Gone Crazy (7 page)

Aunt Marge answered sharply, “He’s fine!” and she burst into tears all over Roger’s shoulder. He patted her, and smiled at me. “She means, thank God you’re okay.”

I sat up, and whooped silently. I peered inside my hospital gown. Yep, I’d banged some ribs. I could tell by the full-spectrum bruising. No sit-ups for me for a while. The ache went clear to my toes.

Roger went on, in that wonderful quiet way of his, “Your cruiser took the worst of it. I’m guessing someone meant to scare you.”

“It worked,” muttered Aunt Marge.

“It scared me,” I agreed, and got back to the point. “How’s Boris?”

“That sissy,” scoffed Roger. “We found him halfway up a tree. He had a couple cuts, but he’s fine. Nothing important got hurt.”

Aunt Marge jabbed him hard. “
Lil
is important!”

Roger shut up. Smart man. I’m the one who said, “He meant vital organs.”

“What were you thinking?”

Only Aunt Marge can make me feel like a five-year-old who went out in the rain without her umbrella and galoshes. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be!”

I was hoping someone would save me, and someone did. It was a nurse, one of those scrub-wearing, fast-striding, fake-smiling nurses. She told Aunt Marge to be quiet, announced an end to the visit, and asked me if I needed to have my flowers moved. I hadn’t even noticed them. She tossed the cards at me, and bustled out to the ding-linging of someone else’s call bell.

Maury had sent some sunflowers. He knows I like them. Cousin Jack Littlepage had sent a huge bunch of daisies. Nice of him to think of it. Bobbi and her mother had sent a philodendron. Kim and Tom and Punk sent a bunch of balloons. Harry had sent a cactus. I squirmed into a less painful position and said a grateful prayer those weren’t funeral arrangements.

The in-bed phone rang. Good thing I had a private room.

It was Harry Rucker. “Lil, are you well enough to talk?”

“I think so,” I said cautiously. “Everyone okay?”

“Well, my fat cousin had a conniption about jurisdiction but the state police handled him quick enough. Nothing fatal, alas. Lil, there’s no easy way to say this. I just found out myself.”

“Boris?” I squeaked.

A pause ensued. And stretched. Then Harry said gently, “Vera Collier’s house burned down. Lieutenant Breeden called me. They were going back this morning to help with that inventory for you…‌it was nothing but char and ashes, he said. Still smoking.”

I felt dizzy. “And no Colliers in sight.”

“Not a one.”

I pressed the call button for the nurse. I told Harry thanks, and hung up. The nurse arrived, her mouth smiling, her eyes furious. A woman with too much to do. I knew the feeling.

“Is it pain, dear?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “How soon can I get outta here?”

***^***

They let me go despite Aunt Marge, who insisted in her genteel way that they were idiots and I was a fool. “I refuse to participate,” she informed us all. She shifted her bag on her shoulder. Thermoses clanked. More of her famous juices and purees and soups. One had celery, cucumber, lime and cilantro. It was a favorite of mine, but I didn’t think I had much chance of getting it. “If you want to release her, when she is clearly in no condition to be trusted with her own safety, then you may do so without me.”

Roger knew better than to put an arm around her. He instead told me, “I’ll drive you home. Boris’ll be glad to see you.”

Aunt Marge hitched her bag back up, eyes narrowed. She maintained a discreet silence as I signed the paperwork, then let loose the minute we were in the parking garage. Her voice bounced off the concrete, her vocabulary and diction as well-modulated as she’d been taught at finishing school. “I never thought to say it, Lil, but I am ashamed of you! You drove home alone! From Paint Hollow! That is an act so irresponsible, so inappropriate that it leaves me speechless!”

“Hardly,” said Roger under his breath, but fortunately for him, Aunt Marge didn’t hear him.

“When I think of all the hard work you did to get into Georgetown‌—‌to get your master’s‌—‌to get into the Bureau and then to get out of it‌—‌and then you nearly throw it all away!”

My cell phone warbled. I took it with a silent apology to Aunt Marge, and when I had hung up, she was clearly seething. She wanted to rant, but her curiosity was getting the better of her. “What was so important?”

“Lieutenant Breeden,” I told them both, glad to slide into the backseat of Roger’s car. I was not as steady on my feet as I’d have liked. The pills they’d given me for pain also seemed to counteract gravity. “Beau Collier confessed to running me off the road. He’s in custody.”

“Did he kill Vera?”

I swung my legs up along the back seat. I had to bend my knees. Roger’s not a luxury car kind of guy. “He says no.”

“Why in the name of God did he try to kill you?” asked Aunt Marge, her fury re-directing to an equally tangible and more deserving target.

I almost sighed. “He’s not saying. And he isn’t saying anything about the fire, either.”

“What fire?” asked Aunt Marge.

I grinned. The ride home suddenly looked a lot shorter.

***^***

Dr. Vidur’s hand was bandaged where Boris had bitten him. I noticed because it was by his mouth, holding onto a cinnamon bun. Bobbi was watching him happily. She made fabulous cinnamon buns, but Dr. Vidur appeared not to notice them. He was smiling at Bobbi.

She saw me before he did, and squealed, then hugged me very gingerly. “He’s fine, I saw him,” she said before I could ask. “He’s just in a bad mood. And Raj doesn’t mind about the bite, so it’s okay.”

After Bobbi’s cinnamon buns, anything would seem okay. They have that effect. It’s probably the two pints of heavy cream and the pounds of sugar. They’d sure gotten her from “Dr. Vidur” to “Raj” in a hurry.

“Can I take Boris home?”

“Sure,” said Vidur around another mouthful, his eyes fixed on Bobbi. “He just needs to rest a few days.”

The way Aunt Marge was eyeing us, I had a feeling bed rest was going to be in our futures for more than a few days. I cleared my throat and said, “Not a problem. Boris?”

Doris Hutchins‌—‌no relation to Tom that I knew of‌—‌came out of the back with a cat carrier wrapped in a blanket. “He’s a little freaked out,” she said, placing the carrier on the counter. “Will that be check or charge?”

I handed over my credit card and flipped off the blanket. “Boris!”

Two huge eyes stared out at me, the gold and green nearly obliterated by black. He was trembling. I popped open the carrier door and he bolted. Doris cried out, but I knew my Boris. He tore along the counter, then spun, tail fluffed, ears flat. For a moment he stared malevolently around the room. Then he tried to twist around to lick his shoulder. No good. They’d put one of those lampshades on him. He sauntered to me, tail whipping, and butted his head against my chin. The plastic lampshade conked me on the nose. I didn’t care. But my dignity had to be spared. Sheriffs get no respect if they coo at their cats in public.

I hefted Boris onto my shoulder, careful of my ribs and his stitches. “Thank you, Dr. Vidur.”

“My pleasure,” he said. He had yet to take his eyes off Bobbi, who was returning the favor. I would have giggled if my ribs would’ve let me.

Boris snuggled up as well as he could with the plastic cone around his head. I walked out to Roger’s car. Now that I had Boris, I had a ridiculous feeling that everything was all right.

I should’ve known it wouldn’t last. When we got out of the car, a man rose out of the rocker on Aunt Marge’s porch. It was my cousin Jack Littlepage. Average height, mousy hair, the Littlepage eyes, and that aura of handsomeness that is really the result of a perfectly nourished and pampered childhood. I had no idea what he wanted, and I saw Aunt Marge and Roger trade a worried glance. It was Aunt Marge who took the lead, walking forward with a bright smile. “Jack, what a pleasure! How are you?”

“Miz Turner,” said Jack politely. “You’re looking well.”

“Thank you. Are you here to see Lil?”

“Yes,” he said, and harrumphed. “Cousin Littlepage.”

“Jack,” I returned, and we did that sort-of hug you do with people you’re not sure you should hug. I was glad. My ribs felt like someone had used me for kickboxing practice. I put Boris on the porch. He was growling to himself. Unhappy about the lampshade, the bald patch around his cuts, and God only knows what else. He hissed at Jack on principle. My cousin didn’t seem to notice.

“I hope you’re not hurt badly,” he said, then smiled awkwardly. I noticed his eyes were bloodshot.

“Not badly,” I said, and gestured to the rocker he’d already been occupying. I took the padded bench nearby. Boris leapt up on my lap, half-purring, half-grumbling. He sighed a little as he settled. “Thanks for the flowers. What brings you by?”

Jack rubbed at his eyes. I expected him to comment on allergies, which is what most people do around that time of year. “Ah, well. I know this is hardly a good time.”

I waited. It’s amazing how well that works.

“Ah, my father’s in the hospital.” He cleared his throat. “It’s, ah, quite bad. Um. He’s not going to, ah…” His eyes teared up.

I forgot my own troubles in a hurry. Last year, Jack’s sister had been murdered, and the smart money was on their mother, who’d been packed off to live in France. Now this. The guy might be a multi-millionaire, but he couldn’t catch a break.

Aunt Marge and Roger scritched past. Her eyes were full of horrified sympathy; Roger’s were just plain sad, like he’d expected no better of the world. Someday, if he lived long enough, he might be able to tell me what it was he did in the military that made him the way he was. Then again, maybe I didn’t want to know.

I stroked Boris, trying to think of something to say. Uncle Littlepage had suffered a “cardiac event” after his daughter’s murder, but I hadn’t heard that he’d continued to have problems. I wanted to squirm. What could I say? I wasn’t on my uncle’s Christmas card list. Cousin Jack’s, yes, but not my uncle’s. I finally settled for, “What can we do?”

Jack brushed at his eyes. He was wearing Brooks Brothers the way most people wear their five-dollar t-shirt from the rummage store, like it was his slop clothes. I wondered what he wore for dressy occasions. “Actually, Cousin Lil, it’s a relief to be able to admit he’s not likely to… Well, that this is…” He shook himself hard enough that even Boris blinked. “No one wants to hear it. Except Mother.” His face went dark and nasty for a moment. “She’s flying back.”

My palms itched. Oh, to have the evidence to put that woman in prison! But all I had was gut feeling and guesswork. “I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it.

“Thanks.” My cousin fidgeted briefly, coughed, and finally met my gaze squarely. “What would you do if Father left you money?”

I shrugged. “Donate it somewhere, probably.” I realized how that sounded, and hastily added, “Nothing personal. It’s just…”

He grinned crookedly. I could see his exhaustion. “In your place I’d probably do the same.”

“He’s not leaving me anything, is he?” I asked in alarm. I rose when Jack did, in case he needed physical support. He had that hunch-shouldered look to him.

My ribs reminded me I wasn’t doing too well myself.

“I don’t know. He made a new will a month or so ago, however, and I know he feels grateful for your efforts toward putting Lisa’s killer in jail.” We traded an identically sour look before Jack concluded wryly, “Knowing Father, however, it might be a souvenir teacup. At any rate. Um. He’s at University of Virginia, if you want to visit.”

I’d just left that hospital, but I nodded. “We’ll head up tomorrow, if you think he’d like the company.”

Jack let his hand rest on my shoulder, then hugged me gingerly. “Thanks. I could use it, even if he couldn’t.”

It was an aw-shucks moment. I hate those.

Jack hesitated on the way to his Lexus. He has a BMW, too, and a Mercedes, but for Crazy he sticks to the Lexus. He seemed about to speak, then changed his mind, and waved instead. I kept my hand raised till his tail lights had vanished. I picked up Boris, who protested louder than my ribs, and sighed into his fur. What a day. Hell, what a
week
.

And I was no closer to finding out who killed Vera Collier.

7.

I
was on my third day of rest and starting to go stir crazy when my cell phone rang. I’d gone outside to sit on the porch with Boris and watch the rain wash the pollen off everything, and and we were both so mellow I seriously considered not answering. I compromised with myself by checking the caller ID, and had to hit the button. It was Harry Rucker. “Lilith, my sweet giantess!”

I should point out Harry’s shorter than I am. Of course, a lot of people are.

“What now?” I sighed. Aunt Marge had terrified everyone into leaving me be, but I don’t think God Almighty could stop Harry.

“We have a complication,” he chortled.

“Oh God,” I moaned. “What is it?”

“Vera did not die of the mushroom poisoning.”

I went for honesty. “Huh?”

“Insulin. Enough to kill an elephant, well, metaphorically that is.”

That explained the injection. Insulin comes in various forms, which act at different speeds, and an overdose is a pretty sure kill. I’d caught a suicide up in Charlottesville who’d used insulin. A nurse. It’s one of their favorite ways to do it. “She wasn’t diabetic, was she,” I stated.

“No, she was not. I am already inquiring as to the status of the pancreatic health of her offspring and in-laws.”

Sometimes, Harry tires me out. “Are they sure it’s insulin?”

“As certain as they ever are of anything. She was in organ failure from the mushrooms, but the insulin most certainly finished her, although if they’d waited even another few hours the mushrooms would have done it. Fascinating, if you think about it.”

I let Harry ramble. This could play out a lot of ways. One person could’ve gotten impatient for the mushrooms to do the work and hastened the end with the insulin. Or, and this was just as likely, two different people killed Vera using two different methods, and probably in total ignorance of what the other was doing. No matter what, we had obviously made someone nervous enough that they’d burned down the house and its contents. Someone had broken in a window and, from what I’d heard from the State Police, dumped enough gasoline to burn down five houses before tossing in a match. So they were very uneasy about what had been in the house. But what was it? Evidence of mushrooms or of insulin overdose? Or something else entirely?