Bookmarked For Death

Nineteen

The flashing lights of the police cruiser cast weird shadows against the pines. Tricia watched as the winch on the back of the flatbed tow truck pulled her car up the makeshift ramp. The Lexus might’ve been drivable, but she wasn’t about to take the chance. While Angelica had called nine-one-one, Tricia had extricated her own cell phone and called the one person in Stoneham she knew would mourn her.

Russ stood beside her, collar pulled up around his neck, his hands thrust deep into his jeans pockets, his ears already beginning to go pink. It wasn’t until he’d shown up that she’d stopped shaking.

“I should have listened to you when you said Zoë’s killer might come after me,” Tricia said.

“And I should have insisted on driving you to Nashua.” He withdrew his right hand from his pocket and wrapped his arm around Tricia’s shoulder, pulling her close. She allowed herself to rest her head against his chest.

If it hadn’t been for that goose . . . Russ had found its remains by the side of the road some hundred or so feet behind them.

Her gaze drifted to where the Lexus had come to an abrupt halt, the tall brown grass flattened and grooves cut into the thawing earth where the wheels had dug in from being towed out. Beyond that was Miller’s Pond, with a lone mute swan, silhouetted by moonlight, serenely sailing across the still water. Not a goose in sight.

“This stupid thing,” Angelica growled, shattering the quiet moment. She leaned against the tow truck’s bumper as she stabbed the buttons on her phone. “I still can’t get hold of Bob.”

“Maybe his phone is turned off,” Tricia offered.

Deputy Placer ambled up, clipboard in hand, pen poised to write. “And you said you couldn’t identify the make of the vehicle?” he asked, as though their conversation hadn’t taken a ten-minute break.

Tricia shook her head. “I told you. The car’s headlights were on bright.”

The deputy turned his attention to Angelica. “What about you, ma’am?”

“I was too shook up to notice anything—except that we were probably about to die.”

“Check the collision shops in the morning,” Tricia suggested. “I’m sure it hit a low-flying goose. That’s the only thing that saved us.”

“Right,” the deputy said, his voice filled with sarcasm.

“Hey, Jim, what’s going on with the Carter murder investigation?” Russ asked.

“What’s that got to do with this accident?”

“Tricia’s the common denominator. She was there at the murder; there at the scene of Kimberly Peters’s attack. And now this.”

Placer shook his head. “No link that I can see,” he said, jotting something down on the paper on his clipboard.

“No,” Tricia muttered, “and I don’t suppose Wendy Adams will, either.”

Placer looked up, distracted. “Huh?”

“Nothing.” It was all Tricia could do not to lose her temper.

The tow truck driver from the Stoneham Garage hooked chains to the bashed and dented Lexus, securing it to the truck. He dusted off his hands and turned to Tricia. “Just tell your insurance adjuster where to find it.”

“Thank you.” Tricia made a mental note to call the shop in the morning to see if anyone brought in a car needing a new windshield or other damage repaired. She doubted the Sheriff’s Department would.

The trio stood back as the driver got back into his rig and pulled onto the highway.

Placer stepped forward. “Tell your insurance company to call on Tuesday or Wednesday for the accident report. We’re always backed up with paperwork after a busy weekend. This is my third accident today.” He shook his head and muttered, “Women drivers.”

He made the accident—and what Tricia and Angelica had gone through—sound so trivial, the chauvinist pig.

“Come on, girls, I’ll take you home,” Russ said.

“No way,” Tricia said. “I want to visit Kimberly.” She turned to her sister. “That is, if you don’t mind, Ange.”

“Not at all. And I really do want to try out that new French bistro. I’m not letting a little thing like attempted murder spoil my dinner plans for the evening.”

Tricia winced: the phrase “attempted murder” hit a little too close to home.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I brought the pickup, so it’ll be a snug fit,” Russ said.

“I only worry about those things after I eat a fabulous meal—not before,” Angelica said.

Russ opened the passenger side door and Tricia piled in, with Angelica squeezing in beside her. After buckling up, they were back on their way to Nashua.

As Russ had predicted, a uniformed deputy stood outside Kimberly Peters’s private hospital room. “Uh-oh,” Tricia muttered, clutching the vase filled with colorful tulips. “Do you think he’ll let us in?”

“Probably not,” Russ said.

The deputy’s name tag read BARCLAY. His broad shoulders and imposing height made him look more like a former linebacker for the New England Patriots than a cop.

Tricia strode up to face him. “Excuse me, sir, we’re here to visit Kimberly Peters.”

He looked down at her from his six-four or six-five height. “No visitors. Sheriff Adams’s orders.”

She tried again. “The medical staff wouldn’t tell us how she’s doing. Privacy laws or some such. Can you at least tell us if she’s regained consciousness?”

“She hadn’t, last I looked.”

Not very talkative, either.

“And when was that?” Russ asked, shoving his press credentials in front of the deputy.

The deputy glanced at them, but they made no impression.

“Half an hour ago.”

“Is there a chance she can recover?” Angelica asked.

“I’m no doctor, ma’am.”

“Can we at least leave our flowers for her?” Tricia asked, offering up the tulips. The vase was clear glass, so it was evident that it contained only green stems—and nothing lethal. She handed him the vase.

He poked at the flowers and took a tentative sniff. “I’ll put them on the bedside table,” he said, turned, and opened the door to Kimberly’s room.

What Tricia saw took her breath away: Kimberly, her face bruised and swollen, looking more like a jack-o’-lantern than a human being. Crowding the over-bed table and the windowsill were vases of flowers: roses, gladiolas, tulips, and daffodils, and at her bedside sat a well-dressed, chunky man, his hand wrapped around hers, his attention focused only on Kimberly, his expression filled with worry and grief.

“Artemus Hamilton!” Tricia cried.

The literary agent looked up at the sound of his name, just as the door to the room whooshed quietly shut.

“Zoë’s agent?” Russ asked.

“Yes.”

“What’s he doing here?” Angelica asked, no doubt delighted that she could give her cookbook manuscript another heartfelt testimonial.

A moment later the deputy reappeared with Hamilton right on his heels. “Ms. Miles, what you doing here?” Hamilton asked, sounding incredibly nervous.

“The same thing you are.” She turned her attention back to the deputy. “I thought you said Ms. Peters was allowed no visitors.”

“Mr. Hamilton is Ms. Peters’s fiancé,” Barclay said.

Tricia felt her jaw drop—then quickly shut her mouth.

“Why don’t we go get a cup of coffee or something?” Hamilton said and grabbed Tricia’s arm, pulling her away from the deputy, with Russ and Angelica bringing up the rear. Down the corridor, they stopped beside an empty gurney that had been parked near a storage closet.

“Ms. Miles—”

“Tricia,” she insisted.

“Tricia, I had to tell the sheriff I was Kimberly’s fiancé. It’s the only way they’d let me visit her. She hasn’t got anyone else.”

“Yes, I know. How is she?”

He let out a sharp breath. “Doing better than they’d originally expected, but she’s got a few hard days ahead of her and a lot of reconstructive work to come.”

“Did you buy her all those flowers?” Angelica asked.

He nodded. “I felt so bad for her. She won’t want to see her face when she wakes, and she deserves to have something beautiful to look at after what she’s been through.”

There was no arguing that.

“I take it you’ll be staying in Stoneham for another night?” Tricia asked.

“Not at the Brookview Inn. I’ve booked a room at a hotel not far from here. I’ll pick up a rental car tomorrow.”

“Sounds like you’re planning on staying for the duration,” Russ said.

“I’ve asked my assistant to clear my schedule for the next few days.”

“Very generous—specially since Ms. Peters isn’t your fiancé,” Russ added.

“Kimberly and I have known each other for several years. We even dated for a while. I consider myself her friend. And isn’t being with her now the least a friend can do?”

“Yes,” Tricia agreed. Or had simply seeing Kimberly’s battered face reawakened whatever feelings he had for her—of friendship, or otherwise? She wasn’t about to second-guess his motives.

“You must be exhausted after spending the day here. We’re going to dinner when we leave. We’d love to have you join us,” Angelica chimed in, ever the gracious hostess.

Hamilton shook his head. “I got something from the cafeteria an hour or so ago. But thanks for asking.”

Tricia nodded, understanding completely. Angelica, however, looked annoyed.

“When Kimberly wakes up, I’ll let her know you came to visit—and that you brought flowers,” Hamilton said.

“Thank you.”

“The sheriff told me you found her. Did she tell you who did this to her?”

Tricia shook her head. “Sorry.” She wasn’t about to tell him what Kimberly had said—and risk Wendy Adams’s wrath. Besides, the information hadn’t pointed to whoever had attacked Kimberly and why.

“Look, I’d better get back to Kimberly. If she wakes up, I want to be there for her.” He gave them a wan smile and turned toward the main corridor.

Tricia, Russ, and Angelica looked at one another.

“Well, that was certainly unexpected,” Angelica said.

“It sure was,” Tricia agreed.

“But it doesn’t mean anything, either,” Russ said. “I mean, so the guy feels sorry for the poor woman—or maybe he even discovered he cares about her. It doesn’t give us any more information.”

“No,” Tricia agreed, “it doesn’t.”