The Swick and the Dead

by Maggie Foster

  Ginny pulled up a picture of Clara Carpenter and slipped it into the image search engine. Lots of hits. She looked carefully at each one, trying to find some familiar face, or place, or situation in the background. Nothing popped out at her. She went back to the search engine and tried again, without the name, hoping for a picture of Phyllis—and got two. The first was the one posted on the Hillcrest website as part of the staff directory. The second was Phyllis at her graduation from nursing school, tagged by someone and posted to social media.

  With the images of Clara and Phyllis side by side, Ginny was even more impressed by the resemblance. They weren’t twins, of course. They had different birthdates and hometowns and parents and schooling and addresses. One was married, with children, the other unmarried. One was famous, the other unknown. There was an odd similarity, though. Both had spent time in adult ICU nursing. They had that in common.

  “But what does it all mean?”

  “It means it’s time for lunch.”

  Ginny hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud. She looked up to find Becky Peel at her elbow.

  “Put that away and come rest your brain.”

  Ginny did exactly that, settling down to a better-than-average chicken salad and a lively anything-but-nursing conversation. She listened while she ate, then asked if any of the others could tell her about the demonstration she’d encountered the day before. They could.

  “Nut cases.”

  “No, they’re not! They believe in their cause.”

  “Like I said, nut cases.”

  Ginny listened to the exchanges and noted that Becky said scarcely a word. Well, she was acting as hostess, so she could hardly take sides, but it was interesting.

  “Do you have plans for this evening?” Becky asked.

  “Nothing special.”

  “Paul, my husband, is looking after the kids. What do you say we go sample some of the nightlife in Austin?”

  “Sounds good.” Ginny went back to the lecture, and her investigation, with her nose twitching. Becky Peel knew something about those images—it had showed in her face—and the invitation suggested she had something she wanted to say to Ginny, privately. Good manners demanded that Ginny listen.

  * * *

  Chapter 19

  Day 9 – Saturday afternoon

  Host hotel, Austin

  Jim walked along the corridor reading the meeting room labels. He found Ginny in the third room he tried, her computer out, her nose down to the screen.

  “May I help you?”

  The woman who addressed him was clearly an official. She gestured for the two of them to step into the hall so they could talk. Jim explained he was hoping to catch Ginny to take her out to dinner and that his presence in Austin was unscheduled.

  “They’ll be through in ten minutes. Would you like to wait or shall I give her a message?”

  “Wait, please.”

  She nodded, gesturing at a bench across the hall. He spent the time thinking through what he’d learned about the counterfeit drugs. A large shipment seized coming up from Mexico implied they were either being made there or imported through there. The destruction of the evidence and the person who could have told about it implied the stakes were very high, which implied a large-scale operation, and that implied cartel involvement.

  The cartels were capable of anything, up to and including the bombing at the capital, though how they had managed to get the rendezvous information was still a disturbing mystery. And where did the brain-dead nurse fit in?

  Jim was still musing when the doors opened and the conference-goers poured out into the hallway. Jim set his thoughts aside and stood up, catching a number of eyes as he did so. When Ginny appeared, he stepped forward, into her path. Her eyes fell on him, registering shock, then delight.

  “Jim!” She was burdened down with her study materials making it impossible to do more than give her a peck on the cheek, which he did, then took her backpack and shouldered it.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I came down to give them a hand with the bombing victims and I was hoping you’d give me a ride back to Dallas.”

  “Of course! I need to drop my stuff in my room then we can talk. Come on.”

  They rode up in the elevator and Jim followed her into her room. Once inside he set the backpack down on the bed, then captured her, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, thoroughly, feeling relief wash through him like a drug.

  She tipped her head back and looked up at him. “What’s wrong, Jim?”

  “I was afraid you’d been caught in that explosion.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Because it was Austin and nurses and you weren’t answering your phone.”

  “I’m sorry. I had it off for the conference, then in my room while we dealt with the walking wounded. I texted you as soon as I could.”

  “I know and I appreciate that.”

  He saw her brow wrinkle. “You could have called the front desk and had me paged. Why did you hop a plane first and ask questions afterwards?”

  “Helicopter,” he corrected. “I had this picture of you in my head, surrounded by angry people.”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted it. He hadn’t meant to tell her that. On the news they’d shown footage of the rioting, the faces hostile, followed by images of the terror caused by the bombing. But that one image, the one he hadn’t actually seen, had overridden the others.

  He saw her blink, saw her eyes narrow, saw her frown.

  She pushed herself out of his arms. “Has this happened before?”

  “Maybe.” He was hedging. It had probably been nothing more than his imagination working overtime, because he was worried in general, and about her safety in particular. That had happened before.

  She crossed her arms on her chest. “I wonder,” she said.

  There was a speculative look in her eye that made him uncomfortable. “Wonder what?”

  “Do you know what the Sight is, Jim?”

  He stood very still for a moment. The Second Sight. His mother had had it, and her mother and he had never considered for a single moment that a man might inherit that particular gift. He’d always dismissed it as an old wives’ tale, but he knew what it was.

  He looked at Ginny, aware there must be something behind her question. Normal people wouldn’t leap to obscure Scottish folk lore to explain his wanting to come to Austin. His brows drew together. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I was there.”

  “What?”

  “I got caught in the traffic around the Capital. I had to drive through the demonstration.”

  “You were there. You were in danger!” Jim felt as if he’d just been punched in the solar plexus.

  “I left as soon as the riot started.” She pulled a wooden pendant from inside her collar and showed it to him. “Do you know what this is?”

  Jim touched the carved image of a tree suspended from a thin gold chain. “I’ve seen this before.”

  She nodded. “This talisman has been in my family for generations. The rowan is a portal tree. It guards thresholds and travelers. If you go back far enough, you will also see it credited with healing powers. I wear it at work, when I am ill, and when I am traveling.” She caught his eye. “You can laugh at me, if you want to, but the Scots are a superstitious lot for a reason and you’ve just demonstrated one of them.”

  “Me?”

  She nodded. “You felt the threat and acted on it. Without evidence, without confirmation. You, a scientist and a physician.” She was smiling at him. “If I hadn’t already known you were a Highlander, I’d know it now.”

  Much as Jim valued his Highland heritage, he felt that a gift like that, being able to tell when Ginny was in danger, might be enough to unhinge a man.

  “Is there a way to get rid of it, the Sight?”

  She laughed. “No. Sorry.”

  He ran his hand through his hair. “I feel as if I
’ve stepped off a curb and misjudged the distance.”

  She tucked her talisman away. “You’ll get used to it. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to change clothes. I have a dinner engagement.”

  Jim nodded, still overwhelmed at the thought that his mother’s legacy might be genuine. He wondered whether she’d been able to tell when he was in danger.

  He dropped into the desk chair to wait for Ginny to reappear. A dinner engagement. He frowned. He didn’t want to share her with anyone this evening.

  “Is it a private dinner or may I come?”

  She had changed into slacks and sweater and was busy pulling on short boots. “I had planned to dig some information out of one of the locals. She might not want to talk in front of you.”

  “I would very much like to hear what your contact has to say. Can we tell her I’m safe to know?”

  Ginny dimpled. “Are you?”

  Jim remembered the fake drugs stashed in his room and felt his chest tighten. He certainly hoped so. “Yes. I’ll even buy.”

  “Well, in that case. Come on! We’re going to meet for drinks first.”

  * * *

  Saturday evening

  Sixth Street, Austin

  Sixth Street was still the place to go in Austin. Ginny pushed open the door on a dimly lit gem of the dark wood and solid chairs variety. The piano player was sketching an arpeggio for a laughing female patron. In another moment she had begun to sing to him, in a rich contralto that matched the setting to perfection.

  Ginny introduced Jim to Becky, followed her to a table, and came straight to the point. “You know something about that House Bill. I could see it on your face today.”

  Becky picked up her drink and took a sip, then set it down. “Nothing that can be proved. At least, not yet.”

  “Go on.” Ginny leaned closer.

  “Someone approached the Board. You know I work for the Board of Nursing, right? Well, she came in with a story of an underground railroad for, shall we say, marginally qualified nurses trained in Mexico. The suggestion was made that someone here in the U.S. was funding a project to identify young women willing to settle here in exchange for help getting a license.” Becky looked up. “She brought a spreadsheet with statistics showing the number of injuries and deaths correlated to the dates of hire for the suspect nurses.”

  Ginny’s eyebrows rose. If true, that would be a major scandal and probably actionable. “Wow.”

  Becky nodded, her eyes back on her drink. “That was three years ago. It’s taken them this long to get a bill before the House and, as you can see, it’s a hotly contested idea. On one side we have the people who are pushing for diversity and inclusion. On the other, the group lobbying for patient safety.”

  “What did the Board do?”

  “The investigation is still ongoing.”

  “So, no police involvement.”

  “Not yet and there won’t be unless some of the legislators get involved. Apparently, there’s big money behind the project.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Becky looked up. “You’ve heard of Clara Carpenter.”

  Ginny nodded. “There was a news clip this morning. Someone thinks she’s the victim of foul play because she was supporting the bill.”

  “Oh, she was more than supporting it. She helped draft it. She’s the one who went to the Board.”

  “Do you know this woman?”

  “I do. She’s my sister.”

  * * *

  Chapter 20

  Day 9 – Saturday late evening

  Sixth Street, Austin

  Jim was keeping his mouth shut and the drinks coming. Becky Peel leaned toward them across the table, her eyes on Ginny. “You saw the news this morning?”

  Ginny nodded. “I saw the picture.”

  “And I saw you researching my sister today when you were supposed to be paying attention in class.”

  “I can multi-task.”

  Becky smiled at her. “Okay. Why is he here?” She glanced over at Jim.

  Ginny smiled. “This is my partner in crime. We’re working with the police to solve Phyllis’ murder.”

  Jim smiled at Becky, trying to look useful. He watched her take another swallow of her drink, studying them.

  “Can he keep his mouth shut? Can both of you? I don’t want Clara to end up like Phyllis.”

  Jim felt his pulse quicken. “I can.” He cocked his head toward Ginny. “She’s a chatterbox.”

  Ginny turned and punched him in the shoulder. “I am not!”

  Becky laughed. “All right, you two. Knock it off.” They set the discussion aside as their dinners arrived. When they were finished, Becky looked at the two of them. “How about dessert at my house?”

  “That sounds lovely,” Ginny said.

  They got directions from their hostess, then worked their way south, down the interstate, over the river, and into a residential neighborhood lined with mature trees.

  Becky closed the door behind them, then called to her sister. “Clara, I have someone I want you to meet.”

  She emerged from a back room, her long, rangy legs accentuating her lanky form and blonde hair. She held out a hand to Ginny, then to him.

  “Hi! I’m Clara Carpenter.”

  Jim nearly dropped his teeth. If she hadn’t been so warm, he would have sworn he was shaking hands with a corpse. Ginny seemed to have known, but he hadn’t. Clara Carpenter was a dead ringer for Phyllis Kyle.

  * * *

  Saturday late evening

  Peel residence, Austin

  Ginny could sympathize with the shock she saw on Jim’s face. She, too, found the resemblance unnerving and she’d been prepared for it.

  “Please, sit down.” Becky steered Jim over to the sofa, then sat down beside him. “Now you see why we’re concerned about this murder in Dallas.”

  Clara nodded. “When I saw the announcement on the TV, I went into hiding. My first thought was that she was killed by mistake and the murderer was after me.”

  Ginny leaned forward. “Why? Phyllis was killed in the Hillcrest ICU, on a night shift. Why would you think the killer would mistake someone in that position for you?”

  Clara and Becky exchanged glances. Clara answered.

  “Phyllis has been standing in for me, pretending to be me. We’re afraid someone followed her home.”

  Ginny knew she was staring, but she couldn’t help it. “Phyllis was impersonating you?”

  “Yes. So I could meet with some of the decision-makers without having to deal with protesters. I offered to pay her for it, but she refused. She said she was glad she could do something more useful than waving a placard at a TV camera.”

  “How many times?” Jim asked.

  “Eight, total.”

  “How did you two meet?”

  “At an ICU conference two years ago. We hit it off immediately and pretended to be twins. When this issue came up, she called me and asked if she could help.”

  Ginny frowned. “Do you honestly believe you have enemies willing to murder you?”

  Clara nodded. “There’s a great deal of money involved in this Mexican Nurse Pipeline. If it gets shut down, someone is going to be hurt, financially, I mean.” Clara frowned. “What I don’t understand is why they chose to kill her at work, rather than in some quiet alleyway. There are places in Texas lonely enough that she might never have been found.”

  Ginny nodded, then explained her theory about the hired assassin choosing the Hillcrest ICU as a way to cover his tracks.

  Jim nodded slowly. “Well, that part of it makes sense, but how did he plan to get in? The ICU is usually locked.”

  Ginny shrugged. “Visitors come and go and I’m not sure anyone counts noses. Or maybe he planned to dress up as maintenance.” She turned back to Clara. “It’s been driving me crazy that I couldn’t find a motive for anyone who had access to Phyllis to want to kill her, but if it was a mistake—” She shrugged. “And that still doesn’t explain why they
concluded you and she were the same person. Especially if you were seen together at an ICU conference.”

  Becky nodded. “After we thought about it, we decided they didn’t. We think the murderer knew it was Phyllis, not Clara. We think she was the target.”

  Ginny felt her skin crawl. “Why?”

  Clara reached over and picked up a small booklet, handing it to Ginny. “Because of this.”

  Ginny looked down to find the Texas Board of Nursing quarterly Bulletin in her hand. She glanced at the date, seeing that it was not the most recent issue. This was the one before, issued six months ago. She looked over at Clara. “What am I looking for?”

  Clara opened the Bulletin to the featured article. “Here.”

  Ginny read the headline, then the author’s name. Her eyebrows shot up. “Phyllis wrote this?”

  Clara nodded. “I helped with some of the legal angles.”

  Ginny read through the two-page article, her heart sinking. It was an argument against using vulnerable Mexican nationals in the illegal and deadly drug trafficking going on between Mexico and Texas. She looked at Clara. “Did she tell you how she got this information?”

  “She said she had a friend among the pipeline nurses. Someone who wanted out.” Clara nodded at the Bulletin. “Those insider details, she didn’t get those from me.”

  Ginny sucked in a deep breath. “I think I know who she got them from.” She turned to Becky. “If I give you an RN license number, can you see if it belongs to one of the pipeline nurses?”

  Becky nodded. “I can probably find out, but not until Monday. Get me the number and a way to get back to you.”

  “I can give you her name, too.”

  “Even better.”

  Clara leaned forward, her eyes troubled. “I absolutely hate the thought that Phyllis died because of me.”

  “Even if this is what got her killed, it’s not your fault. Besides, it’s just a theory and there are others.” Ginny took a deep breath. “What happens now?”

  Clara shrugged. “The vote is next week and, if that demonstration is any indication, it’s going to be ugly.”

  Ginny hesitated. “Please don’t think I’m giving you orders, but I’m going to suggest you stay in hiding until this is over. If the opposition thinks you’re dead, they won’t come after you.”