“You’re doing remarkably well,” Megan said reassuringly. “Just what I’d expect in a patient with the kinds of vital signs you walk around with. I’ve never seen burns heal so fast in my life! I thought maybe you’d let me take a few tissue samples and haul them on down to the lab.”
“Hoping for another Latts cell culture, Doctor?” Causton’s tone was sarcastic. He snapped the light off, felt the sides of Bree’s throat with cool dry fingers, and then put his fingertips on the pulse at her wrist.
“You never know,” Megan said eagerly. “Cells are amazing things.”
Megan Lowry was exceptionally thin, very tiny, and wore thick tortoiseshell spectacles. Bree bet she wasn’t much older than Antonia. She’d suspected that Megan was some kind of medical wunderkind when she’d first met her on the O’Rourke case, and the irritated attitude she was getting from Causton bore that out. Established physicians didn’t like competition from brash young newbies anymore than anyone else. “Causton’s taking your pulse himself because he doesn’t trust the machines. You’re going to be amazed, Causton. This woman’s the fittest patient I’ve ever had.”
“Ever treat real athletes, Lowry? The kids on the basketball team at Duke, for example? You wouldn’t believe how fast they heal. Youth, good health, motivation. It all goes into the picture.”
She pushed her spectacles up her nose with her forefinger. “Can’t say that I have.”
“Then I’d keep my bright ideas to myself.” He looked down at Bree. “But you’re healing remarkably quickly.”
Sam moved to the other side of the bed and took Bree’s undamaged hand in his. “The intake report documented extensive burns on the legs, forearms, back. She has a tibia plateau fracture of the right leg and a cracked collarbone. I want a prognosis.”
“And a concussion,” Megan said with relish. “You got a whack on the occipital area that should have felled a horse. But it just put you in la-la land for a few days!”
“I want to know the origin of each of the injuries, too,” Hunter said.
Causton glanced at Megan with dislike. “She can tell you that.”
“I don’t think so,” Hunter said. There was something in the tone of his voice that made Causton straighten up. “Cooperation makes better medicine, same as police work. I’d like to hear what both of you have to say.”
“You didn’t see her at intake, Causton,” Megan said. “There was some question about whether or not she was going to make it.”
Sam’s hand tightened painfully on Bree’s.
“So I got over here as fast as I could. I mean, she’s a patient of mine, for goodness’ sake. Plus, I thought I could maybe get a tissue sample right off. She checked in with concussion, fractures, et cetera, et cetera. What he said. You gave a very accurate summary, Lieutenant. Hunter. Anyhow, I talked to one of the EMTs, and in the twelve minutes that it took to get you here, you already had visible signs of burn healing.”
“Nonsense,” Causton said.
“You didn’t go over her with a magnifier, like I did. I mean, it was barely visible, even under a strong scope.”
“Healing begins immediately,” Causton said disapprovingly. “There’s nothing unusual about that.”
“Not visible to the naked eye!”
Causton made a disgusted movement.
“Tell me about the head wound,” Sam said. “Now.”
Causton’s fingers were surprisingly gentle at the back of Bree’s head. “A depressed fracture, right here.”
“Could that have happened when she was hit by the car?”
“I was hit by a car?” Bree said.
Causton frowned. “Possibly.”
Megan said, “Absolutely not.”
Causton reached the end of his patience. “What the hell, Lowry. You seem to know it all. Go ahead.”
“I took a few bits and pieces when she was in the ER, just to get a head start. The blood and tissue sample from the occipital area showed evidence of ... guess what?”
The silence in the room was heavy, and not encouraging.
“Cast iron!”
“Cast iron?” Hunter said.
“Yes. The kind of cast iron you’d find in a frying pan. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure that’s what it was.”
“Somebody hit me with a cast iron frying pan?” Bree closed her eyes. “You know what? There was a cast iron frying pan on the wall of the restaurant. Along with a lot of other stuff.”
“Do you remember anything else?” Antonia asked.
“Don’t bite your fingernails,” Bree said. “No. I don’t remember a thing about the accident. What happened?”
Hunter’s hand still gripped her own. His voice was a little hoarse. “You punched the Walk button to cross Bay to come home. A beer truck went through the intersection just as the light turned green. When the truck passed, I saw you lying in the street. A car came zipping around the corner, swerved to avoid hitting you, flipped up onto the sidewalk, and burst into flames. I went across the street and got you out from under the car.”
“What about the driver?” Bree asked.
“Jumped free. And there was no one else in the car, thank God, or I would have been patching up two victims instead of one.” Causton tucked the end of his stethoscope into his jacket pocket. He crossed his arms. “You think someone hit her from behind before she was hit by the car?”
“I’m sure of it. Knocked her into the path of the car. We cited the driver for failure to yield, dangerous driving, and a couple of other infractions.”
“I’d like to get my hands on him,” Antonia said.
“He’s in the Chatham County Jail at the moment, pending the results of the traffic investigation.”
“Anyone I know?” Bree asked.
Hunter nodded slowly. “Phillip Mercury.”
“Really.” Bree absorbed this for a long moment.
“Claims he did what he could to avoid you.”
“The newspapers said he was drunk,” Antonia said. “Or high. You cited him for DUI, didn’t you, Sam?”
“We did.”
“So he’s going to jail for a long time. Of course, not as long as if ...” Antonia’s voice choked with sobs.
“Well, I didn’t die,” Bree said tartly. “Get a grip, sister.”
The door to the room burst open. A small, red-gold whirlwind spun into the room, followed by a tall, handsome man with gray hair.
“Mamma!” Antonia threw herself into Francesca’s arms. “You’re here, Mamma. She’s going to be all right. She’s not going to die! I was so sure she was going to die!”
Bree smiled at her heart’s true father, Royal Winston-Beaufort. “Hey, Daddy. That’s my diva sister for sure. I’m fine. It’s like they say. The whole thing was a long way from my heart.”
“Darlin’ girl,” her mother said. “We’ve come to take you home.”
Eleven
There was never yet philosopher,
That could bear toothache patiently.
—Much Ado About Nothing
, William Shakespeare
“I’m not staying in this bed a minute longer!” Bree shouted. She wasn’t in the best of tempers. Sasha was curled on the floor nearest her right hand. Once in a while he lifted his head and bumped her hand.
It’d been a three-day hassle to get out of the hospital, and it was even more of a hassle to resist the efforts of her parents to take her back to Plessey. At least she was set up at the town house. Her mother and father had taken over Antonia’s bedroom. Antonia was set up in the living room on the pull-out couch. Bree herself was in her own room, propped up in her bed, feeling like a turkey trussed for stuffing.
It wasn’t the disruption of her days that bothered her so much.
The peacock pin was missing. And she couldn’t get up to search for it.
Bree had discovered it as soon as she’d managed to go through her purse and her briefcase at the hospital. Flurry’s accordion folder was there. Her cell phone, credit cards, and driver’s license were there. She had a hundred-some dollars in cash, and that was there, too.
The missing jewel led to a lot of questions, and Bree wanted some answers.
“You hear me, Sasha? I’m getting up.” Her bedroom door was half-open. She could hear her mother rustling around in the kitchen. “And my folks are going back to North Carolina if I have to stuff them in their car myself. I’m going nuts cooped up here.”
Bree liked this room, but she didn’t like it well enough to stay stuck in bed for however many days her mother was planning to keep her there. The town house had been in the family since before the War Between the States; two hundred and fifty years ago, it had been an office for the warehouse below it. The room still had the original narrow plank floors, now covered by a rose-figured carpet. There was an old chest of drawers directly across from the bed, the kind with a mirror attached. Bree could see herself. Her hands were pink, but not as red as they had been. Her hair was hidden beneath a gauze cap. She felt carefully under the edges at the back. They’d shaved off part of her hair. Her cheeks were a shiny pink; Causton had told her this was from the heat of the flames that had burned her arms and legs.
Her legs. Her mother had thrown a light blanket over her. Bree twitched it aside. They’d removed the immobilizer cast from her right leg, since the burns were healing well. Her left was now in some sort of a resin cast. Her knee was bent at a slight angle. They’d put a pin across the top of her tibia. She’d be up and weight-bearing in a few days, with any luck.
“I’m getting up,” Bree said to Sasha, “and I’m not kidding.”
“What’s that, dear?” Her mother bustled in with an armload of fresh towels. Francesca was small, comfortably round, and the sunniest woman Bree knew. The red-gold hair that caught Royal Winston-Beaufort’s eye thirty-odd years ago across the main dining room at Duke University was helped a little nowadays with a rinse. But the light, pretty voice that was so much of Bree’s childhood was untouched by time.
“How are you feeling, darling?”
“Fine. Just fine.”
“You’re looking so much better. Who knew that you had such speedy cells!”
Bree laughed. Her face didn’t hurt as much as it had before. “You’ve been talking to Megan Lowry.”
“She’s quite delighted over the whole business. She said your bones are healing faster than a little kid’s. I’m somewhat vague on the details, but apparently very young bones heal faster than ours.”
Bree tried to bend her knee. It hurt like hell. “Not fast enough.”
“Patience, dear. Would you like some soup?”
“I would like to get up.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Among the many things Megan Lowry told you, I’m sure, is that it’s fatal to sit around. For your muscles, I mean.”
Francesca did what she always did when she needed to call in the troops. “Royal! You get yourself in here! Your daughter’s acting up again. Royal! Where is that man? You stay right there, Bree. Don’t you move!” Francesca trotted out of the room. Bree leaned over the edge of the bed and looked into Sasha’s golden eyes. “Help,” she said. “I mean it, Sash. They have to go home. I’ve got to find that pin. You know what I think, don’t you? I think Justine clocked me over the head with that handy frying pan and grabbed the pin out of my briefcase. This”—she swept her hand over her face and legs—“was an unintended consequence.”
Sasha cocked his head, yawned, and got to his feet. He considered her for a long moment, then turned and trotted off.
Her father, long, lean, with his curious eyes and gentle smile, edged into the room, followed by her mother. “Feeling antsy, pet?”
“I’m feeling less and less like an adult and more and more like an infant. If I don’t get up right now, I’m going to revert to my childhood permanently. By the way,” she added crossly, “where’s my stuff?”
“Those old files,” Francesca said. “Your father’s been looking through them, just like you asked.”
“And he got the downloads?”
“Mrs. Billingsley brought them right over.”
“She didn’t say anything about them when she came to visit.”
“We asked her not to. You need to rest, dear. Your work is far too stimulating.”
Royal put his hands on Francesca’s shoulders. “I think we can give her a hand out of bed, Chessie.”
“But the doctors said—”
“The doctors simply come in to marvel at our good old girl. They say she’s doing splendidly. Okay, Bree. Swing yourself over.”
“Here!” Francesca shrieked. “The crutches!”
Bree stood up, gave herself a minute to adjust to the crutches, and then swung into the living room, Sasha patiently behind her. Antonia was out. A tag end of a bedsheet peeked from underneath the cushions on the sofa. Her poor sister. Bree had slept on that sofa bed herself. It had a pesky iron bar right across the middle of the mattress.
Bree headed for the rocking chair by the fireplace, swung herself around, and lowered herself into it. Sasha sat down next to her and then suddenly leaped to his feet, his tail wagging furiously.
The doorbell chimed.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Francesca muttered. “Not more flowers I hope. And if it’s Sam Hunter again, he can just turn right around and go back where he came from. He’s positively been haunting this place, Bree.”
“I thought you liked Hunter.”
“I love Hunter. But all he does is hold your hand and glower. Then Antonia asks him if he’s shot Phillip Mercury yet. None of it conducive to proper healing.” Francesca disappeared into the foyer, trailing words, and reappeared moments later, looking happy. Sasha bounded past her, ears up. “I never thought I’d actually meet him,” she said. “He’s such a good-looking boy in person. You have callers, Bree.”
Ron and Lavinia came into the room. Bree made an effort to get to her feet. Her father placed both hands on her shoulders and kept her in her chair.
Ron was his usual vital self. He smiled at her mother, who smiled happily back. Lavinia looked—“transparent” was the best word Bree could come up with. Bree knew that her angels had to make an effort to appear in the temporal world. She hoped it wasn’t taking a toll on her old friend.