Mel was glad it was dark in the car. He was desperately afraid he might — heaven forfend — be blushing.
"It's just one theory, Jane," he said somewhat gruffly. "They might have earmarked this money for some charity. Or set up some kind of trust to help indigent jigsaw puzzle fanatics."
Mel put the car in gear and turned on the headlights. "Your place or mine?"
"I'd love to go to yours, but it's nearly eleven. I want to be sure the kids are all home. And I have to be up early to feed them before Mike goes to work and Katie goes to summer school."
"They can't do toast and eggs?"
"They could, but they won't and will be starv-
ing by ten and blame me. Besides, I have to get ready to hit the grocery store and put things away before the needlepoint class."
"You're still enjoying that? Why haven't you shown me your project?"
"I will when it's done."
Mel walked to her front door and gave her one of those kisses that turned Jane into jelly.
Eighteen
Mel
was in his office
early
Tuesday morning, going through the rest of the paperwork regarding the death of Denny Roth and other files on the attack on Sven Turner. It always astonished and dismayed him in cases like this how much paperwork crimes generated, as well as how slowly some of the data he'd asked for finally trickled in.
There was a new report on his desk that was interesting but not very enlightening. Sven's doctor had called in while he was having dinner with Jane, and left a message that while Sven was still only semiconscious, he was occasionally moving around, apparently trying to run from something. He was also mumbling something. Opinions on what he was trying to say varied. Something like "rabbit" or "ratchet." Or maybe "catch it." This might or might not mean he'd ever get better.
His sister, Hilda, was also eager to visit him, which the doctor approved of, if the police would allow it, and if she could find someone to bring
her to the hospital. Perhaps Detective VanDyne could prevail on social services to arrange it if he approved her visiting.
Mel immediately called back. Naturally, the doctor wasn't available. Mel left a message that he had received the physician's message and agreed that it would be a good idea if Mr. Turner's sister visited and that he'd arrange for it. There was a chance, however remote, that she might understand what her brother was trying to say.
Social services would want a lot of paperwork filled out before they could get her to the hospital. And they'd have to arrange for a van with a lift for her wheelchair. Mel told the man he spoke to that he'd authorize Officer Jones, who knew her best, to come and get the forms to Sven's sister and return them.
That would generate at least fifteen or twenty more pieces of paperwork in triplicate for everyone to file.
But Officer Jones said, "I could borrow my aunt's van. Her late husband was in a wheelchair and it's equipped with a mechanical ramp. She never even drives it anymore. She's got herself a little Honda."
"Officer Jones, have you any idea how much time, trouble, and paperwork this has saved? Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Nobody uses the van anymore. I like OldLady Turner, and will be glad to fetch her and bring her home."
"You're a good man. Thank you. And I wonder if — I shouldn't even ask this, but I will. If there's any way you can find out what they intend to do with all that money, I'd like to know."
"I'll do my best to think of a way to bring it up," he said. "She likes talking to me. Is it important?"
"Frankly, no," Mel admitted. "It's sheer curiosity. Don't bother if you don't feel comfortable about this."
"I'm curious, too."
Mel said, "I'll call the hospital back and tell them you're bringing her to visit her brother. Be sure to go in with her and see if you can decipher what Sven is trying to say."
"He's talking?"
"Not exactly. He's about half conscious and trying to say something. Nobody can tell what it is. Maybe his sister will understand him better than strangers."
Mel decided he should also be there at the meeting of brother and sister. But only in the background. He was casually loitering in the hall outside Sven's room when Officer Jones wheeled Miss Turner out of the elevator. She greeted Mel politely. "Thank you, Detective VanDyne, for making this possible."
He smiled and nodded and followed them into the room.
"Wheel me as close as you can," she said to Officer Jones.
When she was close enough, she put her hand on her brother's forearm and said, "Sven, I'm here. Hilda is here. And I'm going to see to it that you don't lollygag around in this bed for much longer. Sven, open your eyes and look at me."
He turned his head toward her, his eyes opening slightly, a bit cross-eyed.
"That's better," Hilda Turner said firmly, and patted his arm rather roughly.
Mel and Officer Jones exchanged looks that said,
She's a tougher lady than we knew.
Mel realized that it was probably she, as the big sister, who had bossed Sven around since childhood, and he was accustomed to obeying her.
"You're going to get much better with me around, Sven. If nice Officer Jones can bring me here every day, or even every other day, I'm going to see that you come home soon, good as new. Do you understand me?"
Sven, confined by tubes and monitors, managed a slight nod.
"All right. Now tell me this word you've been saying over and over," Hilda said in firm voice. "Rabbit."
The nurses, the doctor, and everyone else in the crowded room clearly understood it this time.
"Rabbit?" Hilda asked. "What does that mean?"
"Rabbit!" he repeated loudly, then closed his eyes again and took a deep breath after this effort.
"Sven, take a nice nap," his sister said, pressing a freshly ironed handkerchief to her eyes. "I'll be back soon. You
are
going to recover."
She looked up at Officer Jones, and he turned her wheelchair around gingerly so as to not run over anybody's feet or some tubing or pull the plug out of some important bit of medical equipment. Mel held the door open and followed them.
"You're a courageous woman, Miss Turner," Mel said. "And I suspect you, and only you, can make him recover."
"Would you like to go down to the lunchroom and have a cup of coffee or tea?" Officer Jones asked Miss Turner.
Her voice was now a bit shaky as she said, "That would be very kind of you. He looked so awful with all those tubes and beeping machines. But he sat with me in this same hospital when I lost my lower legs. He must have been as worried then about me as I am about him now."
Officer Jones got her settled and went to fetch flavored but unsweetened tea for Miss Turner and coffee for himself and Mel.
Hilda Turner was getting a better grip on herself and confided in Mel, "I can hardly believe that I forgot something important. There's a corridor between this hospital and some small apartments for the families of seriously ill patients.
That's where Sven stayed when I was in here. Do you think I could stay there and save Officer Jones the trouble of hauling me here and back home every day?"
Mel said, "I'll find out."
"It's not that I can't afford it," she said with a faint smile.
Mel thought this was a good time to ask what they intended to do with all their money, but couldn't bring himself to do so when she was so worried.
Instead he asked, "What do you think 'rabbit' means to him? He said it so clearly."
"I have no idea. There's something tickling the back of my mind, but I can't quite grasp it."
"You'll let me know when you do, won't you?"
"It's probably something really trivial. I will tell you, if I can figure out why he'd say it. And, Detective, when you contact the manager of those apartments, would you explain I need one with bars to hold on to in the bathroom?"
When Officer Jones returned, carefully carrying their drinks on a flimsy tray, Mel explained what they'd been talking about while he was gone.
"Apartments for families? Who would have guessed? But I don't mind driving you every day, Miss Turner, if Detective VanDyne approves it. And my aunt, as I told you, never wants to drive it again."
"I can't put you to all that trouble," she said, once more becoming the big sister and bossy. "But I will have to be taken home and ask my neighbor to pack my clothing and medicines — if Detective VanDyne can get me an apartment."
"I'll use whatever clout it takes to see that you have one," Mel said.
"I could do your packing," Officer Jones said. She said, almost sounding girlish, "You? Pack-
ing up my underwear? I don't think so." Officer Jones turned slightly pink. "Oh."
After Mel had reserved an apartment adjoining the hospital that met Miss Turner's needs and Officer Jones had her on her way home to be helped to pack by her neighbor, Mel returned to his office to start over with his stacks of paperwork that both the death of Denny and the attack on Sven had generated. He'd already put what he'd gone through in three piles on the counter behind his desk.
The first pile was papers that were entirely irrelevant. This was the smallest pile. The second consisted of documents and copies of interviews that he suspected might not be worthwhile, but which he'd go through again. Papers that he believed might contain the key to either or both of the crimes made up the largest pile. And he still had a big mass of folders and loose papers remaining that would end up in one of the piles.
When he'd made significant headway, he went around the corner and bought a sandwich, chips, and a soda to eat a late lunch at his desk. Then he called Jane.
"Did you learn any more about anything useful at your needlepoint class this morning?"
"Tazz didn't show up, thank goodness. I think I really scared her away."
"She deserved being scared away."
"I just wish I could scare Elizabeth away." "Who is Elizabeth?"
"One of the other people in the needlepointing class. She's such a snoop. She mentioned to Ms. Bunting that she's seen Ms. Bunting's husband drop her off and wanted to know what he did while she was in class. As if it were any of her business. Ms. Bunting said he was going to the country club where he'd played golf earlier. He'd lost his driver."
"What driver? He has somebody who drives him around?"
"No, it's an old-fashioned name for a golf club, Ms. Bunting said. Like mashies, wedgies, spoons, lofters, niblicks, and something called deck, that might have been a club or a brand of club. Ms. Bunting wasn't sure which," Jane said.
"Elizabeth tried to correct her," Jane went on, "and tell her that golf clubs had numbers, not names. Ms. Bunting did a royal 'putting down,' saying that the clubs were her husband's father's.
Antiques. Very valuable, and designated by the names they were called when they were made."
"Sounds like this Elizabeth needs to take a few lessons in etiquette," Mel said.
"She's Junior League. She's expected to be polite. I guess nobody told her that when she signed up."
Mel shifted the subject, not much caring about Elizabeth's manners. "I have a little news for you. Officer Jones took Miss Turner to see her brother, and the visit really perked him up. She did the firm 'big sister' act, telling him to pull himself together. And it started to work."
"He's fully conscious, then?"
"No, but he opened his eyes for a brief moment and clearly said 'rabbit' so that it was understandable to everyone in the room. Not that it's revealed anything useful. His sister didn't know what he meant by it either. If anyone can bring him out of it, it's his sister. She's a much firmer, more determined woman than I imagined. Does 'rabbit' suggest anything to you?"
"I've never met or even seen the man. How would I know? My only guess, off the top of my head, is that he caught a glimpse of his attacker and only remembered that he had big yellowish teeth."
Mel laughed. "That's a big stretch of your imagination, Janey."
"Well, you asked and it could be true. Are you
certain that these two crimes were done by the same person?"
"Not certain. But my gut instinct tells me they probably were. I just wanted to check in with you. Now I have to wade through the rest of my eighteen pounds of paperwork."
"Did you really weigh it?" Jane asked with a laugh.
"I just estimated."Nineteen
Mel worked late
Tuesday
evening. He
was determined to get through all the piles of paperwork he'd sorted. When it was done, he went to Mc-Donald's for a burger and fries. Since the food wasn't interesting, merely filling, he let his mind wander over what he knew. He was as certain as he could be that the death of Denny Roth and the attack on Sven Turner were related.
Sven had called his boss that night and said he'd do the theater early in the morning because he heard people talking inside. Maybe he had recognized the voices. Maybe he knew who both were. Was the other one "rabbit"?
Maybe Sven had even heard the sound of something crashing. The blow that killed Denny Roth.
But there was no point in waiting for Sven to come fully to his senses. He might never remember, nor be able to speak clearly enough to be un-
derstood except for that one word he'd gathered all his strength to say repeatedly.
Mel needed desperately to know more about Denny and still couldn't reach his parents. The local officer was getting as tired of checking their house as Mel was of perpetually trying to reach them by phone. Often the victim of a crime was the key to who perpetrated it. But Denny, so far, was a cipher. Maybe something would turn up soon that would be helpful. Some old bitter enemy who had tracked Denny down in Chicago, perhaps.