Carrick cast her one loathing glance and walked away, striding like a man caught in a passion of fury.
Mrs. Manly sagged against the chair.
Hannah caught her under the arm. Mrs. Manly was drenched in sweat and trembling from the effort of remaining upright. Hannah whispered, “Let me call Nelson. He’ll bring your wheelchair. It’s behind your private exit—”
“I am not leaving this ballroom in a wheelchair. I’ll walk, thank you.” Mrs. Manly’s voice was scathing.
At least she had agreed to leave, even if she insisted on doing it with her pride intact. Hannah estimated the distance to the black velvet drapery that hid the door. “Twelve steps. You have to hang on for twelve steps.”
Mrs. Manly nodded genially at the guests milling nearby. “I will not fail.”
She made it, of course, and if Hannah hadn’t been holding her arm, she wouldn’t have known the effort Mrs. Manly exerted. Mrs. Manly even stopped to gossip with one of the preeminent Washington, D.C., columnists about the latest vice presidential scandal.
But once behind the door, her knees collapsed.
As Hannah maneuvered her into the chair, she cursed Mrs. Manly’s pride, her insistence that no weakness be shown, and most of all, the empty corridor. Hannah took her pulse. It was racing. “Chest pain?”
“Yes.”
“Hang on.” Hannah pushed Mrs. Manly into the elevator and pressed the button for the second floor. “We’ll get you to your room and I’ll give you an injection.” And call an ambulance, although Hannah didn’t tell her that.
“That . . . little . . . twit,” Mrs. Manly gasped. “He dared—”
Hannah wanted to wring Carrick’s aristocratic neck.
“What did he say?” Hannah should have never left Mrs. Manly alone. What was she thinking, going off to dance and flirt with some guy she’d never met?
“Carrick said I knew where . . . the . . . money . . . is.”
Come on. Come on. The elevator had never been so slow. “Never mind. You can tell me later. Save your breath.”
Mrs. Manly paid no heed. “He said the . . . government knew . . . I knew.” The doors opened, and Hannah hurriedly pushed the raging Mrs. Manly out and down the corridor. “I asked how they had found out, and he . . . that little brat!”
It wasn’t a stretch for Hannah to guess. “He told the government that you knew about the fortune?”
They entered Mrs. Manly’s bedroom.
Hannah glanced at the bed. Someone had placed a red rose on Mrs. Manly’s pillow. Great gesture. Bad timing.
“He did it to . . . smoke me out.” Mrs. Manly tried to get a long breath.
Hannah hurried toward the medications tray. “But you didn’t admit it was true.” When Mrs. Manly didn’t answer right away, she stopped and slowly turned. “Mrs. Manly, you didn’t tell him you knew? Did you?”
“Yes. I told him. And told him . . . he was never getting . . . it. Never getting a . . . dime!”
“Oh, no. Mrs. Manly.” Hannah collapsed against the desk and stared in horror at the defiant Melinda Manly. “How could you?”
“It’s too late . . . for reproaches. It’s . . . done.” Mrs. Manly was still angry enough to lift herself out of her chair and stagger to the bed.
Hannah leaped to help her. Together, they rolled her onto the mattress.
Mrs. Manly’s head crushed the delicate rose. She sprawled there in her wicked queen costume, and her hands shook as she ripped off the headdress. “He made me so . . . angry. Just . . . like his father. Just like his father. Betraying . . . me at every . . . turn. What the hell is poking me?” She pulled the flower out from under her head, stared at crushed petals, then flung it to the floor and sucked at the wound on her hand.
Hannah pushed up her sleeve and took her blood pressure. It was one seventy over one ten. She checked her blood sugar. Mrs. Manly was headed for a stroke or heart attack. Now.
Picking up the phone, Hannah called nine-one-one for an ambulance.
It was a measure of how badly Mrs. Manly felt that she didn’t object.
Hannah brought the tray with the neatly arranged medications and their syringes. She gave Mrs. Manly a nitroglycerine tablet to stabilize her heart. “You need to calm down. Take big breaths.”
Mrs. Manly paid no heed. In a rush, she said, “Hannah, I want you to go down there right now and send the money off.”
“The government will put you in jail.” Hannah prepared the injection of insulin and another of the tranquilizer diazepam.
“The government’s going to send me to jail anyway, thanks to my Judas of a son. And besides . . . you have to do it tonight.” For a flash of a moment, Mrs. Manly looked defiant and ashamed . . . and sorry. “I told him you knew.”
Hannah froze, syringe in hand.
“I know. I know. That was stupid. I was in a rage. I said too much. But he’s just like his father, and I couldn’t . . . By God, that kind of betrayal twice in one lifetime is too much for any one person to stand.”
Hannah couldn’t feel sorry for Mrs. Manly. She was too busy feeling sorry for herself. And frightened. When she remembered how much money was involved, and the way Carrick had looked at her, she was scared to death.
But a glance at Mrs. Manly convinced her to tend to the business at hand. “I’ll go down and send the money, but first, let’s deal with keeping you alive another day. First the insulin.” Hannah gave the injection efficiently, quickly.
As she always did, Mrs. Manly groaned and rubbed the site. “I put money behind the photo on my desk. Two thousand dollars. You may need it.”
Hannah glanced at the photo, a picture of Nathan and Melinda Manly on their wedding day. “Okay.”
“You can go down via the secret passage behind the bookcase. Remember, any bookcase that’s at a forty-five-degree angle will contain a copy of Ulysses, and that’s the book that will open the latch.” Mrs. Manly was talking fast.
“Got it.”
“Do you remember the codes to activate the account?”
“Don’t worry. I do.” Hannah wished she could forget. “Now let’s give you the diazepam to take the edge off and calm you enough to go to the hospital, and maybe sometime tonight you can sleep.” She swabbed Mrs. Manly’s arm, gave her another quick injection to calm her nerves and perhaps her heart.
Satisfied she’d done everything she could to stabilize Mrs. Manly until the paramedics got here, she turned away to place the syringes in a sterile container.
“Can’t breathe.” Mrs. Manly clawed at her collar.
Hannah turned back to help her. “You’re hyperventilating.” She shoved a pillow under Mrs. Manly’s head. “Just breathe—”
“No. Can’t . . . breathe.” A faint blue color crept in around Mrs. Manly’s lips. “Dear girl . . . I think you’ve . . . killed . . . me.”
“What?” Hannah grabbed her stethoscope, shoved Mrs. Manly’s costume aside, placed it on her chest, and listened.
Mrs. Manly’s heartbeat, her lungs, were inexorably slowing.
“No!” Hannah grabbed for the EpiPen filled with adrenaline. She plunged it into Mrs. Manly’s chest.
“No . . . use,” Mrs. Manly gasped. “Carrick . . .”
“This is impossible!”
“Betrayed . . . ,” Mrs. Manly said with her last breath.
“No! This isn’t happening!” Hannah leaped on the bed, put her fists together, and slammed them on Mrs. Manly’s breastbone. Five pushes over her heart, then a breath into her lungs, then five pushes over her heart—
Behind her, she heard someone open the door. “Get help!” she shouted.
“What have you done?” Carrick said in a loud, deliberate voice. “Hannah Grey, what have you done?”
And suddenly, it all made sense.
She stopped doing CPR. She slipped off the bed and picked up the medications. They were labeled correctly. Nitroglycerin, insulin, diazepam . . . Her eyes narrowed at the vial of diazepam.
It wasn’t the same via
l she’d placed on the tray earlier.
She’d prepared an injection for Mrs. Manly. She’d done it secure in the knowledge that she’d checked and rechecked the arrangement of the medications on the tray in case she faced the kind of emergency she had just faced.
And someone had changed the medications.
Carrick had changed the medications.
She took Mrs. Manly’s pulse. She felt the old lady’s heart give its last, feeble beats. And she knew . . . she had killed Mrs. Manly.
EIGHTEEN
Someone shouted at Hannah.
Carrick.
Someone grabbed her and pulled her off the bed.
Susan Stevens.
In a daze of horror and disbelief, Hannah looked around the room. Guests and security guards, servants, Nelson, filled the room, staring at her, staring at Mrs. Manly’s still figure.
“She gave Mother an injection, and Mother died,” Carrick was saying loudly.
Hannah wrestled her way free of Susan’s grip, leaned over the bed, and shut Mrs. Manly’s eyes.
Her patient was dead. Her friend was dead. Mrs. Manly . . . was dead.
“Hannah Grey is known in New Hampshire as the angel of death. Her nursing certificate was pulled for immoral behavior. An investigation would prove she killed her patients there, too.” Carrick was on a roll.
But what was he trying to accomplish? She’d never killed another patient. . . . She glanced at Mrs. Manly’s still face.
But it took only one.
One man dressed as a zombie pushed his way forward, clicking photos with his cell phone. A woman in a cat costume took photos with a small digital while she shouted questions at Carrick and Hannah. This was a freak show.
Dear God, help me.
“I’ll call the police,” Nelson said. “Miss Grey needs to be removed from this house immediately.”
Hannah was innocent, and not one person in here would believe her. Because she had done it. She’d killed Mrs. Manly . . . with Carrick’s eager assistance.
“I’ll call Mr. Sansoucy,” Susan Stevens said.
Hannah took a quick, pained breath. Oh, yes. Call Trent Sansoucy. Because she wanted to find herself condemned in his eyes, too.
Hannah scrubbed a quick hand over her face.
What did Carrick think he was going to accomplish?
He thought he was going to keep her from accessing the fortune, of course. She remembered how quickly he’d disappeared after Mrs. Manly had told him the truth, and cursed the conversation Mrs. Manly had held with the Washington columnist. Because that had given him time to come up here and . . . She glanced at the tray.
If Mrs. Manly hadn’t been in such distress, if Hannah hadn’t been in a hurry to get her her medication, maybe she would have seen that one of the vials had been switched. Maybe not. If only she had been paying attention . . . if only Carrick hadn’t deliberately made his mother so angry she needed to be tranquilized . . . if only . . .
Carrick stepped between her and the tray. Leaning down, he stuck his face in hers. Softly, he said, “If you tell me now, I’ll get you the best lawyers. I’ll get you cleared of all charges. If you tell me.”
It never occurred to her to play dumb, or to agree to the deal. Instead, just as softly, she said, “You can rot in hell.”
“And you can rot in jail.” He raised his voice. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” He sprayed spittle on her face.
Deliberately, she wiped it off. Looking him right in the eyes, she answered, “I’m innocent, and you know it.”
He straightened. “Get her out of here. Get her away from my poor dead mother. Get her out of my sight!”
Susan Stevens tried to hustle her out into the corridor.
Hannah resisted long enough to snatch the photo off the desk.
Susan reached for it.
Hannah clutched it to her chest and glared. “I asked for a picture of her, and she promised I could have it.”
Susan hesitated, then withdrew her hand and pushed Hannah into the corridor.
Hannah looked at her. “I didn’t do it.”
“It looks like you did.” But Susan didn’t look convinced. Gripping Hannah’s arm, she glanced around. “I have to stash you somewhere.” The phone on her belt buzzed. She checked it and grimaced. “A text from . . . from Trent wanting to know what the hell is going on. Apparently the word’s already spread.”
Hannah needed to escape. Now. Before the cops came. Before Trent arrived. Before law enforcement got organized.
She said, “I’m going to throw up.” It didn’t take a lot of acting to appear pale and desperate. “I’m going to throw up. Just let me . . .” She staggered, making sure she appeared weak and dizzy, into the empty, dusty bedroom next to Mrs. Manly’s, the one with a bookcase that stood at a forty-five-degree angle. The bookcase with its copy of Ulysses.
There was a bed, a desk, a chair, an old large Persian rug laid on top of old faded gold shag carpet.
Susan stood in the doorway, clearly unsure what to do. “You’re sick? Are you poisoned, too? Do you want me to call someone?”
“Carrick.” Hannah leaned against the wall in front of a monstrosity of a sixties-style floor lamp. “I need to talk to Carrick.”
Susan didn’t budge, but shouted down the corridor, “Hey! You! Nelson! Get Carrick over here!”
Hannah slid down the wall and carefully placed the picture frame on the floor. With a wretched groan, she leaned sideways and unplugged the lamp. With another groan, she put her head between her legs. Not because she was really ill, but because she needed to hide her flushed, furious cheeks.
Carrick arrived. “What is it?”
A quick peek proved he stood in the doorway, Susan at his shoulder.
“I want . . . I want to . . .” Hannah moaned piteously. “I want to confess. Carrick, I’ll do whatever you want.”
He took a few eager steps inside. “You’re ready to talk?”
“Yes. Whatever you say.” She staggered to her feet, grabbed the lamp and leaned on it, her face turned away from his.
“You! What’s-yer-name!” He spoke to Susan. “Leave us alone!”
In a tone of disgust, Susan said, “Sir, that is really a bad idea.”
You don’t know the half of it. Hannah gripped the lamp with both hands.
“Go. On.” Carrick sounded fierce with excitement. “Get. Out.”
Susan’s phone rang. She cursed, answered, said, “Hurry up, boss. We need you.” Her voice faded as she walked down the corridor.
She was gone.
Trent was coming.
Hannah was out of time.
In one smooth motion, she lifted the lamp, turned, and charged. She experienced one moment of satisfaction as Carrick’s eyes widened in terror.
She slammed the base into his chest.
He flew out the open door into the corridor.
She dropped the lamp, and with her foot, slammed the door shut. She locked it just in time.
Someone threw his body against it.
But this was an old house, with solid wood doors and casements. It would take an ax to get through.
Or the key.
Hannah dragged the dainty wooden desk chair over and stuck it under the knob. Dimly, through the heavy oak door, she could hear shouts in the hallway, and from outside, the wail of sirens. The desk wasn’t so easy; it was heavy, and when she got behind it and shoved, it turned on its side with a thump that shook the floor. It took all her strength to shove it against the casement, and even then, she couldn’t maneuver it so it was tight.
Two good-sized men could push this aside.
Sweating and swearing, she tugged the Persian carpet across the floor and tangled it in the legs of the chair.
That would slow them down.
She ran to the bookcase and searched for Ulysses’s distinctive tan leather binding. She missed it the first time, took a long breath, and assured herself Mrs. Manly had promised it would be there.
It
was on the second shelf on the left next to the wall. She yanked hard, staggered backward. The bookcase opened with a squeal. Caught in a fever of fear and excitement, she hurried forward inside the dark cavernous hole—and skidded to a halt.
The picture frame. She couldn’t leave it behind. She needed that money.
She wanted that photo.
Out in the corridor, they were hammering at the door with something big. With each blow, the wall plaster crumbled around the casement.
Hannah snatched up the photo and returned to the secret passage. The passage was as dark and quiet as a tomb—which was exactly where she would be if they caught up with her. She tried to shut the bookcase behind her, but the creaky old mechanism resisted her attempts.
The lock on the bedroom door made a metallic sound as it was unlocked. The door opened a fraction of an inch and slammed into the chair and the table.
“Hannah!” It sounded like Trent . . . but not quite. This voice was harsher, deeper, with an accent she couldn’t place. Whoever he was, he battered himself against the door. “Hannah, open this door!”
They’d be in the room soon.
She dropped the picture frame. The glass shattered. She gritted her teeth, and pulled with all her might.
The latch clicked into place.
She breathed in small panicked gasps that hurt her lungs.
She was alone, desperate, friendless. She had Mrs. Manly’s word that this secret passage would take her, undetected, to the beach.
But Hannah had never set more than a foot inside, and for years, Mrs. Manly had barely left her room.
It was possible Carrick had found the secret ways through Balfour House, and if he had, this flight was nothing more than a trap—a trap that would lead her to prison . . . or death.
Pulling the little flashlight out of her breast pocket, she switched it on.
It worked.
She picked the picture frame up off the floor, shot the narrow beam around and found the edge of the stairway.
Thank God for double A batteries.
She started down into the darkness.
NINETEEN
Gabriel raced up the stairs, pushing past guests and servants, his feet thumping on the wood, listening to the shouting through his speaker phone and wishing he had never allowed Hannah out of his sight. Because something had happened—he couldn’t quite understand what Susan was saying—but he heard words like murder and Carrick and Hannah.
Danger in a Red Dress Page 13