Peak Season for Murder

by Gail Lukasik

  “Whattya doin’ there, Leigh?”

  “I have to go inside. I won’t touch anything. I promise.”

  “You can’t go in there now. It’s a crime scene.”

  I pulled back on my arm, trying to free my wrist from his firm hold. “Let go of me,” I demanded, blinking at the tears threatening my determination.

  Instead of letting go, Chet tightened his grip. “I’m chalking this up to shock.” He shook my wrist when he said it. “If you want to help Lydia, get yourself over to Bay Hospital. Lydia needs a friend.” Then he lowered my arm and let go of my wrist.

  “I was only trying to help. You didn’t have to use police brutality on me.” I rubbed at my sore wrist.

  “You so much as interfere with this investigation in any way, shape or form, and I’ll haul your ass in.” His face was flushed, his mouth a taut line.

  My wrist throbbed, and a surge of anger shot through me. Chet had gone too far. “You do what you need to do,” I snapped. “And I’ll do what I need to do.”

  He turned his back to me and strode into the house, shutting the door behind him. I stood on the porch, shaking, horrified by how close I’d come to hitting Chet. And how close he’d come to really hurting me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: FRIDAY, JULY 21

  A cacophony of beeps filled the ICU room where Lydia lay sheeted and tethered, her chest rising and falling as a machine breathed for her. The breathing tube looked like a snake swallowing her.

  “Open head injury,” the surgeon had explained before he’d performed the surgery that might or might not save her life. Her skull had been fractured and now she was in a coma. No one could tell me if she’d ever wake again. I’d called her only close relative, a brother who lived in California. He told me to keep him posted. That explained a lot about Lydia.

  Sometime in the night, her brain swelled dangerously, and I stood outside the glass room helplessly watching the doctor and two nurses work on my friend, relieving the pressure in her damaged brain. Now it was a matter of waiting, something I was lousy at.

  I was about to get up to stretch my legs and check the time when Joe walked in the room carrying two coffees. He handed me one.

  “I’ll sit with her a while,” Joe said. “Why don’t you go home and rest? If anything changes, I’ll let you know. Nothing you can do now. If you want, you can leave Salinger at my place again tonight.”

  “No, I’ll drive by and get her after I leave the hospital.” I sipped the coffee gratefully, not getting up from the hospital chair. “Tell me the truth. What are they saying? Is she going to make it?”

  Joe pulled the other chair next to me and sat down, his dark eyes full of compassion and sorrow. “No way to know.” His usual loquaciousness was gone, and that scared me.

  “She coded last night,” I said. “But they brought her back.”

  Joe pursed his lips, his chiseled profile somehow reassuring. “Yeah, I saw that on her chart.”

  “I’ve been sitting here all night thinking about who would want to hurt Lydia,” I said, taking another sip of coffee. “And it all comes back to Nate Ryan. Chet seems to think it’s some crazy who holds Lydia responsible for his death. I think he’s just saying that to shut me up, and that he doesn’t believe it. Lydia told me the day Ryan died he was going to withdraw his donation to the BT. Something Nina Cass did had made him furious.”

  “And you’re going to find out what that was?” Joe added.

  I glanced over at Lydia, then back at Joe. “What would you do?”

  “I’d let the police handle it. But since it’s you we’re talking about, then I’d be careful.”

  “What I don’t get is why attack Lydia now? For that matter, why attack Lydia at all? Unless her attacker thinks she knows something about Ryan’s donation or—” I stopped.

  “Or what?” Joe asked.

  “Or Ryan’s death. Maybe there was something in that PopQ article. Maybe Ryan didn’t die of a heart attack.”

  Joe took in a big breath and let it out slowly, as if there wasn’t enough air in the room. “He died of a heart attack, Leigh. That’s what Lydia said. And didn’t the ME confirm that?”

  “Cause of death hasn’t been determined yet,” I countered.

  “Look, there’s nothing you can do right now.” His eyes traveled my face. “You’re tired. Go home and catch some shuteye. You’re not thinking straight.” He squeezed my shoulder.

  “Maybe you’re right.” I stood up and circled my head, loosening the cricks in my neck.

  “Like I said, be careful.”

  Mired in weekend tourist traffic as I slowly inched up the peninsula, I listened to my voice messages.

  “This is Barbara Henry, public relations director for the Bay-side Theater.” I moaned aloud at her unnecessary formality, which I suspected was a prelude to her rejecting my request to stay on the BT grounds for a weekend.

  “When you arrive,” she continued to my astonishment, “go to the box office to pick up the apartment key and your itinerary. You’re in quad two, room four. Please follow the itinerary regarding mealtimes and seating at the plays. I assume you’ll attend all three weekend performances and Saturday’s after-party. Alex wanted me to tell you that you could use the dining lodge and go backstage when the actors are rehearsing in the rehearsal building—that’s from one to four p.m. But you’re not to bother the actors in any way.” Click.

  Bother the actors in any way? We’ll see about that.

  So Jake’s magic touch—a combination of smarmy charm and tough love—had worked on Alex. Though if my article on Nate Ryan hadn’t pleased Alex, Jake’s magic touch would have fallen on deaf ears.

  I must be back in Alex’s good graces because he hadn’t assigned me a room in the intern dormitory, that sprawling red and white clapboard building with a shared bathroom and no privacy. Though I wonder whose idea it had been to put me in Ryan’s apartment. Most likely, it was the only one available.

  Well, so much for going home and catching some shuteye.

  The second voice message was from Jake. “Heading out to the hospital to see Lydia. Just found out the medical examiner sent specimens from Ryan’s autopsy to a forensic toxicology expert in Madison. There were barbiturates in his system. Before you go all conspiracy theory, they haven’t determined if that was the cause of death. So until the forensic toxicology results are in, cool it.” He let out a deep breath. “We gotta talk. But it can wait till you wrap up your weekend at the BT.” Click.

  We gotta talk about what? About Ryan’s death? About Lydia’s attack? About us? That was so Jake. I just never knew where he was coming from or where he was going. Mystery can only take a gal so far.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Except for the lacy underwear and empty goblets and wine bottle, Nate Ryan’s apartment looked exactly the same. Over a week ago I’d sat on this very sofa next to him, resisting his magnetic personality, and now he was dead. Maybe caused by barbiturates, maybe not.

  If barbiturates had contributed to Ryan’s death, that would relieve Lydia of her guilt, I speculated. Even though she’d said nothing when he’d smoked a joint, she didn’t know about the alcohol in his sports bottle or the barbiturates.

  After cranking up the A/C and depositing my small overnight bag in the bedroom, I searched the apartment—drawers, closets, under furniture, even the refrigerator. What was I expecting to find? A hidden letter from Ryan nixing his donation? A stash of narcotics? But it was as if he’d never been here. Most likely the police had gone through the place right after his death. If they’d found anything, I’d be the last to know.

  It was nearly two o’clock, and I wanted to tour the backstage area while the actors rehearsed, so I quickly changed out of my sweaty clothes, savoring the chilly air on my bare skin. Just as I zipped up my white Capri pants, there was a determined knock on the front door. Maybe Barbara Henry wanted to make sure I was happy with my accommodations. Yeah, right.

  When I flung open the door, Rich greete
d me. “Hi, pretty lady.” He was holding a bouquet of wildflowers whose stems were wrapped in tin foil and bound with a red ribbon. The flowers were a potpourri of yellows, reds, pinks, and whites. “Just thought I’d come by and give you a proper welcome.”

  He was as spruced up as I’d ever seen him, which admittedly wasn’t saying much. His jeans were dark navy, creased, and clean. Instead of his usual t-shirt, he was sporting a white short-sleeved collared shirt. Though his running shoes were dusty, both shoes had laces. This was going to be trouble.

  He held the flowers out to me. “Thought you might like them. They’re from the BT gardens.”

  I took the flowers, gave them a few quick sniffs, inhaling an intensely sweet scent that bordered on unpleasant. “Thanks,” I said, making no move to invite him inside.

  He looked past me into the living room. “Mind if I come in?”

  I did mind, but what could I do? The guy had brought me flowers like a smitten schoolboy. I didn’t want to encourage him, but I realized that ship had sailed without me and was headed for rough seas.

  “I was about to head out. But sure, I’ll put these in water.”

  While I searched the cupboards for a vase, to my annoyance, he plopped down on the sofa, stretching his arms along the back and putting his rather small feet up on the coffee table.

  The cupboards contained a collection of unmatched dishes and glasses, but no vase. I settled for a large shallow glass bowl and filled it with water. The flowers were too long and hung over the bowl as if they were suicidal.

  When I placed the bowl on the coffee table, I said, “Best I could do.”

  “That’s okay. They don’t last long once they’re cut. Just thought you’d like them. Did you know Shakespeare was an avid gardener?”

  “No kidding.” I remained standing, hoping he’d take the hint.

  “You have anything to drink? I’m parched.”

  One of my expensive bottles of Chardonnay Reserve was chilling in the fridge, but I wasn’t about to offer him that. I was still on the clock, and I needed him to leave.

  “Water’s all I’ve got.”

  “That’ll do.”

  After I handed him the glass of water, which he promptly put on the table beside the flowers, he said, “Aren’t you going to sit down?”

  “Actually you caught me at a bad time. I need to check around backstage while the actors are rehearsing.” I glanced at my wristwatch to make my point.

  “Are you afraid of me?” He pushed back into the sofa and smiled.

  Where had that come from? “Why would I be afraid of you?”

  “I don’t know. You seem different.”

  “Different how?” Now I was starting to feel afraid. The image of Lydia crumpled on the floor flooded my brain. I stared hard at him. Though tall, thin, and paunchy, his arms were knotted with muscles. He made his living using his body, lifting heavy cases of wine and beer, hauling plants, working in the gardens.

  “I don’t know. Jumpy, like you want me to leave. I’m harmless, you know. And I think you should give me a chance. We can take it slow. I’m okay with slow.”

  Here we go again. “Look, I’m sure you’re a nice guy. But like I said, I’m newly divorced. I’m not ready to date anyone yet.” Why couldn’t he take no for an answer? He didn’t seem to understand social cues. Something was tangled in his wiring.

  He glared at me. “You didn’t tell Ryan that when you two had your ‘interview’ in here.” He put air quotes around the word interview.

  “I don’t know what Ryan told you, but nothing happened between us.” Why was I explaining myself to this social misfit?

  His smile turned to a smirk. “That so? Ryan said you were ripe for the picking.”

  My face went hot with fury and embarrassment.

  “You know why he didn’t pick you? He felt sorry for you. How’d he put it? ‘She’s damaged.’ That’s what he called you. He said, ‘Rich, those are the easiest ones to get. You just have to know how to play them. And once you get them, they’ll do anything for you. So where’s the challenge?’”

  I was trembling with anger and shocked at his cruelty. “You’d better leave.” I pointed to the door. “I mean it. Get outta here.”

  He didn’t move. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” he said sarcastically. “I just thought you should know how men see you, that’s all. Maybe then you wouldn’t act so high and mighty.”

  It was like all the hurt and anger over Tom, my marriage and the divorce came gushing out. “Men? What men? Nate Ryan? Did it ever occur to you that he was lying? Even you have to admit he was a poor excuse for a human being. He took his talent and squandered it with drugs and meaningless sex. You know why Ryan said I was damaged? Because I resisted him. That’s why. I resisted the famous Nate Ryan, and his ego couldn’t handle it.”

  “I thought you’d say that.” He took his time standing up, adjusting his jeans, straightening his shirt collar. Then he walked into my personal space. We were practically nose to chin, and I smelled a faint trace of beer on his breath. I didn’t step back. I didn’t flinch, but my heart was racing.

  “Yeah, everyone knew Ryan was a liar, especially when it came to women. I just wanted to see for myself if anything he said was true. I guess I got my answer.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I spat at his face.

  “He might have been lying about your wanting him, but I think he was right about you being damaged.”

  As he started for the door, I picked up the bowl of flowers, my hands shaking. “You can take these with you,” I sniped, thrusting them toward him.

  He looked at the bowl of flowers, then at me before he took the bowl. “We’re not going to have a problem, are we, as far as that article goes?”

  Now he was worried about the BT article? He insults and harasses me, and he’s worried about the article. What a loser.

  “You were never going to be in it anyway,” I said dismissively, savoring my small triumph.

  “Yeah, I kinda figured that.” He started to leave then turned around. “You might want to rethink that decision. I’m the one who’s been looking out for you.”

  I listened for his fading footsteps on the stairs before I inched open the door and made sure he was gone. There beside the door was the bowl of flowers. I picked up the bowl, yanked out the flowers and hurled them over the railing. Let the birds and insects feast on the pathetic bouquet.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Rather than take the flagstone path leading directly to the theater and chance running into Rich, I took a circuitous route through the cedar woods behind the quad. It would be impossible to totally avoid Rich this weekend, but I was going to try. I was still trembling from the encounter, my heart fluttering in my chest, his threatening words echoing in my head.

  I hadn’t eaten lunch, so I was starting to feel lightheaded. The woods closed in quickly. The towering cedars and deciduous trees loomed, their cool, restless shadows mirroring my uneasy thoughts.

  My mind kept dissecting the bizarre interaction with Rich. What had been the purpose of his visit? Did he really think I’d respond positively to his aggressive, hurtful comments under the guise of helping me? And what did he mean, he’d been looking out for me? Had he been stalking me? Was it he who had tied Salinger to the road sign? And had he been lurking around the cabin at night? I had no proof, just my gut feeling, reinforced by our encounter that it was he.

  The path veered right and, in the distance, I spotted the reddish-colored theater. When I reached the theater’s backstage entrance, I was feeling sick, my head throbbing. I should have eaten lunch. Time for that later. It was already 3:15 p.m. I hurried up the red ramp, pulled open the heavy wood door, went inside and headed directly to the dressing room to scan the actors’ quote wall.

  Barbara Henry had given me a quick tour of the backstage area when I’d interviewed her, quick being the operative word. While she’d explained that most of the actors did their own makeup, I�
�d noticed a wood wall across from the makeup mirrors that was splattered with comments from the actors. I’d made a note to come back and read the comments.

  The light was dim in the dressing room, so I flipped on the overheads and started reading, looking for viable quotes to use in the article.

  “There’s a magic here.” Might be good.

  “Two Shakes.” Whatever that meant.

  The most enigmatic: “Watch the actor behind the one in front of you.”

  As I stared at the last phrase, the words seemed to blur. I blinked my eyes several times, and then moved closer to the wall, which only made the letters blurrier. Suddenly, the entire room was fuzzier, my stomach roiling with nausea. I was going to be sick.

  I dashed outside and threw up, breaking out in a cold sweat as I retched several times. Then I collapsed on the needle-covered ground, shutting my eyes and waiting for my stomach to settle. Let this be a lesson, Leigh. Coffee isn’t a meal.

  At the soft crunch of footsteps and the acrid smell of cigarette smoke, I opened my eyes. There was Nina Cass standing over me, lit cigarette in one hand, her other hand pulling at her tight curly hair. “You okay?” she asked.

  She didn’t move to help me, just stood there looking down at me as if I were contagious.

  Cautiously, I inched myself up on my elbows, then slowly sat up, testing my stomach’s stability. “Must have been something I ate—or didn’t eat.” I stood up and brushed at my white pants, which were now stained with dirt.

  “You look positively green,” she said, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth. “I was on break when I saw you run outside and heave, then collapse. When you didn’t get up, I thought I’d better see what’s up.”

  Gee, thanks for all the concern, I thought to myself.

  “What were you doing in there, anyway?” She cocked her head toward the backstage door.