He cleared his throat. "What if wasn't Lisa Crane?"
"What do you mean?"
"Everyone could be naively thinking that Justine is in danger from a crazy person when all three of you could be in danger from a different, albeit just as crazy, person."
All he's trying to do is build reasonable doubt on the Gilbert case... You're playing right into his hands.
"Mitchell, please—"
"The e-mail account was traced to a computer at the Monroeville public library."
She went still. "No kidding?"
"David called me this morning to let me know."
...
so that when his brother wins a new trial, they'll get Bracken off.
"But the address can't be tied to a specific person," he said. "Three-thousand-plus library cards issued, and all of them have access to the computers. Any user can reserve an address for the duration of a session." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "So it appears that the letter opener you saw at the murder scene and the one you saw on-line could be one and the same."
Her body was becoming acclimated to the constant adrenaline rush. "The person I e-mailed knows I can link them to the murder."
"If they read the papers and connect the 'ReginaM' who sent the e-mail message with the Regina Metcalf who's set to give new testimony about the murder."
"The library must have logs to tell
when
the address was used—maybe the librarians could remember who was on the computers at those times."
"David checked. The electronic logs are maintained for only three days before they're overwritten." He pursed his mouth. "What do you think the chances are that Mr. Calvin the book man has a library card?"
"Probably pretty high, but what connection would he have with my Aunt Lyla?"
He shrugged. "Lonely widower, small town, he and your aunt both frequented the antiques shop—maybe their paths crossed."
She winced. "Maybe.
Someone
in Monroeville has that letter opener."
"Probably not anymore."
True, by now the guilty party would've gotten rid of it—that letter opener was probably lying on the bottom of Armadillo Creek with Justine's gun. "Did you give this information to the sheriff?"
He nodded. "At least I tried. He got a little huffy, though, when I asked to see his library card."
"That wasn't the smartest move."
"Regina," he said quietly, "you're the only link to that piece of evidence. I believe you're the one who's in danger, not Justine."
She liked the way her name rolled off his tongue... too bad he was talking about murder. She took in his rumpled hair and tired eyes and shadowed jaw—all her family's doing—and thoroughly agreed with him. She was very much in danger... of falling in love with this man. Fortunately, he was oblivious to the inner workings of her mind. Like most men, he assumed silence meant acceptance of whatever he was talking about.
He stood. "First there was the so-called hunting accident, now the car fire. Someone doesn't want you to testify."
What was it the sheriff had said about lawyers twisting things around? If she squinted, Mitchell's words almost made sense. She lifted her hands. "So I'll sign an affidavit, and then there won't be any point in getting rid of me."
His mouth hardened. "This isn't funny."
She sighed. "I'm sorry. Did you have someone particular in mind who would want me dead?"
"Well, if your Mr. Calvin sells cars on the side, he probably knows how to rig a gas line."
"I just can't imagine Mr. Calvin hurting innocent people like that."
"No one likes to think that a person who blends into the community could be a killer. In fact—" He pulled on his chin. "Pete Shadowen was nearby when both incidents occurred, and even though he doesn't strike me as much of a reader, I'd like to find out if
he
has a library card."
Regina crossed her arms. "Okay, now
that
is funny. Because Pete seems to think that these strange events coincide with
your
appearance in town."
His face darkened. "Is that what he was filling your head with at the funeral home?"
She stood to face him. "Filling my head?"
Someone cleared her throat and Regina looked over. Mica had returned, looking young and thin in baggy clothes and a hat. "Has the doctor come out?"
"Not yet."
"What could be taking so long?"
"Let's ask." She threw Mitchell a look that said, didn't she have enough to deal with without him making things worse? and approached the nurses' station. They talked to a woman in pink scrubs who disappeared, then returned with a lady doctor in tow.
"Family of Justine Metcalf?"
"We're her sisters," Regina said, heart pounding.
"Sorry for the delay—I just finished processing the paperwork for her treatment."
"How is she?"
"The next couple of days will be rough, but she'll be fine."
Regina's shoulders fell in relief.
"There were no traces of other drugs in her system, but do you know if she uses other substances?"
Regina shook her head ruefully—in the past few days she'd learned she didn't know much about her sisters' intimate lives. Mica, too, shook her head.
"Has she ever overdosed on nutmeg before?"
Again, they didn't know.
"This is only the second case of nutmeg poisoning I've ever treated, but judging from the amount of myristicin in her bloodstream, I'd say that she's a moderate user and the overdose was accidental."
Another huge relief. "Can we see her?"
"She's being admitted, so you can see her when she gets settled into a room. She won't be responsive, though, until sometime tomorrow. I gave her a sedative and an anticonvulsant. She's dehydrated, so we'll put her on an IV. And she'll be on a liquid diet for a few days." She frowned. "The deputy indicated that she's being stalked; is that correct?"
They nodded. Regina said a prayer of thanks for Pete, who had driven Justine to the county hospital in the backseat of his cruiser. Mica had ridden along, frantic. She and Mitchell had followed. He was another one who always seemed to be in the right place at the right time.
But was that by chance or by design?
"Justine has been under an enormous amount of stress lately," Regina said.
The doctor folded her arms over a clipboard. "The hallucinogenic ingredient in nutmeg isn't addictive, but the behavior in taking it is. It's a dangerous habit because it seems harmless, but there's no standard dosage or delivery, just trial and error. If a person takes too much, she not only experiences a bad trip but potentially can have severe cramping, convulsions, or renal complications."
"Could Justine have died?"
"Not likely, but the body expels the poison quite violently. She'll feel like hell for forty-eight hours, and it's possible that she'll have temporary psychosis." Her mouth went flat. "This is not a pretty way for a person to get her kicks. After this experience, she might not use nutmeg again, but if she doesn't get help, she might look for other outlets."
They thanked the doctor, and Regina and Mica threw their arms around each other in abject relief, rocking back and forth. They didn't touch, her family. Not often enough, based on how good it felt.
When they released each other, Mica said, "Go home, Regina. I'll stay with Justine."
"I'll stay, too."
"Let me," Mica said. "I need to talk to her alone. To... set things right." She suddenly smiled. "This might be my only chance to speak to her without being interrupted."
Regina wanted to stay, but she saw how much it meant to Mica, and if leaving meant that her sisters could be sisters again, it would be a small price. Mica promised she'd call as soon as Justine was settled into a room. Regina said she'd bring Cissy to visit the next day.
She was silent the first few minutes of the ride home in Mitchell's van. It was only ten-thirty of what just might go down as the longest day of her life. The acrid smell of their clothes filled the cab. "Think Sam's okay?" she asked. They'd left him with Cissy and Lawrence.
"Oh, sure. Sam and I, we fit in wherever we go." He found a blues station on the radio.
Nothing special about this situation, he was telling her. He and Sam would move on shortly. She shouldn't get attached to that crotch-nudging thing—from either one of them.
She'd called Cissy from the hospital to let her know that Justine was all right. Her mother had been relieved, of course, and even though Regina had thought it was better under the circumstances for Cissy to stay behind, she was beginning to wonder about her mother's preoccupation with staying near the house... as if she were protecting something... or hiding something....
She straightened. Or hiding
someone.
Forget the attic.
...
Your father cleared everything out of that oven long ago. Nothing up there but bats.
"Hurry," she said, sitting up.
"What's wrong?"
"I have an idea where my father is hiding."
He broke a few posted speeding recommendations on the way but got them back to the Doll in record time. Uncle Lawrence's security guard stood near the base of the steps and nodded when they passed him.
They entered the house and Sam jumped up from his resting place in the hall, his tongue lolling happily. Man and dog followed her up the stairs to the second floor. The light shone under Cissy's door, and the murmur of her uncle's voice reached her. Regina strode past to the tapered stairs leading to the attic and flipped on a harsh overhead light.
The door to Cissy's room opened, and Lawrence emerged. "Regina, you're home." Then he frowned at her position—one foot on the bottom step to the attic. "What's wrong, dear?"
Cissy appeared behind him in her dressing gown and peered out into the hallway. "Regina, what are you doing?"
"I'm going to check the attic."
"For what? I told you it was empty." Was it her imagination, or did her mother sound strident?
She ignored Cissy and grasped the handrail. Her heart thumped like a drum as she climbed to the tiny landing. She toned the glass knob and pushed on the narrow door, swollen shut from the heat. She put her shoulder into it, and the door scraped open. A haze of stifling air rolled out, along with sleeping dust motes.
"Dad? Dad, are you in here?" She reached around the corner and groped for the chain. A high, bare bulb flooded light over the space, revealing sheets of plywood flooring, plastic-covered pink insulation, and yes, a handful of fluttering bats in the eaves.
But no John.
Disappointment rolled over her. Behind her, Mitchell placed a hand on her arm. She backed out and pulled the door closed behind her. She stared down at her mother's anxious face, and descended slowly. "I thought that Dad... it was crazy, I guess."
"Regina," her uncle said gently. "I've made phone calls all day, but no one has seen your father. You need to accept that you might never see him again."
She nodded numbly.
"Some issues have sprung up in my Washington office since I left that I need to address."
"You're leaving town?"
"No. I set up a temporary office at my cabin; I can handle things from there. But I'll leave my security man—will you and your mother be okay for the night?"
"I'll stay," Mitchell offered.
Her uncle perused Mitchell with suspicious eyes.
"It's okay, Uncle Lawrence," she heard herself say, and walked him to the door. "Thank you for everything."
"You're welcome." He looked over her shoulder, then leaned in close. "I don't trust that man, Regina. Be careful."
"I will," she promised, mostly to humor him.
"Call me if you need me."
"I will."
"Is Hank's boy guarding Justine?"
"Yes."
"And she's going to be okay?"
"Yes. The doctor said that she accidentally overdosed and she'd be fine in a couple of days."
"Good." He sighed. "I don't know how much more stress your mother can withstand."
"I'm going up to check on her right now." She closed the door and inhaled deeply before climbing back up to Cissy's room.
Her mother had returned to her bed. Regina sat on the edge and held her mother's hand. Cissy's eyes were so bleak. "I miss John, Regina. And I'm worried. Where could he be?"
She shook her head. "I don't know."
"And your sisters seem determined to kill themselves or each other."
"I have a feeling that a cease-fire is in the works."
Cissy laid her head back on a mound of pillows. "I hope so."
Regina smoothed the fold of a sheet unnecessarily. "Mom, I need to ask you some questions about Aunt Lyla."
Cissy went rigid "What kind of questions?"
"The personal kind. Do you know if she was involved with other men around town?"
"Like who?"
"Like Mr. Calvin, for instance?"
"Tom Calvin? Yes, there was some talk about him and Lyla, before and after his wife died. Catherine and Lyla were sisters, you know."
She hadn't known. "How did his wife die?"
"She and Tom were fishing in Dilly Creek in a john-boat. It capsized, she couldn't swim, and he couldn't save her. Very sad affair."
And very incriminating. Regina swallowed. "What about the sheriff?"
Cissy nodded. "There was always talk about Lyla and Hank Shadowen."
"Isn't Pete's mother wheelchair-bound?"
"Yes, and has been most of her adult life. She always looked the other way when Hank stepped out."
"Anyone else?"
"The only other name that comes to mind is Tate Williams. Once Sarah Williams confronted Lyla in the Grab 'N Go—threw a Slurpee on her and said if Lyla didn't leave Tate alone, she was going to fix her wagon."
Monroeville was quite the Peyton Place.
The phone rang, and Regina picked up the receiver from the nightstand. "Hello?"
"It's Mica. Justine is settled into a room, and sleeping."
"Good. Do you want me to come and get you?"
"No. The nurses were kind enough to move in a cot for me. I'm going to stay."
"If you're sure."
"I am. I'll see you tomorrow."