Authors: Gail Bowen
Jill shook her head. “Nope. She slept through the whole thing. Cops and all.”
I winced. “Do the police have any theories about what happened here tonight?”
“If they do, they weren’t telling me.” Jill raised an eyebrow. “Of course, they couldn’t keep me from listening when they were talking to each other.”
“And?”
“And they didn’t find any signs of forced entry.”
Suddenly I felt cold. “You mean Hilda let her attacker in.”
“It looks that way,” Jill said grimly. “And it also looks as if this wasn’t a robbery. The police asked me to check around and see if anything was missing. I couldn’t spot any glaring aberrations. Your desk was a mess, but your desk is always a mess.”
“I suppose you shared that little nugget with the police.”
Jill nodded. “I did, but they didn’t seem very interested. Actually, the one thing they seemed really interested in was some towel. From what they said, I gathered the paramedics must have taken it with them to the hospital.”
“They did,” I said. “It was one of my kitchen towels. Whoever attacked Hilda had folded it to make a little pillow under her head.”
“That’s sick.” Jill’s voice was icy.
“Sick or compassionate. I guess the folded towel could suggest remorse.”
“A little late for that, wasn’t it?” Jill drained her glass and headed for the liquor cabinet. “Care for a refill?”
“I’m okay,” I said. “My stomach’s doing nip-ups. Oh, Jill, I’m so glad Taylor didn’t see Hilda. She really loves her. So does Angus.”
“He gave me a pretty graphic description of the scene you walked into tonight.”
“My son has had one hell of a weekend. So have we all, come to think of it.” I stood up. “I’m going to grab a shower and get out of this dress. When Angus told me about Mieka, I was so excited, I forgot to pack anything but my toothbrush and a change of underwear. I’ve been wearing this outfit since Saturday afternoon.”
“ ‘Fashion File’ says that once you get a look that works for you, you should stay with it.”
“I think I’ve stayed with this one long enough. Jill, I really am grateful that Angus had you to talk to. Do you think he’ll be okay?”
“Yeah, beneath all that hip-hop-happenin’ attitude, he’s a pretty sensible kid. He’s worried, of course, but he’s handling it.” She looked at me hard. “How are you doing?”
“Not great,” I said. “But I’m coping, and I’ll cope even better when I get some sleep.” I finished my drink. A thought hit me. “Jill, is the kitchen … ?”
“Taken care of,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said. “I couldn’t have faced that.” I stood up. My legs felt rubbery. “Would you mind staying here tonight?
If I have to go back to the hospital, I’d like somebody to be here with the kids.”
Jill smiled. “I brought my toothbrush, just in case.”
I slept fitfully, listening for the phone that, mercifully, did not ring and trying, without success, to banish the images of the night. The pictures of Hilda’s suffering were sharp-edged, but the scene that made my heart pound was one that existed only in my imagination: my old friend, in her cheerful summer outfit, hearing the doorbell, putting down Justine’s papers and walking down the hall to admit her attacker. But who had been on the other side of that door? In the week since Justine’s murder, Hilda had travelled in circles I could only guess at, among men and women whose characters were a mystery to me. For hours, I moved between sleep and consciousness, trying to conjure up the face of her assailant, but it was a futile exercise. By the time my alarm went off, I knew there was no turning away from the truth: any one of a hundred people could have picked up that croquet mallet and tried to end my old friend’s life.
I dialled the number of Pasqua Hospital. Hilda had made it through the night, but there was no change in her condition. For a few minutes I lay in bed, thinking about the day ahead. I wasn’t looking forward to it.
Jill was at the sink filling the coffeepot when I got back from the park with Rose. She was wearing the same white shorts and black NationTV sweatshirt she’d had on the night before, but her auburn hair was damp from the shower, and she looked fresh as the proverbial daisy. She glanced at me questioningly.
“No news,” I said.
Taylor was sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal in front of her. Her spoon stopped in midair when she saw me.
“Wasn’t yesterday the best day? Madeleine is so cute. I can’t wait to tell Ms. Anweiler about her. I hope she’s wearing her diplodocus earrings.”
“Me too,” I said. “Now, you’d better finish your breakfast. You don’t want to be late. You’re an aunt now, so you have to be responsible.”
Taylor’s eyes grew large. “I’m an aunt … really?”
“Sure,” I said. “Mieka’s your big sister, so that makes Madeleine your niece.”
Taylor’s spoon hit the bowl. “Now I really can’t wait to get to school.”
Angus came into the kitchen warily, and I caught his eye. “Come out on the deck for a minute, would you?”
He followed me out to the deck without a word. The air was hazy; the first brittle leaves from our cottonwood tree were floating on the surface of the water in the swimming pool, and the breeze was fresh with the piney coldness of the north.
Angus’s voice was a whisper. “Did she die?”
I shook my head. “No, she’s still alive but, Angus, I won’t to lie to you. She may not make it much longer.”
He turned from me. When he spoke, his voice broke. “It doesn’t seem right,” he said.
“What doesn’t?”
He looked around him. “That it can be such a great day when such a lousy thing is happening.”
When we went back in, the phone was ringing. Jill gave me a questioning look and then reached for it.
“It’s okay,” I said. Heart pounding, I picked up the receiver, but it wasn’t the hospital calling with news; it was Eric Fedoruk.
“Hilda McCourt, please,” he said.
“She’s not available right now.”
“Is this Mrs. Kilbourn?”
“Yes,” I said, “it is.”
“Mrs. Kilbourn, could you have Miss McCourt call me as soon as she gets back? She’s supposed to come in today to discuss Justine’s estate, but she didn’t phone my secretary to arrange a time.” There was an edge of irritation in his voice.
“She won’t be coming in,” I said.
“She has to,” he said flatly.
“Mr. Fedoruk, Hilda doesn’t have to do anything for you. She’s in the intensive-care unit at Pasqua Hospital. Someone came into my house and attacked her.”
“Is she going to be all right?” The concern in his voice seemed heartfelt, but I was beyond caring about Eric Fedoruk’s feelings.
“I don’t know if she’s going to be all right,” I snapped. “All I know is that I want you and everybody else connected with Justine Blackwell to stay away from Hilda. Leave her alone. No more making her the final arbiter; no more signing off on responsibilities; no more sending the press to my house. It’s time everyone took responsibility for their own lives. Got it?”
Eric Fedoruk was stammering out his apology when I hung up. His words cut no ice with me. I was sick of justifications and explanations.
Jill made a face when I hung up. “Glad I wasn’t on the other end of that,” she said. “Jo, what’s going on here?”
I gave her the bare bones: Justine’s transformation in the past year; the request she’d made of Hilda; the will which named Hilda as executrix; the warring factions in Justine’s life; the tensions that existed between Justine and all the people she was closest to.
“And you think what happened to Hilda is connected to Justine’s death?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Ever since you told me the police
think Hilda must have known her attacker, I’ve been reeling. But, Jill, there has to be a connection. It’s just too much of a stretch to believe that seven days after Justine’s murder, somebody would take it into their head to try to kill Hilda.”
Suddenly, Jill frowned. “Jo, is there some sort of guard on Hilda’s hospital room?”
“I don’t know.” The penny dropped. “Oh God, what if … ?” I jumped up, went to the phone, and dialled police headquarters. Detective Hallam was way ahead of me. In the early hours of the morning, he had sent a constable to Pasqua Hospital to monitor everyone who went in or out of Hilda’s room.
I could feel the relief wash over me. I hung up and turned to Jill. “It’s taken care of,” I said.
Jill looked thoughtful. “Let’s hope it is. Jo, I don’t like any of this. I especially don’t like the fact that we don’t know who we’re dealing with here.” She picked up her coffee mug, walked to the sink, and rinsed it. Then she turned to face me. “When I get to the office, I’m going to see what I can pull together on the people in Justine’s circle.”
“You mean biographical stuff?”
“That and gossip. It’s amazing how few secrets there are in a town this size. I’ll call you tonight, and let you know what I come up with.”
“Why don’t you come for dinner? I’m going to have to tell Taylor about Hilda, and it would be good if she knew that some things in her world are still the same.”
She gave me a weary smile. “That’s my role in life,” she said, “the permanent fixture. Six o’clock, okay?”
“Six o’clock’s perfect,” I said.
Before I left for the university, I made one more call. I hadn’t left my office number at the hospital. I gave it to the nurse in intensive care and told her I’d come by later in
the afternoon. She said to make sure I had some identification; there was a young constable outside Hilda’s door, and she was a tiger.
The lecture I gave to my first-year students wasn’t the best I’d ever given, but it wasn’t the worst either. When I finished, I went down to the Political Science office to pick up my mail. I was in luck. Rosalie was on the phone. I dropped a note on her desk, saying I could be reached at home for the rest of the day, and made my escape.
I stopped at the
IGA
and picked up a roasting chicken and some new potatoes. I was putting away groceries when my neighbour came over with two deliveries from the florist. One was addressed to Hilda, the other to me. I opened mine: an arrangement of bronze and yellow mums in an earthenware pitcher. The card read: “With the hope that you’ll accept my most sincere apologies, Eric Fedoruk.” I took the phone off the hook, set the alarm for 2:30 p.m., and went upstairs to bed. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.
It was five to three when I drove into the parking lot at Pasqua Hospital. Angus had a football practice, so he wouldn’t be back till supper time, but Taylor would be home at 3:30. My visit to Hilda would have to be a quick one. To the right of the glass doors of the main entrance, the usual contingent of smokers in blue hospital robes huddled, their intravenous poles looming over them like spectral chaperones. In the lobby, a gaunt young woman with a frighteningly yellow pallor looked on as a little boy showed her an apple he had cut out of red construction paper. The elevator was empty, and there was no one in the corridor as I walked into the intensive-care unit.
A fine-featured blond man, about the age of my daughter Mieka, sat at a desk in the centre of the nursing area. A
small bank of
TV
monitors was suspended above the desk, and as he made notes on the chart in front of him, the young man kept glancing up to check the screens. The patients’ rooms radiated in a semicircle off the area in which he was sitting. In one of those rooms, a radio was playing country music. The sound was incongruous but oddly reassuring. There was another reassuring note: in front of the room I presumed to be Hilda’s, a uniformed police constable gazed out at the world, alert and ready.
I waited till the young man at the desk finished with his chart. “I’m here to see Hilda McCourt,” I said.
“I’ll have to ask for some identification,” he said.
I took out my driver’s licence and handed it to him. He glanced at it and handed back. “You can go in, Mrs. Kilbourn. Detective Hallam okayed you.” He picked up another chart.
“Wait,” I said. I leaned forward so I could read the name on his picture
ID
. “Mr. Wolfe, I wonder if you could tell me how Miss McCourt is doing?”
He shook his head. “No change. She’s still scoring low on the Glasgow Coma Scale. That’s the way we measure responses to things like light and speech and pain. The higher the score, the better the prognosis.”
“And her prognosis isn’t good?”
“You’ll have to talk to her doctor about that.” Nathan Wolfe flipped to Hilda’s chart. “Miss McCourt’s doctor is Everett Beckles. He’ll be making his rounds in about an hour. You can talk to him then.”
“I can’t stay,” I said. “Could you ask him to call me?”
Nathan Wolfe slid a notepad towards me. “Leave your number, but don’t count on a call. Dr. Beckles is really busy.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Is there anything I should know before I go in there?”
“Nothing special. Just be sure to talk to her. Sometimes just hearing a human voice helps.”
“Is that why the radio’s on over there?”
Nathan nodded. “The guy in that room was in a motorcycle accident. His wife says he’s a big Garth Brooks fan, so she brought the radio so he’d hear some familiar voices when she couldn’t be here.”
When I started into Hilda’s room, I remembered that I was carrying the flowers my neighbour had brought over. I handed them to Nathan. “These were sent to Miss McCourt. I know she can’t have them in her room, but maybe you’d like them for the desk out here.”
“This place could use some brightening,” he agreed. He opened the floral paper carefully. Inside were at least three dozen creamy long-stem roses. Nathan whistled appreciatively. Then he reached into the folds of paper, took out the card, and handed it to me. “You’ll want this,” he said. “Whoever’s paying the bill for those roses deserves a thank-you.”
I glanced at the card. “For Hilda, with our love and best wishes, Signe, Tina, and Lucy.” I ripped the card in two and handed the pieces back to Nathan. “Put this in the trash, would you? The people who are paying for those roses don’t deserve diddley.”
The constable who was on duty outside Hilda’s room was a young woman I’d met before. Alex had introduced us at a dinner honouring outstanding police work. Her name was Linda Nilson, and she’d won an award for community service. She was coolly attractive: tall, slim, with a nicely chiselled profile, and dark hair cut in the kind of pixie style Audrey Hepburn made famous in
Roman Holiday
.