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  Ms. Martin’s face closed up a little tighter. “I wouldn’t know. No one has asked me to see her today. Except you. You’re likely the first visitor she’s had since she’s been here. If you have questions, there’ll be an autopsy. Then we’ll know more.”

  She gazed at me, wavering between annoyance and worry, and then brought her full attention back online with a little shake of her head.

  “In the meantime, I don’t know how you want to handle it with that poor little boy.” Her guard slipped, and I glimpsed the compassion her position had taught her to hide. I forgave her for doing her job.

  Here’s how I was planning to handle it with that poor little boy: I was going to lie like a house on fire.

  I did, too. I walked out of that anteroom and I didn’t look back. I gave Tom’s shoulder a hard “just wait” squeeze, and then I sat down in the chair next to Rune and faced him with my brightest, kindest, most grown-up smile.

  “Rune,” I began, “we’re not going to be able to see your mother this afternoon. She’s not doing quite as well.” Understatement. “She’s going to need more—a special procedure.” Autopsy always qualifies as a special procedure in my book. “We’ll have to call tomorrow and see if we can come back.”

  No. This first pure and absolute lie was the one bright spot. We would never, ever have to come back to this horrible place.

  Rune stared back at me. His eyes were old and sad. Sadder, maybe, than any eyes I’d ever let myself see into.

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?” he said in a flat, thin voice. “She died before we even got here. Didn’t she?”

  Ah, hell. No help for it. Truth. “I’m so sorry, Rune. I didn’t want you to find out like this. Here. I thought it would be easier for you if Tom told you.”

  He shrugged. “It’s okay, Allie. I knew as soon as the lady said ‘Oh.’ Can we go now?”

  We went. Tom sat in the backseat with Rune on the way to the Robbins’ house, talking softly. Rune answered him in a small, sad voice. What with the car engine, the sound of the rain, and the windshield wipers, I didn’t hear much of what they said. Rune never cried that I saw. Not then. Not later. He sat and stared at his knees or out the window.

  I cried, though, and did my best to hide it and not drive off the road. I cried for Rune and the family he’d never had and the anguish he’d bottled up inside. I cried for Renata and the mess she’d made of her life, merely by wanting love and security. And I cried for Tom, knowing that he’d blame himself for setting fate into motion and being the unwitting cause of Rune’s mother’s death, simply by trying to help. Rune would never blame Tom, I was sure. But Tom would never stop blaming himself.

  We walked Rune to Mrs. Robbins’ door and told her the news. I liked the way she stooped down and put her arms around him and said she was very, very sorry, the way she would have to an adult. Rune hugged her back. I thought that was a good sign. We promised to call and come for him as soon as we knew more about his mom. We told him not to think even for a minute he was going to be all on his own.

  Tom and I left him there in her warm, bright doorway. A small, lost kid, hanging onto a new backpack as though it could transport him back to the happy, hopeful moment before the lady said “Oh.” We made our way to the car in the rain. Leaning on each other. Not talking at all.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Murder?

  “Murder.”

  It was after eleven that night and Tom and I were lying, very chaste, in each other’s arms in our big Marriott Bed. We were tired. We were sad. We were scared. I was predicting to myself that it would be at least two full days before our libidos recovered. In the meantime, it was comforting to snuggle together, cozy as hibernating bears, listening to the rain, reviewing our situation, and considering our options. Maybe this would be the way we would cuddle up when we were ninety and ninety-four. I’d like that.

  It was Thursday night. Since Tuesday, we’d been fairly innocent bystanders to one simple breaking-and-entering, two breaking-and-entering/assault-and-battery combos, one triple-fatality shootout, and two—possibly health-related, but to our minds, mysterious and most likely premeditated—demises.

  Five dead. That was a lot to deal with by anybody’s standards. Tom’s early-on comment about tsunamis and earthquakes? No joke. Anybody who thinks winning the lottery would be a cakewalk could learn a thing or two from our forty-eight hours of mayhem. Here we were, barely twelve hours out from breakfast, talking murder again.

  My phone went off.

  I was getting way too many late-night “Who Are You?”s for my taste. I looked at the screen. “Unknown.” As advertised. Forewarned, I was, but not forearmed. Tom rolled into the staring-at-the-ceiling position, even though of course he wasn’t. His face was one hundred percent What next?

  I couldn’t resist. I picked up.

  “Ms. Harper?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Officer Anthony Valerio.”

  “Officer Valerio. Hi. How are you?”

  “I’m good, thanks. I hope I’m not calling too late.”

  “No. No. That’s okay.”

  “There was something…last night. Up on Lake Shore. Did you notice anything unusual? Anything the decedent, Mr. Grant, might have had in his possession at the time of death? Might even have dropped? When he talked to you, did he say he had something to show you?”

  “No. He said he had something to tell me.”

  “And he didn’t give you any clues as to what?”

  “Uh. I’m trying to remember what he said, Officer. He talked about the three dead men. He found the circumstances of that shooting to be…concerning.”

  Right then, inside my head, I was conjuring my own video of that last moment. Felix, Muff, and Frank in deep conversation, maybe plotting something I wouldn’t have approved of. Then, how about this? How about Officer Dirty Valerio, storming in? Killing them all before they could move. Stunned faces. Jerking bodies. Blood. And then what? Valerio doling out smoking guns, making sure that everybody got one. That part of my head movie wasn’t working. What—?

  Officer Valerio stepped out of my bloody crime scene, his face dreadful and threatening, and spoke into my ear.

  “Ms. Harper? Are you still there?”

  “Oh. Yes! I’m sorry. He—Ulysses—caught me off guard. I don’t have it word for word. He said it wasn’t right. That Mr. Reposado and the others were stupid ‘but not that stupid.’ That was what he wanted to talk to me about. I suppose. But when I got there it was too late.”

  “Too late.”

  “Yes.”

  “When you found him, there was nothing in his environs or on his person that seemed unusual. I’ve been led to believe that he had some kind of message or note. You didn’t see anything like that?”

  “No. Nothing like that. At all.”

  “Ms. Harper, I’m sure you understand that disturbing a crime scene—tampering with evidence—is a serious matter.”

  “Of course. But I didn’t see anything like that.”

  “Or pick anything up?”

  “Look. I just said I didn’t see it. How could I pick it up if I didn’t see it? Are you suggesting I’m lying about this? What is this paper you’re looking for, anyway?”

  “No, No. I’m not suggesting anything. And no doubt there was no paper at all. Good night, Ms Harper. I’ll be back in touch if there’s anything else.”

  “Sure thing, Officer Valerio. Good night.”

  We hung up.

  Tom was still not-staring at the ceiling. When he spoke, he spoke to it and not to me, his tone located midway on the continuum between concern and accusation. “He knows there was a note. And he’s convinced you picked it up.”

  Oh, yes. Indeed. Why don’t we just save some of this shit for tomorrow so that we’re sure we won’t run out?

  “Yes. But he can�
�t prove it, and he can’t do anything about it tonight. Let’s not worry now. Get some sleep.”

  Ha. Like that was going to work. Twenty minutes later I couldn’t tell if Tom was out or not, but I was back circling around in guard-dog country with two pieces of evidence now: one plaid, one a felony….

  Oh, maybe I was unnecessarily worked up about the felony thing. If I’d still been married to D.B., sheltered by his money and his natural gift for manipulating felonies into misdemeanors when it suited his purposes, I’d have been braver. But I’d seen how being stripped of your familiar bank account and your place in society made you vulnerable to authority. And not in a good way.

  However, I was in complete agreement with that Eagles song, “Lying Eyes,” about the high price of selling out. If I were still hiding behind D.B.’s dubious talents, I wouldn’t be here in this great bed with Dr. Right, PhD. I decided to give the calming shower another try. Maybe it would work this evening. For a change.

  As I came out of the bathroom, squeaky clean if not perfectly calm, I snuck a peek at myself in the full-length mirror. My hair was curling up all over the place—no help for that—but it was not a complete disaster, if you weren’t going for elegantly smooth. My eyes were wide and dark with a hint of bluish circles in the no-rest-for-the-wicked zone.

  I was wearing one of Tom’s delicious white tees and I have to say that, although I wasn’t quite as fetching in it as he would have been, I looked okay. It was cut fairly short for sleepwear, of course. Adequate, but not overabundant in the length department. Putting my hands up at the request of an outlaw, for example, would have been awkward.

  Too bad Tom wasn’t in a frame of mind or in possession of the visual acuity to appreciate the mild provocativeness of my appearance. And too asleep to know I was even in the room. I’d spritzed on my Wild Fig & Cassis, however, to remind him that although we were abstaining by unspoken agreement, we’d live to love another day.

  I’d underestimated both of us. When I slid under the down comforter and took up my spot again, he ran a hand lightly over me. “Hmmm,” he queried. “Isn’t that my shirt?”

  “I’m sorry. I forgot to pack anything to sleep in. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  His hand had found its way down to the top of my thigh, where the shirtage ran out. His fingers searched around as he assessed the situation. “But you didn’t borrow my boxers? Did you?”

  “No.” I was running short on breathable air. “I felt that would be—overstepping.”

  “I see.”

  “Nope. You don’t.”

  “I feel. That’s for sure.”

  “Not my problem.” Trying to keep my voice steady.

  “Well, it’s your problem now.” His hand had found its way up to the semi-safe area around my belly-button and it rested warmly there, radiating a radioactive force field that made my heart and some other stuff really throb. “Because I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask for my shirt back. It’s about to become a favorite of mine. Smells like Jo.”

  “If you can take it away from me, you can keep it. But then what will I wear?”

  “I suggest that you wear nothing at all. For as long as we both shall live.”

  And then he kissed me. And I kissed him back. And our libidos returned home, safe and sound once again.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Friday, August 21

  “How did we end up back here?”

  “Can’t say. You’re driving. I’m the blind one.”

  Ten a.m. Friday. In spite of the promise I’d made to myself yesterday, Tom and I were back at the McCauley Road Hospital. I’d parked the Maxima in the far reaches of the lot with a view down over a short, rubble-covered incline, a ragged assembly of stunted trees, and a steep drop. I was glad for the guard rail.

  Yesterday’s storm hadn’t cleared the air. The morning was hot, muggy, and gray with an ugly drizzle. So far I wasn’t enjoying anything about this day.

  “You can change your mind, Allie. You’d have my full support.”

  “I’ll be fine. It’s a public place. This is Visitors’ Parking and I’m a bona fide visitor.”

  “What does that make me? A lurker?”

  “You’re merely waiting in the car while I drop in on my Aunt Martha.”

  “I can’t stand her?”

  “Thus the waiting in the car. No way we’d ever get both of us past Ivy Martin.”

  So there we were. Trapped by our vow to follow up on any suspicious deaths related to the Mondo. We hadn’t changed our suspicions about Renata since last night, but it’s never too late for a few last-minute doubts.

  “Allie, she could have just died. People die unexpectedly all the time.”

  “Definitely. We can testify to that.”

  “Embolisms happen.”

  “Bumper sticker?”

  “Not funny.”

  “Sorry. I’m nervous.”

  “I know. Don’t go, then. We don’t even know what you’re looking for.”

  “True. But if we believe Renata was murdered, and we do, this is the scene of the crime. And it’s getting colder by the minute. I may not even find the room she was in or anything, but this is the place and right now is the only chance I’ll get to ask anybody anything.

  “They’re busy, Tom. They see tons of patients every day. They’ll forget Renata, if they haven’t already. I’m going. The worst that can happen is I’ll get kicked out of McCauley Road Hospital and told never to come back. That would be an ideal outcome.”

  I kissed his cheek. “You. Stay in the car. That’s an order.”

  He made a clever move and it wasn’t a cheek kiss anymore.

  “Tell Aunt Martha her pound cake sucks.”

  ***

  When I stepped into the massive revolving door that could have accommodated me, four or five other folks, and a wheelchair, I was conspicuously all alone. But things went okay. Sweaty, but luckier than I would have hoped.

  I walked myself briskly by the desk where Ivy Martin appeared to be embroiled in a discussion with about a dozen family members who wanted to go sit on the bed of someone who’d just had his appendix out. Balloons. Flowers. A Bundt cake. The works. Ivy’s full attention was required for that one. At least I hoped so.

  In the elevator bay, I was searching the directory for a logical place to start my reconnoiter, and here was luck again. A young guy outfitted with scrubs, a stethoscope, and a cute smile came up and stood right next to me.

  Carpe doctor, Allie.

  “Hi. Excuse me? My Aunt Martha is a patient here. She fell down a flight of stairs? Hit her head? Came to your ER? And they admitted her. What floor would she be on, do you think? ”

  He frowned. “The lady in reception could give you her room number. She knows everything that goes on around here.”

  “Oh. Ms. Martin? She’s busy telling about a hundred people not to go bounce on somebody’s bed.”

  I shot him my most knowing aren’t-visitors-a-pain? look and he grinned.

  “Somebody post-surgical, I presume.”

  “Naturally.”

  “I’d check the eighth floor. That’s Trauma. Ask at the nurses’ station.”

  The elevator binged and we both got on. Having exhausted our one area of common interest, we had nothing more to say and a few remaining seconds of awkward silence to kill. He examined the ceiling panels. I cleared my throat. As he stepped off on five, he held the door and faced me. Smiling. Helpful. “I was in the ER last night. When was your aunt admitted?”

  Busted. Think fast, Allie.

  I shrugged. “Not sure. I got a call this morning from my cousin, Kathy. Last couple of days? Maybe?”

  The door wanted to close and he let it. I breathed out. Still lucky.

  On the eighth floor, though, my momentum died. I realized I had no clue about how to sta
rt. To my right, at the nurses’ station, two nurses were peering at a monitor and not noticing me. I turned left. Halfway down a long hall was one of those pill-delivery carts.

  I headed toward it, making note of the queasy feeling I always get in hospitals—even when I’m not there as a ridiculously amateur detective trying to investigate a probable cold-blooded murder that maybe happened on this exact floor.

  A nurse hurried out of the room closest to the cart. Young. Brisk. Friendly. “Can I help you?”

  Showtime.

  “Hi. A friend of mine. Renata Davis? She was…she had a head injury. I think she’s here. On this floor.”

  The nurse’s expression switched from pleasant inquiry to troubled shock. I’d seen this selfsame look happen to Ivy Martin only yesterday.

  “Oh. I see. Let’s—” She glanced back up the hall. “Let’s go in here and sit down for a minute. Didn’t you stop at the main desk?”

  I recalibrated my face for alarm. “No. It was very backed up. Is something wrong?”

  She kept walking. “In here.”

  An unoccupied room. Two beds, two dressers, two chairs. She gestured for me to take the handiest chair and leaned against, but did not sit on, its impeccably made-up bed. “Please. Sit down. Ms.—?”

  “Harper. Allie Harper. What’s wrong? Where’s Renata?”

  “I’m so sorry. If only you’d asked—” She puffed out a tiny, worried breath. “Ms. Harper, Renata Davis passed away yesterday afternoon. It’s terrible you have to find out this way.”

  Déjà vu. I heard Ivy Martin telling me that Renata was gone. Saw Rune’s stoic grief. The tears that choked me now were the most natural thing in the world. “What happened to her?”

  “We don’t know yet. It’s not terribly unusual for a patient to come up from ER and not survive. All kinds of injuries. Even comparatively mild concussions like hers, when the MRI doesn’t show anything particularly serious. It’s sad. I’m so sorry this happened to Renata and that you hadn’t been more prepared for the news.”