Murder in Miniature (12 page)

“Not exactly. I got out eventually—the lock was as rickety as Eddie’s brain—and walked a ways to the phone.”

“I don’t understand why he would drive you all the way out there.”

“Well, first he’s not the best-lit room in the dollhouse, if you know what I mean. I think the idea was to get me isolated while he went through everything and looked for that sapphire. He got into my house somehow. I guess he’s had a lot of practice.”

I remembered the mess in Jason’s room, the view I’d gotten when I snooped around the Reed home on Friday after the fair. Things were falling into place, but just barely.

“He probably wanted to scare you, too,” I said, without thinking.

Linda shivered, though the air-conditioning was barely holding its own against the hot day. “Well, it worked.”

A light went on in my own rickety brain. “Couldn’t you just hand over the stone?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t want to do that. I figured he’d just use it against Jason anyway. It was damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

Something about Linda’s story was not making sense.

The gemstone, for example. “I read the papers, Linda. Crane’s didn’t report the loss of an expensive gemstone. Just cash and some costume jewelry.”

“I know my gems, Gerry.” That much was true. Linda had worked part-time at a gem shop in Palo Alto before landing her third care-facility job, and now sometimes helped Dudley Crane with estate sales. “This was a deep Ceylon blue, no matter how you turned it. Perfect shape. Untreated. I’m guessing at least forty or fifty thousand dollars.”

More than my last two cars put together. Who would pay that much for a stone? Rock stars? Donald Trump? We had neither in Lincoln Point. But that wasn’t the point of the story. “Why wouldn’t Dudley report it? Maybe it’s not from his store.”

Linda crossed her arms across her ample chest. “You mean it’s from another robbery Jason pulled?”

“No, not at all.” Although it had crossed my mind. “What does Jason say about it?”

“He hasn’t told me anything,” she whispered. I guessed I’d be embarrassed, too, in this situation.

“What’s happening now?” I looked around my atrium and checked that the dead bolt on my front door was in the locked position. “Has Just Eddie given up looking for the stone?”

Chirp. Chirp
.
Chirp. Chirp
. Linda’s cell phone rang. I got up to refresh the iced-tea pitcher and to give her some privacy. I heard only mumbles from her end.

“That was Chuck,” she said after the very brief call. “He’s actually being nice. He wanted me to know he picked up Jason after detention.” She paused, seeming to regret applying the word to her son. “It was for nothing, Gerry. Just that he was tardy four days in a row. That school has it in for Jason for some reason.”

“Just Eddie and the stone?” I asked, getting back to the pre–phone call topic.

“I think I convinced him I don’t have it. But I’m worried about what he’ll do to Jason. The police let Jason go—they really have nothing if Eddie doesn’t talk—and I thought Jason would be safer with Chuck, and maybe would open up to him, you know. He is his father.”

Such as he was. Once again, it was Jason I felt sorry for.

One more loose end. “Where’s the sapphire now?”

Linda swallowed hard, then bit her lip. She took a sip of tea and cleared her throat. “You have it.”

The shock of the surprise rippled through me. “Wha—?” The last thing I expected to hear. I leaned toward Linda. “Wha—?”

Rrring. Rrring.

My phone. Not good timing. I rushed to see the caller ID on the box in the kitchen. Unless this call was critical, it would have to wait until I found out what Linda was talking about. I looked at the display:
Private Caller
. I was tempted to let it ring through to my answering machine, but I was never comfortable doing that while I was responsible for Maddie.

I grabbed the receiver, annoyed at the interruption.

“Hello.”

“Mrs. Geraldine Porter.”

“Yes.” A wary affirmative. I hoped I hadn’t connected myself to a telemarketer. I was anxious to find out what Linda meant. That I had the stone?

“This is Dr. Woodkin from Lincoln Point Hospital.”

A wave of fear coursed through my body. Maddie? Beverly? “What’s happened?”

“Nothing urgent, ma’am. A small accident with your granddaughter, and we need you to go to the hospital as soon as possible.” A strange, uneven voice. Not the smoothness I remembered from all of Ken’s doctors. Images of Maddie in a fatal dive, or lying at the bottom of the pool, or bleeding from a wound, flooded my brain.

“A small accident? How small? What’s wrong?”

“Please go to the main desk.”

“Is Beverly there? Beverly Gowen?”

The line was dead. It wasn’t the first time I had become frustrated with hospital personnel, but this was over the top. I thought of many such summonses during Ken’s illness, being called back to the hospital, on those rare occasions when I came home for a couple of hours of sleep.

Linda had come into the kitchen. I answered the question in her eyes. “Something’s happened to Maddie. I need to go.” I swung my purse over my shoulder and scooped my keys from the counter.

“Do you want me to drive you?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

“I could follow you.”

“No, really. Just lock up, okay?”

In my car (right after rolling through a stop sign) I had
the fleeting thought that it might have been more sensible for me not to drive. Why didn’t I take Linda up on her offer? She probably would have liked to do something for me, and I refused out of hand. Not my most sensible hour. I thought only of Maddie and rushed ahead.

Lincoln Point Hospital was the highest structure in
town, sprawled around the slightly flattened top of our only hill. The complex had a radial configuration that Ken admired, with five wings coming off a central core. I marveled at the way he could look at this building as an architect; for me it was simply the place where Ken was sick.

I hadn’t been here in two years. I had no good memories of the neighborhood. What should have been a friendly café across the street reminded me of the endless black coffees I drank when family and friends forced me out of the hospital. The large pharmacy next to the café supplied needles, pills, and bottle after bottle of Ken’s medications. The lovely flower shop on the other side of the café was where the wreaths were assembled for Ken’s funeral.

I wound my way up the long driveway, a familiar tightness in my chest. I knew exactly where to park for easy access to the main desk. I crossed the asphalt, imagining I could feel the heat through the thin soles of my sandals. Once I was inside, images crossed my mind—Ken hooked up to constantly beeping machines; Beverly standing behind me in the waiting room, rubbing my neck and shoulders; Richard and Mary Lou taking turns coaxing me out of Ken’s room.

I couldn’t bear the thought of Maddie’s tiny body in a hospital bed, with the same robotic machines. But that would be better than…I couldn’t go there, either.

The hospital budget had allowed for a new coat of paint in the last two years, I noticed, but the smells were the same, and even worse than those from the school’s multipurpose room and cafeteria. New signage and blue-stenciled footprints led me along the corridor to the main desk, which was more accurately the main window. The admissions staff were protected by a glass partition like the ones used by bank tellers. I’d always wondered if the design was a response to an ages-ago shoot-out in the hospital lobby.

I got in line at the desk. The chatter around me was roughly half in Spanish, half in English. Without much effort, I’d learned a little Spanish through my GED students at the library. I recognized some of the same phrases that were going through my head.
I hope she’ll be better. I hope the doctor tells me more. I just want his pain to go away.

My hands shook as I tried to find tissues in my purse, which was already a tangled mess from when I’d rummaged for my cell phone on the trip to the hospital. I wanted to call Beverly, wherever she was, but quickly realized I’d left my phone in the charger on my counter. I breathed heavily. Why wasn’t there a special window for those of us who had been summoned? Where was Beverly? If she were at the hospital, she would have been waiting for me at the entrance. Had Beverly also been involved in the accident? The
small
accident, I reminded myself.

By the time my turn came, I needed answers badly.

“I’m here for Madison Porter,” I told the very large woman, “
KIM
,” in the circular reception area.

The computer was off to the side (out of gunshot range?). I watched as she worked the keyboard. She shook her head. “No Madison Porter.”

“I got a call to come here. She’s ten years old. My granddaughter. She might have come in with Beverly Gowen. Maybe it’s under Gowen?” I spelled it for her, my mouth dry from the few words I’d spoken.

Another head shake from Kim.

“The call was from a Dr. Wood-something. Woodkin, I think.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s no name even close to that on our staff.”

I tried to ignore the throat clearing and the shuffling of feet from the couple behind me. “Can you check once more? It could be under Porter or Gowen. Maybe there’s a special list for new admissions. I got the call at home only about twenty minutes ago.”

Kim gave me a look that said she was through with me. “Maybe you should just try to calm down.”

I nearly shouted,
I am calm!
but I knew my extreme anxiety was all too obvious. I had one more request. “What’s the nearest hospital from here? Can you have someone call there? I don’t have a cell phone.”

Kim warmed up. I was glad I hadn’t lashed out at her. Not unheard of when I’m in desperate straits. “Okay, take a seat, and I’ll have someone help you in a few minutes.”

I knew that phrase. Even with the best intentions, a few minutes could run into two hours, easy. I thought a minute and remembered where the pay phones were. Down one flight, next to the cafeteria. At least that’s where they were before the proliferation of cell phones.

I made my way down the hall and through the heavy doorway to the stairwell. A distinct, mashed-potatoes-in-a-box smell overwhelmed my nose; the clatter of unbreakable dishes attacked my eardrums.

My plan was to call Beverly first, then, if there was no answer, start in on neighboring hospitals. I knew there was one in Mountain View, a few miles away.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw three phones, right where I remembered them. The old-fashioned equipment was out in the open, but I needed information, not privacy.

I punched in Beverly’s cell-phone number. Not an easy task to remember all the digits, since she was number one on my speed dial.

“Hello?”

Beverly’s voice. I could hardly believe it. “Bev, are you all right? Where’s Maddie?”

“Gerry? What’s up? I didn’t recognize the caller ID and almost didn’t pick up.”

The matter-of-fact tone did wonders to calm me. “I’m at a pay phone. Is Maddie there?”

“Sure. She’s right next to me, working on her second bag of chips. The one that was supposed to be mine. And she’s trying to tickle my feet with her thongs.” The sound of Maddie’s laugh and “Hi, Grandma,” in the background brought my breathing back to normal. “You sound flustered. Is something wrong?”

“Not anymore.”

On the way home I tried to figure out what happened. A
wrong number? I sincerely hoped not. That might mean that some other grandmother was unaware of a child’s accident. I was almost positive the doctor—if he was a doctor—had said my name.

On further thought, I realized all the things that were off about the call. The doctor’s voice. Not professional sounding, and with a vaguely familiar ring. Also, my English teacher’s ear picked up an error: He’d said, “go to the hospital” instead of “come to the hospital.” A small thing, but possibly not an error, if, indeed, he wasn’t at the hospital. I wished I’d recorded the conversation.

But so what? Maddie and Beverly had not been in an accident; that’s what mattered. When Beverly had been briefed (in truth, briefly, since Maddie was by her side) on my last frantic hour, she was of the opinion that it was a prank. Neither of us could think of who would do such a thing, but there seemed no other explanation.

I pulled into my garage, exhausted from the tension. My tote bags and boxes from the crafts fair were still in the trunk of my car and scattered over the front and backseats, but I couldn’t summon the energy to bring them into the house and begin the sorting process, going through pieces of finished and half-finished furniture, piles of fabric, tools, and supplies. I had a box filled with glues and paints, another with sales receipts and vendors’ checks for their 10 percent donations, and on and on, it seemed, throughout my vehicle.

I braked mentally. Checks. What if someone had called to lure me away so he could break in? To get me out of the house to steal the checks? I shook my head, at no one in particular. True, the total was probably well over three thousand dollars, but the checks were all made out to the Abraham Lincoln High School PTA. Not easily cashed by your average thief.

I decided to take at least a couple of bags into the house, starting with the one with the checks. I grabbed the tote with fabric swatches, and a small one with beads and stones.

Stones.
I did another mental rewind. Not checks, which were useless to anyone except the school-district treasurer, but a gemstone. Before the false alarm about Maddie, Linda had confessed that a rare sapphire, stolen by Jason, was in my possession. The trauma of thinking I might lose my granddaughter had pushed that admission to the back of my brain. It didn’t take much to go from smart to dumb when loved ones were thought to be hurt. But now things were clearing up. Linda must have transferred the stone during the fair. The gem was in one of the boxes or bags in my car.

From this realization, a theory flowed: the fake hospital call was, indeed, to get me out of the house. Whoever made the call wanted the sapphire. They couldn’t have known that I hadn’t unloaded the baggage from the fair.

I ruled out Linda. I knew in my heart that she was incapable of inflicting such pain on me, even if temporary. Anyway, she’d already told me I had the gem. She could have simply asked for it back. That’s probably why she came over in the first place, why she gave me any information at all about last Friday night. Still, I thought it was worth a try to confront Linda about the fake call. If nothing else, it might jog her into telling me more.

First, I needed to search all my bags. Suddenly, I had enough energy to unload the car. But not before I closed my garage door and did a sweep of my house.

In the movies, I’d be carrying a baseball bat, going from
room to room, looking for a prowler. I made the search, but without the bat. I checked that the front door was locked (Linda had done her job), the windows were in place, and nothing was obviously upset. Except me. I walked into every room. I pulled back the shower doors, opened the closets. With each new step, my heart moved from my chest to my throat and back again.

All clear. If someone had been in my house while I tracked down a fictitious emergency, he’d taken care to hide the evidence. It didn’t make sense, but I tried to focus on the fact that Maddie was fine and so, apparently, were my worldly goods.

My emotions ran toward annoyance, that I’d fallen for the prank and that it had sent me into a paroxysm of fear. I lugged my bags into the house and set to the search for a gemstone. I carefully unwrapped and inspected every item. A tedious task. The cover of a small jar of fabric paint had come loose and the paint had flowed freely through a canvas tote bag filled with wooden blocks of various sizes. I took a break to wash off the dozens of small pieces, but many were permanently stained. Even in my agitated state, I came up with an idea to make a wall of graffiti out of the colorful accident.

Two bags to go, and I struck it rich. A gemstone, a sapphire to my untrained eye, wrapped in tissue, was lodged in the corner folds of one of my larger totes. Linda must have reached under my table at the fair and dropped it into the nearest bag.

I placed the stone on a scrap of white silk. I was dazzled by its size—a flattened sphere, about a half inch across—and by its clear blue color. Linda had called it Ceylon blue.

Beautiful, yes. But worth someone’s life? I wondered. I wondered also who was the true owner. And how it might be connected to the events of the past few days.

I needed to find out.