Code Blue Page 9

Kit flounced back to her chair. "Some people were born without curiosity."

  Susan hurried down the hall to Mrs. Chang's room and gave the medication. As she returned to the station, she encountered Mr. Martin.

  "Such dreadful news," he said. "Are they sure Dr. Barclay had an accident?"

  Susan continued walking. "I'm afraid I don't know what happened."

  He trailed her. "What will his patients do?"

  "I'm sure Dr. De Witt will keep the office open." Susan reached the station and entered the med room. Before she continued her own work, she had to find Julie's list.

  Mr. Martin stood at the door. "I noticed on the schedule in the lounge that you're off next Saturday. Would you like to go to dinner with me?"

  Susan tried to think of a way to discourage him without hurting his feelings. Then she remembered Patrick's invitation. "I have plans. Maybe another time." She closed the door and picked up Julie's list. She groaned. The younger nurse had the keys around her waist. Susan walked to the lounge, knocked and opened the door.

  Julie turned. Tears glistened in her eyes. Her mouth twisted into an angry grimace. "Do you need me?"

  "Just the keys."

  De Witt leaned against the wall near the windows. Susan glanced at him. What had he said that upset Julie?

  When the door closed behind Susan, Julie's shoulders slumped. She refastened the silver clip at her nape. "I won't lie."

  "Then say what you want. It's no big deal."

  "You want me to tell anyone who asks that I spent the night with you. I want to know why."

  "Because it's the truth. You were at my place and in my bed. You might never be asked. When the police upstate asked me, your name just slipped out."

  "But you lied." Hot tears ran down her cheeks.

  "Not exactly. If you hadn't taken off so early, you could have had coffee and doughnuts with me. I slipped out to buy them. Why did you leave?"

  Was he telling the truth? Her trust in him had dissipated like wisps of fog. "Because one of the rifles was missing from your study and you talked about going hunting...I'm so confused I don't know what to think. I can't be with you again until my head's straight."

  He walked toward her. "Remember how it was between us last night, little bird."

  "Wonderful and exciting." Julie raised her chin. "Did you go to your uncle's cabin? I need to know the truth."

  "I didn't kill him." He narrowed the gap between them.

  "I'd like to believe that."

  He put his hand on her shoulder. "Okay, I went to the cabin, but armed with my camera. I'll even show you the pictures I took when they're developed. Don't you see? I did this for us."

  Julie closed her eyes. "The rifle."

  "Went out for repairs weeks ago."

  Had it been? She seldom went into his study. He could be telling the truth. She stepped back. The edge of the bulletin board jabbed her. She loved him, but she wasn't sure she believed him. "It's the same thing. You were planning on blackmail. I can't trust a man who would do that."

  Gently, he massaged her shoulders. "I know it was a stupid idea, but I wanted all the things a partnership would bring us." He touched her hair. "Look, little bird, I know the practice isn't important. You are and how you feel about me."

  "Please. Give me a few days, a week. I need to sort through my feelings."

  His lips brushed her cheek. "You're mine. I'll never get enough of you."

  Could she believe him? She wanted to send him away. She wanted him to stay. He pulled her close. When his lips met hers, the few seconds of hating herself for being weak vanished.

  He stepped back. His fingers stroked her throat. "You're right. Blackmail was a bad idea." He kissed the tip of her nose. "Little bird, with you around, I'll be fine."

  Julie looked away. Why did his kisses always make her forget how much their values differed? "You'd better go to your aunt. She'll need you."

  He put his arm around her shoulders. "The apartment when you're finished here. The terrace door. I need you."

  "I--"

  The door closed behind him. Julie leaned against the wall. She had to think. Could she believe him?

  Trish stood in the hall outside the lounge. Maybe she should go in and congratulate De Witt on his good fortune. Some people, she thought. During his last year in the residency program at the city hospital where they had worked, the chief medical resident had been injured in an automobile accident. De Witt had stepped into the position. Now he would inherit a lucrative practice.

  Her foot tapped against the carpet. Would he brush her off the way he had the last time she'd approached him? With just a few words she could ruin his future prosperity.

  The lounge door opened. De Witt strode out and rammed into her. She stumbled backward and would have fallen except for the hands that caught and steadied her.

  "Watch where you're going," De Witt snapped. He strode down the hall.

  "Miss Fallon, have you the injury? Did he hurt your foot?" Dr. Mendoza asked.

  "I'm fine." She stared after De Witt.

  "Why did he not stop? He has no politeness."

  "Most of the time I'd say you were right, but he received some tragic news today."

  "How so?"

  "His uncle, Dr. Barclay, was killed today."

  "Was he murdered like the fat nurse?"

  Trish shook her head. "Why would you think that?"

  He shrugged. "Is it not said one violent death breeds another?"

  "He was killed in a hunting accident."

  "Then I will not change my opinion. How easy it would be to make the shooting in the forest seem like an accident."

  "You could be right." Trish linked arms with Mendoza. They walked around the nourishment cart. "De Witt could have killed his uncle. He's a crack shot and collects guns and hunting trophies."

  Mendoza laughed. "I thought he only hunted the deer with two legs."

  "He does that, too." Trish entered a patient's room.

  At eleven thirty, Susan sat at the desk to give report to the night nurse. Julie slung her purse over her shoulder and left the station. "Be right back." Susan followed the younger nurse. "Julie."

  The fair-haired nurse turned. "Susan, sorry. I know we had plans to go to the diner, but Larry needs me."

  "What if he's still with his aunt?"

  "I'll wait. The terrace door will be open. I always use it."

  "Oh?"

  "You have to sign a guest book if you use the front entrance. He says he doesn't want his guests to feel they're visiting a prison."

  Susan frowned. Or he doesn't want a record of his visitors. Julie walked away. Though Susan wanted to caution the younger nurse, she didn't know how. Was Julie afraid of losing De Witt if she wasn't on call when he needed her? She wished Julie could see what she was doing to herself. Susan walked back to the station. This wasn't her problem.

  A short time later, Susan finished report and walked to the lounge to call Leila. Two earlier calls had gone unanswered. They needed to talk about Leila's determination to attend the funeral.

  Susan dialed the familiar number. After twelve rings, she hung up. Where was Leila? Why didn't she answer? Susan swallowed. The icy calm that had followed the hysterics this afternoon troubled Susan. As she put on her coat and boots, she wondered what she should do.

  When the security guard left her at her car, she knew she couldn't sleep until she was sure her friend was all right. Ten minutes later, Susan pulled into the driveway of Leila's ranch house. Lights shone from the kitchen window. The rest of the house was dark.

  For several minutes, Susan sat in the car and wondered what to do. Finally, she walked to the front porch. Her finger stabbed the bell with the same impatience as Leila's had done that morning. After a short period, Susan realized the bell wasn't sounding in the house. She rapped on the door.

  There was no answer so she walked to the side of the house and peered into an empty kitchen. Through the window, she could see into the family room. Bright lights bu
rned. The television flickered. Before she had time to walk to the patio door, Leila entered the kitchen. Feeling like a peeping Tom, Susan backed away from the window and hurried to her car. Why had she come? Leila wanted to be alone.

  When Susan reached home, the lights on Patrick's side of the house beckoned. More scary movies, she wondered. Last night, she had watched one scene before escaping to the grocery store.

  She paused on the porch and considered her options. The desire to be part of a family would have to remain unsatisfied tonight. Patrick would sense her uneasiness and she would tell him about Leila and Joe. His curiosity might elicit answers she didn't want to give.

  Chapter 6

  On Sunday morning, at a few minutes before nine, Patrick left the house. He walked across the porch to Susan's side and studied the clump of rhododendrons beside the porch. Last evening, Robin had chased Adam into the thicket. Patrick wanted to see how much damage they had done. As he strode down the side steps, the glint of sunlight on metal momentarily blinded him.

  He edged into the cluster, squatted and stared at a small handgun. How long had the derringer been here? Last spring, he had removed the debris from beneath the bushes. The gun hadn't been there then. With a tissue, he lifted the pistol and wrapped it in several more before dropping the packet into his jacket pocket.

  Should he mention the gun to Susan? Jim had been avidly anti-gun and Patrick couldn't imagine Susan owning one. He returned to the porch. He should report this to the police, but who? Several years ago, he would have called any number of men, but since becoming Arts and Leisure editor for the News, he had lost touch with the local police. He rolled names in his thoughts. Then he went inside and picked up the phone.

  "Jane, it's Pat Macleith... Yes, I know it's been ages...Is Greg around?" He leaned against the counter. "He has... I'll try to catch him there... I know... Soon."

  Instead of walking as he had planned, Patrick jumped into his car. Uptown, he found a parking space across from the News Shop.

  "Pat... Pat Macleith," a deep voice called.

  Patrick saw Greg Davies standing outside the shop. He crossed the street and slapped his friend's hand. "Just the person I wanted to see." Greg was one of the few men who made Patrick feel small. There was little difference in their heights, but Greg outweighed Patrick by fifty pounds and tons of energy.

  "Planning a crime?" Greg asked.

  Patrick didn't want to pull the gun out on the street. "Not these days. What's new at the cop shop?"

  "The usual. A lot of crime and little punishment. Some days, all we do is spin."

  The wind beat against Patrick's back. "Coffee?"

  "Why not?" Greg grinned. "How's the editing business? I can't imagine you hanging with an artsy crowd."

  "They're no different from most people."

  Greg walked facing Patrick. "Are you still friends with Susan Randall? Met her Monday night at the hospital. A very pretty lady."

  Patrick turned to open the coffee shop door. "She's my landlady. How's the family?"

  "Turning me into a pauper. Two in college and two to go. Just wait. Your turn's coming. We miss you at the shop. Sometimes you saw things we missed."

  Patrick chose an empty booth across from the long counter and signaled the waitress. "I miss you guys but not the hours."

  When Patrick had covered the police beat for the News, his hours had been long and erratic. Though he had made the rounds of the village stations, more of his work had been with the town detectives. Greg was one of them.

  The waitress slid two cups of coffee across the table. Greg opened four packets of sugar. Patrick raised an eyebrow. "What happened to the diet?"

  "Sugar in my coffee is my only treat. This is my first cup of the day." Greg added milk and stirred. "What does your friend say about the Denton woman?"

  "Very little. She's worried one of her coworkers is the killer."

  "Any particular one?"

  Patrick shook his head. "She's not talking about her suspicions. She just wants the case solved and for things to get back to normal."

  Greg placed a folded napkin in the saucer to blot the overflow of coffee. "So do we. Do me a favor. Ask her what she knows about Dr. Barclay."

  Patrick's brow wrinkled. "Is that the Dr. Barclay who's so involved in local charities?"

  "The same, only it was. Read your paper. Not the Times, but the rag you work for. The doctor was killed upstate yesterday. A hunting accident."

  "A suspicious one?"

  "Aren't all hunting accidents, especially when no one owns up?" Greg reached for his coffee. "An old buddy's on the force up there. Asked me to nose around a bit. Seems some woman who wasn't the doctor's wife was at the cabin. She reported the accident."

  "Do they think she's the one?"

  Greg shook his head. "No sign there'd been a rifle at his cabin. Also, they found a dead deer several hundred yards from his body. They figure someone wounded the deer and chased it onto the doctor's property. They shot again and hit the doctor instead of the deer. When he yelled, the hunter panicked and ran."

  "What do you want from Susan?"

  "The name of the woman. Surely it's common knowledge at the hospital. I've got a feeling about this one."

  "I'll ask her, but I'm not sure she'll say much." Patrick reached for his jacket. "I called your house this morning and hurried here to catch you." He removed the tissue-wrapped gun and pushed it across the table. "Take a look at this. Found it in a clump of bushes at the house."

  Greg unwrapped the derringer. "Couldn't have been there long. Too clean. Any robberies in the neighborhood?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "I'll check." Greg looked up. "Good lord, it's loaded. Why did you carry it in your pocket without checking?"

  "Though I covered the crime desk, what do I know about guns?"

  "Evidently very little." Greg frowned. "This looks almost old and clean enough to have come from someone's collection. There's an antique gun dealer in town. I'll drop by his place. Maybe he can dig up something."

  "Let me know what you learn." Patrick lifted his coffee cup. "Makes one wonder if this is connected to the Denton woman's murder."

  Greg leaned forward. "How so?"

  "Maybe the killer was hanging around when Susan found the body and is afraid she saw something. Somehow, he could have discovered where she lives and come after her."

  "Could have been a woman. One of her coworkers."

  "I don't think so."

  Greg chuckled. "The artsy world has certainly stimulated your imagination. I wish she had seen something. We've next to nothing to go on, not even the weapon." He signaled for a refill.

  An hour and several cups of coffee later, Patrick arrived home. He crossed the porch and rang Susan's bell. She opened the door. "I'm on the phone. Be with you in a few."

  Patrick unzipped his black ski jacket. The swaying movements of the light brown caftan drew a silent whistle. How much longer could he wait before making a move? He dropped his jacket on the couch and followed her.

  "Tuesday at ten... I don't think you should go. Why put yourself in what could be an awkward position... I know you loved him... Look, I have company. I'd rather wait until we have time to discuss the funeral. I'll call you back." She hung up and turned to face Patrick. "Coffee?"

  Patrick straddled a chair. "Only if you join me. I've a couple of questions to ask you."

  "Sounds serious." She filled two mugs and carried them to the table.

  "Curiosity. What's the gossip at the hospital about Dr. Barclay's death?"

  "I didn't hear any last night."

  "Not even about the woman at his cabin?"

  "No." She looked away, but not before he saw a hint of panic in her eyes. "I heard there was one." She turned a mug in slow circles on the table. "His nephew dates Julie. He came to tell her about his uncle's death and he mentioned the woman."

  Patrick reached across the table and put his hand over hers. "I think you know more."

 
"She had nothing to do with his death."

  "I'm not looking for a story. She might have noticed something. There was a delay in finding the body. I ran into Greg Davies this morning. The police upstate have to view this as a murder until they learn differently. Tell her to call Greg."

  Susan studied the table. "She loved him. The fewer who know about them, the less gossip there'll be. She needs time to grieve so she can get on with her life."

  Patrick squeezed her hand. "Try."

  "I will." For several minutes, Patrick savored the coffee. Should he tell her about the gun he had found in the yard? Since he didn't want to frighten her, he decided to wait until he heard from Greg.

  He looked up. "You never answered me about dinner and the concert next Saturday."

  "I'd like to go."

  "Great. We'll do something your next weekend off, too."

  "Let's see what happens Saturday before you plan my life."

  He caught a note of annoyance in her voice and knew he had jumped ahead too far, too fast. "I didn't mean... Actually, I guess I did. There's an Arts Council Gala coming soon. There'll be great food and dancing."

  "I'm sure there are dozens of women you could ask."

  The only one he wanted was seated across the table. "Just how long has it been since you went dancing?"

  "Don't ask. You know how Jim hated loud music and crowds."

  The living room clock chimed. As Patrick counted them, he rose. "I'd better go. I left the twins asleep but that was nearly two hours ago. I'll send them over with turkey quiche for your dinner."

  "And for a few minutes peace," she teased. "Their energy level amazes me. I covered more territory on Friday than in one week at work."

  "Did Adam bug you about the Denton woman?"

  "Robin, too. I told them what I saw and said that was all they'd hear from me."

  Patrick raised an eyebrow. "And they listened?"

  "Of course."

  "You have a knack I must learn." He saluted. "See you."

  Susan carried her coffee to the living room. Talk to Leila, Patrick had said. Ask her to call the police. An effort in futility. Leila would never call Greg Davies for fear the affair would be revealed. A sudden thought occurred and brought a frisson of fear. What if Leila was in danger? She knew about the problem between De Witt and Joe Barclay. So had Barbara. Susan sucked in a breath. This fact turned Leila's determination to attend the funeral into a dangerous decision. She should call her friend, but she needed to marshal her arguments first.