Olive and Let Die (19 page)

EIGHTEEN

Jack kept one arm around me and pulled back. He wiped away the droplets from my cheeks. “Are you okay? How's Melanie?”

I sniffled and reached for a tissue from the end table next to the visitors' chairs. “I'm okay. Better now that you're here. We're waiting for the surgeon to arrive from Watertown.”

“What happened?”

My stomach knotted up again. “We were out at Doreen's and somebody shot at us from the barn. One of the bullets hit Melanie. And I can't find Caitlyn.”

My cell rang. The display read
Liza
. “Hi,” I said.

“My God, Georgie! You've been shot at?”

Liza had a preternatural knowledge of Bay news, almost before it happened. She'd never shared where she got her information.

“I'm okay. Melanie's in surgery, or will be as soon as the doctor gets here.”

“Do I need to come over there?”

“No, Jack is here with me.” I smiled at him and he squeezed my hand. “Have you seen Caitlyn? She's not answering her cell, and I need to tell her about Melanie.”

Silence. “I didn't want to tell you about this now. You've got enough on your plate. She and Melanie stayed with you last night, right? Well, she's been back over here today, and I caught her snooping around, trying to get into my office again. I'm keeping my eye on her. I'm positive she's up to something.”

“I think you're right. If you see her again, tell her to call me.”

“I will. Take care of yourself, Georgie.” She clicked off.

Jack kept his arm around me, and we sat there in a comfortable silence for a while, until my agitation level began to creep up again.

“What's taking so long? The surgeon should be here by now.”

At that moment Dr. Dinsmore came into the waiting room. In his early forties, with close-cropped hair and a dark tan, he clearly spent some time out in the sun, probably on one of those expensive cigarette boats that raced up and down the river. He and his wife were regulars at the Bonaparte House. She usually ordered the Greek salad and grilled chicken. He usually ordered the gyro, extra onions, extra sauce.

He wore a pale blue dress shirt with a matching tie, which he was adjusting as he came toward us. I wondered if he'd just changed his clothes—removed his bloodstained scrubs perhaps. A lump the size of a lemon and just as acidic formed in my throat.

“Hi, Georgie,” he said. “I'm sorry about your . . . mother, isn't it?”

“Yes. What can you tell me?” I tried to swallow the lemon, but it just stuck there.

Dr. Dinsmore patted my arm. “The surgeon is scrubbing up now. There are no guarantees, but I'm cautiously optimistic. It appears she was struck by only one bullet. My guess is that she'll lose her spleen.”

“Spleen? You can live without that, right?” Jack squeezed my hand.

The doctor nodded. “If there's no additional damage, she'll live a perfectly normal life and be back at work on that television show of hers in a few months.”

It was too early to feel relieved—I'd seen enough medical dramas on television to know that things could go horribly wrong in the blink of an eye—but I did feel marginally better.

Dr. Dinsmore looked down at his pager, which was beeping. “They're ready to get started on the surgery. It's going to be a couple of hours, then she'll be in recovery for an hour until we move her to a room.” He turned to Jack. “Why don't you two go take a walk or grab a bite to eat somewhere, then come back? We have Georgie's number and we'll call if, for some reason, she needs to get here quickly.”

Jack nodded. “That's a good idea.”

I shook my head vehemently. “That's
not
a good idea. I'm not leaving her.”
The way she left you all those years ago
, a little voice piped in. True. But that was who she was. It wasn't who I was. I'd be at the Bayview Hospital until my mother was out of danger.

“Okay,” he said. “When did you last eat?”

Who knew? Right, cookies and coffee at Doreen's—no, my mother's house now. “A while ago,” I admitted.

“How's the food in the hospital cafeteria? Never mind. Let's not risk it. Why don't I go get you a bowl of chowder from the Sports Page? Maybe Midge or Dolly could come and sit with you while I'm gone?”

I wasn't especially hungry, but we were going to be here for hours. Soup sounded as good as anything, and it would keep me full for a long time. “Chowder, yes. But I'll be fine by myself. You go ahead.”

His blue eyes searched mine. “I'll be back as soon as I can.” He dropped a kiss on the top of my head and left.

The room around me was long and narrow. Last time I'd been in here was a few years ago when Cal broke her arm playing soccer. The décor hadn't been updated. I gathered up the two purses and slung both over one shoulder.

Nurse Reva was at her post behind the sliding glass window. She looked up from the novel she'd been reading and opened the window. “Need something, Georgie?”

“No, Jack's gone to get me something to eat. Listen, is there someplace I can wait other than out here in the ER lobby? I'd feel safer if I weren't so exposed.”

“Sure. There's a family waiting room just down the hall. Want a book to read?” She opened a drawer and peered down into it. “I've got plenty—romance, mystery? The night nurse likes science fiction, so there might be some of that here too. Not crazy about the tentacles personally.”

I shook my head. “That's okay. Maybe later. I've got some paperwork to sort through so I'll just take care of that.”

“Let me know if you change your mind. We've got a
decent library. It's pretty dull here most of the time. And I like it that way.” She pointed to the hallway. “Family lounge is down that hall on the left. I'll send Captain Hottie in when he gets back.”

I smiled and headed for the lounge.

The room was bright, with a full wall of windows overlooking the river. If I recalled my history correctly, the hospital was built on the site of one of the Bay's grand old nineteenth-century hotels, all of which were now gone. Today this piece of prime real estate would never be approved for a hospital, but less rigid zoning laws in the mid-twentieth century gave today's sick and injured a lucky break. A big white boat with a giant paddlewheel spinning at the back motored past. Either the
Lady Liberty
or the
Lady Liberty II
. I was a little surprised to see tours going out mid-week until I remembered that it was Thursday afternoon, and the tourists would have already started trickling in for the weekend. I wondered if I'd be able to get the Bonaparte House open for tomorrow's dinner seating. What if something happened to Melanie?

Well, something
had
happened to Melanie. I took out my cell phone then reached inside her purse and pulled out Doreen's stack of mail. Might as well sort through the paperwork and start notifying the companies she'd done business with.

As I sorted the mail into piles—bills, bank statement, magazines, miscellaneous—my mind refused to focus on anything except two questions that had been playing in a more or less continuous loop. Who had shot at us? And why?

I couldn't even be sure the bullets had been intended for Melanie. What if someone wanted
me
dead? Goose bumps rose on my arms and I rubbed them down. I'd gotten
unintentionally involved in some shady business a little while ago. Maybe that wasn't truly resolved, even though the authorities seemed to think it was.

One thing was for certain. Even Melanie was not a good enough actress to fake getting shot. No one would go to such lengths to try to cover up killing her own cousin or a newspaper reporter. It was simply too dangerous. But she was involved somehow, I knew it. And someone wanted her dead.

I pulled the last envelope out of the bag. The MacNamara and MacNamara envelope. The seal had already been broken, and the flap was tucked back inside. The letter was written on the same heavy bond paper as the envelope. It felt both luxurious and wasteful in my hand.

The date was one month ago.

Dear Ms. Webber:

This office represents the Elihu Bloodworth Trust. In accordance with the terms set forth by Mr. Bloodworth, the trust will expire next year and all proceeds are to be distributed to certain of his beneficiaries. We have identified you as a potential heir. Please make an appointment to discuss this matter with me at your earliest opportunity. Bring an original or a certified copy of your birth certificate and a photo identification with you to the meeting.

Cordially,

James MacNamara, Esq.

Whoa. I leaned back in the chair and blew out a breath. It was true. Doreen really was expecting money. Of course, who knew how much money was in the trust or what her share would be. Doreen probably would have been ecstatic with a few hundred or a few thousand dollars. But surely it must be a substantial amount if someone were willing to kill her for it—if that's why she died. So far there'd been no formal announcement of the police's theories regarding motive.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out the simplest motive of all: One less heir to the Bloodworth Trust meant a bigger share for the remaining heirs.

I didn't know whether Melanie was related to Doreen through her mother or her father. Had she said their mothers were sisters? But it didn't matter—or maybe it did. Doreen had written a will naming Melanie as her sole executrix and beneficiary. So it might be that no matter where in the family the trust money came from, Melanie was going to inherit at least one share. Two shares, if Melanie was an heir to the trust herself. And that might very well be enough to kill for.

Except Melanie was lying on an operating table right now, fighting for her life.

Which could mean that there were one or more heirs out there who wanted the whole, undivided trust.

Which could also mean that I, and my daughter, who were Melanie's beneficiaries upon her death, were in danger.

Bloodworth. The name seemed familiar, like I'd heard it a long time ago, but I couldn't place it.

I gathered up all the envelopes and put them back into
Melanie's purse, then zipped it closed. Jack would be back any minute and I needed time to digest all this.

And I needed to find Caitlyn.

I punched in her number just as Jack walked in. He set a brown paper bag down on the table and I inhaled the aroma of hot fish chowder. Caitlyn's voice mail picked up. Again. “Caitlyn, this is Georgie. Call. Me. Immediately.” I rang off.

“Remind me never to make you angry,” Jack said, giving me his movie star grin, the one that made a deep dimple appear in his sculpted cheek.

“Then don't ever lie to me. Or take off without telling me where you are.” My words were harsher than I'd intended, but it had been a tough couple of days.

Jack's face froze, just for a moment.

“I'm sorry. I'm just keyed up, and my blood sugar's probably low. That soup smells delicious.”

He relaxed. “Not sure if it's perch, pike, or walleye in here, but you're right. It does smell good.” He pulled out two white cylindrical containers, two plastic spoons, and two packages of saltines, and set one of each in front of me.

“Doesn't matter,” I said. “As long as it's one or more of the above and fresh from the St. Lawrence, it's fine with me.” I dipped my spoon into the chowder and took my first taste. It was thick, creamy, and had a lovely pool of yellow butter floating on the chunky surface. Oh, yeah.

Jack crumbled his crackers on top of the soup, gave a stir, and dug in. After a couple of bites, he looked up. “I should have gotten us something to drink. I'll run out to the vending machine. What would you like?” He stood.

“Since they probably don't sell chardonnay here at the hospital, I'll just have a bottle of water.”

“One water, coming up. And I'll see if there's any news on Melanie while I'm out there.”