Looming Murder (9 page)

D
r
. Green was in his early to mid-forties, with slightly receding dark hair, blue eyes and a kind smile.
Cute
, I thought. If not for feeling so awful, weepy and shaky all at once, I would definitely have flirted. On second thought, flirting might do me good. It would take my mind off the whole horrendous experience. Besides, it had been a long time since I’d flirted—too long.

But as I discovered while lying on the examining table, batting one’s lashes at someone who is peering into your eyes with an ophthalmoscope is practically impossible. The only response I got from the good doctor was a request to stop blinking. I blushed all the way to the roots of my hair as he peered into my eyes for what seemed like an eternity and my mind went right back to the nightmarish events of the morning.

“No concussion,” he said at last, and moved on to my ankle.

“I could have told you that,” I said. “I didn’t hurt my head. I hurt my ankle and my ribs.”

“Well, you’ve got quite a bump on your forehead,” he said.

I did? I felt around my forehead gingerly and—ouch—he was right. I had a lump the size of a plum along the hairline.

“You should ice that as soon as you get home,” he said, slipping off my sandal. He scowled. “No wonder you hurt your ankle. These aren’t shoes. They’re an accident waiting to happen.” At least he hadn’t called them stilts like Matthew and David had.

He examined the offending sandal with incredulity. “Do you know the damage this kind of shoe can do to your foot?”

It must have been a rhetorical question because without waiting for an answer, he set it on a chair and turned his attention to my injury. My nice shapely ankle of a few hours ago now looked like a fat sausage.

“It really hurts,” I said, hoping he noticed that my other ankle was quite trim.

He palpated the swelling gently, and I bit my lip, trying not to cry out.

“I’m sending you down to be x-rayed,” he said. “I think it’s only sprained, but I want to make sure.” He helped me back into the wheelchair and walked away.

So much for flirting.

F
o
ur hours later, I was back in the emergency room, lying on a different table, while Dr. Green wound what seemed like miles of elastic bandage around my ankle. My sausage-looking ankle was now a pig in a blanket—which I truly enjoyed along with a cocktail, but not at the end of my leg. “Stay off that foot for at least a week and try to keep it elevated.”

“A week?” I exclaimed, aghast.

“Consider yourself lucky it isn’t broken, because you’d be looking at months instead of days,” he said. “And if you want to get back to normal as soon as you can, you’ll take my advice.”

“I’ll stay off my foot and keep it elevated,” I repeated dutifully.

“I’ll give you a prescription for painkillers.” He attached metal clips to hold the bandage in place and then stepped away. “That should do it.”

I looked down at my ankle. The swelling had spread to my foot, which now looked like a plump baby’s foot. “I guess I can forget about getting my shoe back on,” I said.

He grinned, picked up my shoe and handed it to me. “What is it about women and shoes?” he asked, and to my surprise he was looking at me teasingly. Was he flirting? “I suggest you settle for wearing a thick sock on that foot until it’s healed.”

I grimaced. “Call me crazy, but I like my feet to match,” I said, dropping the shoe into my bag. I was carrying on a flirty conversation, as if the subject most on my mind wasn’t murder and bodies and pools of blood. It helped, but not a whole lot.

“I could wrap your other foot if it’ll make you feel any better,” he countered, and I realized that, yes, he
was
flirting.

For a second, I felt a whole lot better. I laughed. “Thanks, but no thanks.” I struggled off the examining table, carefully setting my left foot on the floor. I winced. “Ouch.”

“What did I just tell you? Stay off that foot. Hold on a second and I’ll get you something,” he said, and walked away. I was praying for a nice wheelchair, one of those modern ones with motors and a speed stick. I had an instant vision of myself racing down the sidewalk with Winston chasing along. That could actually be cool.

Dr. Green reappeared, carrying a pair of wooden crutches. “Here, try these on for size.”

I grimaced. “Crutches. Ugh.”

“Crutches are your friend,” he said.

I slipped them under my arms and tried a few steps. “Let me adjust the hand rests,” he said, and something in his voice made me look up. He was looking at me with a smile and the kind of twinkle in his eyes that made me think that maybe—just maybe—the good doctor liked me. I smiled back.

“How are you going to get home?”

“Oh, um, I guess I’ll call a cab.” And then, feeling like an idiot, I remembered that I didn’t have my cell phone. “Is there a phone I could use?”

“The receptionist will call one for you.” And then, grabbing a pen and a prescription pad from the nearby counter, he scribbled a few words and tore off the page. “This is your prescription.” I looked down at the paper in my hands. “Or, you can take two aspirin and call me in the morning,” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. I laughed.

“And if I don’t follow the doctor’s advice?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t take that chance if I were you. Doctors always know best.” He gave me another smile. “You should be fine in a week. If it takes longer than that, come back and see me.”

He looked so cute, I almost wished I would have to come back. And since I couldn’t quite manage sexy walking on crutches, I tried for sexy hobbling—also impossible. Still, I felt the good doctor’s eyes following me all the way out of the ER.

Well, well. What do you know? Even on crutches, I could still turn a man’s head.

A
t
the reception desk, the same pudgy blonde looked at me questioningly—a marked improvement over her earlier suspicious gaze.

“I can call a cab for you,” she said when I asked her, “but there aren’t very many around these parts. If they happen to be busy, they can take as long as an hour to answer a call.” An hour! Even Charlotte cabs were faster than that. “Wouldn’t you rather call a friend?” she added.

To my surprise, the first person that popped into my mind was Jenny Davis, and I rattled off her number. I always did have a memory when it came to numbers—a talent that came in handy when I was a business analyst. The receptionist punched Jenny’s number into the phone and handed me the receiver.

The phone rang a few times. Just as I was about to give up, she answered.

“Hi, Jenny. It’s me.”

“Della? Are you okay? You sound odd,” she said, hearing my voice.

“Actually, I’m at the hospital and I—” That one sympathetic question was all it took to bring the emotions to the surface. Suddenly I was once again the quivering Della who had just found a dead body.

“I just knew something bad happened. I had that feeling all morning. Are you all right? Were you in an accident?”

I forced the tremor out of my voice. “No, no, nothing like that. I’m fine. Don’t worry. But I need a ride home. Do you think—?”

“No problem.” She still sounded worried. “Meet me at the side entrance. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I followed the receptionist’s directions, hobbling along, trying to keep my purse from sliding off my shoulder—no small feat with both hands holding on to crutches. I still thought a wheelchair would have been a better idea—or maybe not, considering that the bathroom and my bedroom at home were on the second floor.

“Della? Is that you?” a voice called out. I stopped and maneuvered a clumsy turn. Joan Douglas, the neonatal nurse who was my contact for the charity blanket-weaving project, was staring at me wide-eyed. “What happened to you?” This was a question I might as well get used to. I would hear it a lot over the next few days.

I smiled crookedly. “I sprained my ankle. I’ll be stuck using these for a week.”

“Oh, poor you. Do you have a minute for a cup of coffee?” she asked, eyeing my crutches with a frown.

The last thing I wanted was to be drawn into an explanation of how this had happened. “Right now, all I really want is to get home.”

“Of course. We’ll do it some other time. Make sure you keep that foot up as soon as you get home.”

“I will, if I ever find my way out of here.” I glanced around. “Maybe you can help me. I was supposed to turn right at the oncology department.”

As she came closer, I noticed an odd smell—a mixture of something musky like cheap men’s cologne and a chemical like camphor—not the usual baby powder smell I had come to associate with the nursery. She pointed at a door. “You’re standing right in front of the oncology department. If you’re looking for the side entrance, it’s that way.”

She gave me a quick wave, and I headed down the corridor. By the time I reached the entrance, I had been on crutches for all of five minutes and I already thought my arms were going to fall off. I let myself collapse into one of the waiting chairs, as exhausted as if I’d just run a marathon—not that I’d ever run one.

Hey, on the bright side, I was getting the workout of my life. I was picturing myself with Jenny’s lithe body when the door flew open and she appeared. She took one look at me and her face fell. “What in the world—?”

“It’s a long story,” I said. I pulled myself up on one foot, struggling with my crutches.

“Is it broken?” she asked, looking like she was on the verge of tears. “I just knew something had happened to you. I had a bad feeling all morning,” she said, repeating what she’d told me earlier.

I was tempted to ask if her bad feeling had anything to do with murder, or even just death. “No, just sprained, thank goodness. I should be better in about a week, but I’m not sure my arms can take a week of this.” By some miracle, I made it down the steps and around to the passenger side of her car without tripping. I climbed in and fell back against the seat.

Jenny threw the crutches into the backseat, slid in behind the wheel and took off.

She glanced at me from the corner of her eye. “How did this happen?”

I took a deep breath and plunged into the story. “Jeremy Fox is dead. I found his body.”

She turned to gawk incredulously at me and the car swerved dangerously near the side of the road. “Watch out!” I yelled.

She veered back into the correct lane. “Tell me.”

I told her about meeting David in front of the building, him looking like he’d been mistaken for a punching bag, me finding the body. “I tripped down the stairs, getting out of there.” During the recounting, Jenny must have repeated “Oh, my God,” half a dozen times. “And to top it all off,” I concluded, “Officer Bellows questioned me for half an hour, right in the waiting room, within hearing distance of half a dozen patients. And you know what that means? I’ll be the subject of conversation around town tomorrow.”

She took her eyes off the road for a second and glanced at me, shaken. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re being way too conservative. Guaranteed, people are already talking about you.”

I groaned. “Oh, well, that’s one way to bring attention to my shop.” Cheerfully, I added, “On a brighter note, the attending physician was a hunk and he was flirting with me.”

This elicited a chuckle. “I don’t believe it. You flirted while in the emergency room? That’s too funny.”

“He started it, not me,” I said, choosing to forget about my unsuccessful attempt at batting my lashes. “Maybe you know him—Dr. Green?”

“I do know him. He’s nice. His wife used to shop at Franny’s.” She caught a glimpse of my face and added, “He’s a widower. His wife died in a car accident a few years ago. I like him. Every time I met him, I got good vibes.” She turned off the highway and soon we were entering Briar Hollow. “How exactly are you going to get around on that ankle?” she asked, almost sounding like my mother for a second. “You won’t be able to do anything on your own, and knowing Matthew, he’s not exactly the kind of man you can count on to cook and clean.”

“Don’t worry. I can manage. I’ve still got one good foot.”

She chuckled. “All kidding aside, I can come stay with you if you like.”

I had a quick flash of Jenny and Matthew laughing over a glass of wine, and wondered why it left me feeling uncomfortable. “Don’t worry. I’ll be getting around like a pro on those crutches in no time. But I’m really worried about David. The cop who questioned me seemed convinced that he’s the killer.” That comment was answered by a long silence. “Jenny?” Her eyes stayed focused on the road ahead, but I could tell she was troubled. “What’s wrong?”

“That would explain the negative energy I felt the night of the group meeting.”

“What are you saying?” I was still struggling with my own doubts about him and had counted on her to dispel them. “You can’t seriously think he could be a killer. He seems like such a nice guy.”

There was a short pause. “Every time a killer is apprehended, those around him are stunned. They can’t believe that the brother, friend or neighbor they knew and who seemed so nice could turn out to be a criminal. What we all seem to forget is that murderers don’t look like monsters. They look like normal people.”

She was right, of course. If anyone had asked me about my boss a year ago, I would have said he was the most honest and trustworthy person in the world. Nobody was more surprised than I was when I discovered he was an embezzler.

“But I was there, Jenny. I saw the look on his face. Believe me, he was just as taken aback as I was.” I was quiet for a second, staring blindly ahead. “Also, it was my fault he was there this morning. I was the one who wanted to see the apartment again. The least I can do is help in whatever way I can.”

She looked at me in disbelief. “That is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. What have you got to feel guilty about? He called you, remember?”

“There is no way he could have done it. I refuse to believe it,” I said with more conviction than I really felt. I hardly knew the man. It wasn’t as if I had feelings for him. So why did I want so badly to believe he was innocent?—except maybe to continue thinking that Briar Hollow was a nice, peaceful town and that one of the few people I knew here was not a murderer.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt such negative energy as at the meeting. The atmosphere was so dark, it was almost evil.” That was what she’d told me yesterday while helping me dress the loom.

“But didn’t you also say that you can’t always tell the source of the energy when there are a lot of people in a room? Maybe that negative energy came from somebody else.”

“Let’s see now—you and I were there, and so were Dolores and her daughter. Oh, I know,” she added. “That energy must have come from Marnie.”

“Well, it’s not impossible. Just yesterday, Marnie was saying she’d like to . . . Oh, my God.”

Jenny glanced at me, alarmed.

I cleared my throat. “You don’t think she could have—”

“No, of course not,” she said quickly. Maybe too quickly.

But the thought remained with me. It could have been Marnie just as easily as it could have been David. Suddenly I didn’t feel much like talking anymore. We drove along in silence, both lost in our own thoughts. When she pulled up in front of the house, I noticed that Matthew’s car was gone.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in?” she asked, helping me out.

“You can come in for coffee if you like—oh, shoot. I forgot. I’m out of milk.”

“I think I’ll skip the coffee if you don’t mind,” she said, and I realized that all this talk of murder was just as upsetting to her, maybe even more so. After all, Briar Hollow was her home, and every person in town was her friend. “But I’ll pick you up a quart next door. Be back in two minutes,” she said, and headed for the Mercantile while I limped inside.