia for transportation to the hospital. I tried to decipher what her stats meant, what her odds of survival were, but it was useless. External head injury was all I understood and something about the bleeding.
“Is she going to make it?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.
The tattooed EMT didn’t even look up from his work. “We’re doing everything we can, ma’am.”
Chet arrived just as the EMTs slid Lydia onto the gurney. He took me by the arm, gently leading me down the hall and outside, where he sat me down on Joe’s porch swing. I didn’t fight him. Salinger settled under the swing.
“Tell me what happened.” he said, sitting beside me, causing the swing to creak in protest, his big black-shod feet planted firmly on the cement porch, as if he thought rocking the swing would send me reeling.
“I don’t know. I found her like that.” I tried to read his expression, but it had gone professional. He was protecting himself, just as I was protecting myself. “Chet, why would someone attack Lydia like that, even if it was a robbery? You saw her head and the overturned chair. Someone hit her from behind. Someone tried to kill her. Then the attacker went through the place. What was the person looking for? This wasn’t a robbery.”
Chet bit his lower lip. “I’m telling you this because we’re friends. No
thing I tell you goes in that paper there. Lydia called me this morning. She’s been getting death threats. You know, there’s a lot of crazies out there.”
“Because of Nate Ryan? Someone tried to kill her because she didn’t save him, and then tried to cover it up by making her attack look like a robbery?” I didn’t believe it. “That makes no sense. How did the person find her? No one except Joe knew she was at his house. I didn’t even know where she was.”
He leaned back on the swing, making it sway and my stomach lurch. “Tell me why you were here.”
“Because I read that horrid article in PopQ and was worried about her. I kept calling her and couldn’t reach her. Joe told me she was here. I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“I don’t know, Chet. Afraid for her mental stability, I guess. Ryan’s death did something to her. You saw it.”
Just then the two EMTs lifted the gurney over the front door threshold and carried it down the steps to the waiting ambulance. Neither of us said a word, just watched our friend being lifted, slid and tucked into the ambulance.
“Hold on a sec,” Chet said to me. He shuffled down the front steps and approached the tattooed EMT. I couldn’t hear what Chet said, but the EMT nodded in reply. Then the ambulance was gone, its awful siren fading into the distance, taking Lydia away.
When Chet came back to the porch, he didn’t sit down. “Why don’t you go on home now. There’s nothing else you can do here.”
“Are you going to check her cell phone messages? When I called her, her mailbox was full. Maybe whoever did this left a message.” Though it was blisteringly hot, I was trembling.
“Like I said, go on home and leave the police work to us.” He put his hands on his hips, letting me know he was done talking.
But I wasn’t done. I stood up quickly and moved toward the door. I wanted to check the upstairs bedroom, the only room I hadn’t searched. But Chet was quicker and blocked the doorway with his large frame. A desire to punch him, to push him aside, overcame my common sense. I raised my hand to hit him, but he caught it midair, holding my wrist tightly.