The angst quickly dissipated as I headed down the hall to a cluster of empty chairs by the nurse's station. "Drinking fountain?" I asked.
"Down the hall, on the right," said the woman on duty.
Absorbing someone else's emotional baggage is a bummer. Maggie and me—I considered us soul mates, but I'd never had to deal with such an intense explosion of feeling from her before. In the future I'd have to learn to guard against it.
I found the fountain and took a couple of sips. The water tasted flat, metallic. I headed back for the chairs and collapsed into one. A well-read copy of the morning newspaper lay on a table. I leafed through it, bored. A three-paragraph story with no byline recapped Eileen's murder, quoting Susan. I wondered if Ashley Samuels, the reporter who'd showed up at the inn on Saturday, had written it. I tore it out, stuck it in my wallet, and set the paper aside.
Sitting back in the chair, I watched as robe-clad patients walked by, pulling their rolling IV poles. It was nearly noon. Hospital personnel pushing food carts emerged from the elevator and passed by me. I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes had passed; long enough. I got up and headed back down the hall.
Maggie's laughter never sounded so sweet. I paused in the doorway, drinking in her mood change. The little bear was secured in the crook of her arm, and a carnation from the flower arrangement was tucked behind one ear. "Welcome back," she said.
"I'll see about getting the TV and phone put in," Richard said, and got up from the chair. "I’ll be back in a few minutes."
I watched him go and took the seat he'd just vacated. "You're a whole different person than the one I left a few minutes ago. What did Richard say to you?"
"I don't know. He's just so easy to talk to."
I feigned insult. "What about me?"
"You're just easy." She reached for my hand, squeezing it with warm fingers, so unlike the night before.
"Are you really okay?" I asked.
"I hurt, but I've been worse."
"Me, too. And when you consider the alternative, I guess we were really pretty lucky. You should see my seat belt bruises."
She pulled at the collar of her hospital gown, looking down at her chest. "Bet I could match them. And boy, do they hurt." She laughed again and winced.
"We're going to bring you dinner tonight. Do you want anything special?"
"I don't care.”
A rattling at the door captured our attention. "Lunchtime," said the aide. She moved the flowers aside and pushed the bed table closer, setting the brown plastic lunch tray within Maggie's easy reach before turning back for the door.
Maggie removed the warming cover and wrinkled her nose at the thin broth, can of ginger ale and cup of gelatin. "Anything's better than this."
I looked over the tray. "They can't really ruin Jell-O."
"But it's green." She sniffed the soup, scowled, and then pushed the tray table aside.
"I brought your tablet of paper and stuff in case you feel like writing. And the book you're reading is in there, too. We can get you some magazines from the gift shop if you want."
She shook her head, reached for my hand and held it, smiling at me. "I love you, Jeff."
I pulled my chair closer. "I love you, too, Maggs. In good times and bad." I kissed her fingers.
"The good times have outweighed the bad, haven't they?"
"Ever since the day I met you."
"You're just saying that because it's true."
"You're right." It was my turn to smile; it was a game we'd played many times before. I held her hand as though it were made of glass, realizing just how close I'd come to losing her.
"What'll you do about your car?"
"It's insured. And the accident certainly wasn't our fault."
"And it wasn't an accident either, was it?"
"No."
We ran out of things to say, just sitting there, staring into each other's eyes, hanging onto one another other, and feeling grateful to be alive.
Richard returned and the three of us talked about everything except the situation back at the inn. Richard cajoled Maggie to at least sip the ginger ale before the aide took the lunch tray away. After a while, Maggie's eyelids began to droop.
"You need a nap, and I have to find out about the car," I said, getting up from the chair.
"You will come back tonight, right?"
"Of course." I set her book and writing tablet on the bed table within her reach. We kissed her good-bye and started down the hall.
"Are you okay?" Richard asked once we were out of Maggie's earshot. "You had me worried there for a minute when you started hyperventilating."
"She caught me off guard. I've never tuned into her feelings like that before. I'm used to experiencing some of what she feels, but that was scary."
He shook his head ruefully. "I keep telling you, you'd make a great study project."
"And I keep telling you I don't want to be anyone's guinea pig." I rubbed my stiff neck.
"We can get you a cervical collar at the drugstore," he offered.
"No, thanks. They look stupid."
"It'll make you feel better."
"No, thanks."
"God forbid you should feel better."
"Speaking of feeling better, what did you say to turn Maggie around?"
"That you love her—that we all do. Love is a powerful force for healing the sick."
I thought he was kidding, but his dead-serious expression humbled me.
We climbed into the car and headed back toward Stowe. I tried to keep my gaze straight ahead, but with every bump and turn the muscles in my neck screamed. I might regret not taking him up on the offer of a collar.
"Should we head for the police station?" Richard asked, once we'd crossed the Stowe village line.
"We may as well. They should be able to tell me where my car was towed."
Richard braked, looking past me to the right. "Unless I miss my guess, that's it."
He pulled into a service station, stopping the car alongside the tangle of metal that had once been my trusty Chevy.
I hauled myself out of the station wagon, my legs feeling shaky at the sight of the buckled passenger door. Only a miracle had saved Maggie from dying on impact.
All the glass was gone, blown out or melted—the interior was a charred mess. The back end was crumpled like an old soda can, with not a trace of paint remaining.
Richard placed a hand on my shoulder. "Let's go."
We drove back to the inn in shattered, unnerving silence.
The answering machine at my insurance company reminded me it was a holiday and to call back Tuesday morning after 8 o’clock eastern time. So much for customer service.
I went in search of Richard, but instead found Sgt. Beach waiting for me in the inn’s living room. He held a paper sack in one hand.
"More questions?" I asked.
"Yes. Sorry to hear about your accident."
"Thanks."
"I read the report. Last night a black Blazer four-by-four was stolen from one of the motels along the strip. It was found this morning with damage consistent with what you described to the officer last night."
"What about the license plates?"
He shook his head. "No plates. No fingerprints, either. How's your girlfriend?"
"She nearly bled to death. My brother, the so-called doctor, saved her life."
"Hey, I'm sorry if you feel we hassled you yesterday, but this
is
a murder investigation."
"So it's been ruled homicide?"
"Did you have any doubts?"
I shook my head. "No."
"We're spending most of our time trying to get background information on all the guests. That's not easy on a holiday weekend. But we're pursuing some leads. I'm here to question several of the guests again. We'll have this nailed down in the next thirty-six hours. Toward that end—" He shoved the paper sack at me. "Take a look."
I opened the bag; Eileen's scotch bottle. "What am I supposed to do with this?"
"You tell me. You're the psychic."
I sighed, looked down at my feet and winced, grabbing my sore neck. Anger, humiliation and defeat crowded around me. "Does McFadden know you brought this here?"
"I'm in charge of the investigation."
"So what do you want me to do, touch it, get my fingerprints on it so you can charge me with Eileen Marshall's murder?"
"For what it's worth, I don't think you killed her. But you know things about this case. You knew about my sister and nobody, I mean nobody in Vermont knows about that. There's no way you could've known, unless...."
"I really am psychic?" I finished for him. I backed off my hostility by half, realizing Beach was a decent guy. "I don't read minds. I tap into strong emotions and then things just come to me. Obviously your sister's death still bothers you or I would've never picked up on it."
"Yeah, well, that's what convinced me."
I looked into the sack and sighed. "There's a very good chance I won't get anything from this."
"Try." The urgency in his voice surprised me.
I sat on one of the wingback chairs, took the empty bottle out of the sack and studied it. The label was wrinkled, like it had been soaked and had dried unevenly. Traces of black fingerprint powder still clung to it. I held it in my hands, rolled it between my palms, closed my eyes, and waited for something to happen.
"Well?"
I frowned. Hazy, indistinct images began to coalesce in my mind. "I'm not sure. I feel like it's somebody ... here. Someone who—" Then, like a camera lens focusing in, I recognized the aura of the person who'd touched the bottle. Sudden anger boiled within me. "What do you know about our little friend Adam? The guy who found the body with me?"
"Do you think he killed Eileen Marshall?"
"I don't know about that, but he's the one who planted this in my room!"
"Are you sure?"
"Look, you wanted me to get something—that's what I got."
He took it from me, putting it back in the bag. It was his turn to frown. "Let's have a chat with him."
I followed Beach to the kitchen where the budding chef was taking a baking sheet filled with chocolate chip cookies out of the oven. "Hi. Nothing better than cookies still warm from the oven."
"Nice as that sounds, that's not why we're here." Beach opened the sack and withdrew the scotch bottle. "Do you recognize this?"
Adam's expression soured. "No," he said, turning away.
"Interesting," I commented, "considering you planted it in my room."
He whirled, his tone icy. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"A polygraph test would tell us if you're lying," I said, not knowing if the Stowe cops even had such equipment.
"Come on, Adam, we know," Beach said quietly, a great bluff. The younger man looked away, his expression bitter. "Adam?" Beach prompted.
"I—I did it for Susan."
I nearly blew a gasket. "You what?"
"I was afraid she'd get in trouble. I know she argued with Ms. Marshall—told her that she had to leave. I thought the police might think she killed her. Susan's my friend. I had to do something to protect her."
"You knew the old lady was dead before I came downstairs. You found her when you went to retrieve the towels, didn't you?"
"I'm always the first one in every morning. I check to see that all the night chores are done. I noticed the towels weren't in the hamper and that the pool lights were still on. So I went outside. That's when I saw her. I didn't know what to do. I saw the booze bottle floating in the water and stupidly picked it up. Then I realized what I'd done and figured I'd get in trouble. So I hid it in the kitchen."
"That was some acting job you did when I came down," I said.
"How would
you
like to find a dead person?"
"I thought I did!"
"Cut it out," Beach ordered.
"Hell, no. Somebody tried to kill me, my lady's in the hospital, and my car was destroyed!" I turned back to Adam. "Where were you last night about eight-thirty?"
"Hey," Beach protested, "I'll ask the questions."
"
He
pushed me down the stairs—that's assault.
He
tampered with evidence. Who knows what else he's capable of doing."
"I got scared—I didn't know what to do," Adam said, sounding as frightened as he claimed.
I whirled on him. "So you attacked me?"
Reluctantly, he faced me. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I felt bad when I saw you lying there in a heap. I heard a door open and that bitchy Mrs. Andolina came running out. She took your pulse and made sure you were breathing. I figured she was a nurse or something. Then everybody else came running up from downstairs and I hid in one of the empty rooms until everything calmed down. Then ... I went home."
"What were you doing here at night? I thought you worked mornings," Beach said.
"Sometimes when I don't finish my work during the day, I come back in the evening.”
"I'm sure the Dawsons will be able to confirm or deny that." Beach's intense gaze made the kid look away.
"Okay, I had to get rid of the booze bottle."
"Why did you pick me?"
"I told you. I didn't want anyone to think Susan could've killed her."
"What if she did?"
"She wouldn't," Adam insisted. "I thought if you did it, the cops would figure it out. If you didn't—you wouldn't be in any real trouble."
"Thanks a lot."
"Are you going to tell Susan?" Adam's voice was quiet as he looked over at Beach.
"It'll probably come up," Beach said.
Adam's shoulders slumped. "I'll get fired."
"That could be the least of your troubles. Obstructing justice is a crime."
Feeling no sympathy for the kid, I turned on my heel.
"Do you want to press charges?" Beach called after me.
I turned. "What's he liable to get for it?"
"He's got no record. Probably just a slap on the wrist.”
"Then there's no point," I growled, and started off again.
"Are you planning to hang around today?" Beach asked.
"I'll be here until dinner time," I called over my shoulder and headed upstairs. My blood pressure was on the rise, making my head pound. I rounded the top of the stairs and nearly slammed into Richard.
"Whoa! What happened to you?"
"What do you mean?" I growled at him.
"Your face is beet-red. You look like you're about to have a stroke.”
I exhaled loudly, balling my fists, ready to explode.
He grabbed me by the arm. "Come on, let's take a walk."
It took a couple of minutes before I calmed down enough to give him a coherent version of what had happened. We followed the trail behind the inn, pausing by the creek where Adirondack chairs and a table and benches had been placed for guests to enjoy the vista.
"Sit," Richard invited.
I flopped into the chair and winced at jarring my stiff neck. "How do you always stay so calm?"
"I haven't been pushed down stairs, implicated in a murder, involved in an accident that totaled my car, or nearly lost my significant other in the past twenty-four hours—definite stress inducers. Besides, I was trained not to panic in emergency situations. It comes in handy at times like these."
I watched the rushing white water. The creek was fifteen or twenty feet across, and no doubt the rain the night before had contributed to its fast-running pace.
"Adam said something interesting. When I was lying unconscious at the bottom of the stairs, Kay Andolina seemed to know what to do. He thought she might be a nurse. But you said she talked your ear off about her medical history, so that doesn't seem to wash."
"Maybe she's had some first-aid training," Richard suggested.
I got up, too restless to sit. "Maybe."
Richard took a last look at the scenic view and stood. He pointed to the trail and we started off again. "What do you get from her?"
"Nothing. Just that she's an old witch."
"No, to me she seems ... troubled."
We left the clearing, following the trail into the woods. I thought about his assessment of the woman. To me she seemed aloof, judgmental, particularly toward Maggie, but that was purely a gut reaction. "She did open up to you, didn't she?"
Richard nodded. "She's compassionate enough to worry about birds with broken wings ... that kind of thing. Does it matter? Do you suspect her?"
I shook my head. "No."
As we strolled along the shaded path, I found my anger had cooled. The winding trail eventually led to the inn’s namesake, a huge sugar maple tree. We passed under it and walked toward the fishpond, heading for the drive. An old Toyota and a battered Ford pick-up truck were parked on the grass—probably the hired help's vehicles. I’d bet Susan didn't pay either of them enough to live on.
We turned the corner and came upon the open garage. Garden tools, an industrial-sized snow blower, snow shovels, and more of Susan's surplus collectibles filled the space.
"Maggie would love to poke around in here," I said, taking in the boxes overflowing with chipped pottery, broken lamps, and old books. Mismatched chairs hung Shaker style from pegs on the wall. Something caught my attention; an old milk crate filled with license plates. I pushed my way through the stack of boxes, crouched down, and flipped through them, knowing what I'd find: Colorado FWP-284. Though rusty, it also had new scratches around the screw holes.
"What's that?" Richard said.
"The plate from the four-by-four that forced me off the road."
"Why would someone put it here? Why not just leave it on the truck?"
"The truck was stolen. I'll bet the plate came from right here in this box and was put back this morning."
"Who had access to the garage?"
"My guess is everybody at the inn. Or maybe it's here for the same reason the scotch bottle was in my room."
"A plant?"
"Exactly. And that means the killer isn't finished trying to pin the blame."
"On whom?"
I love how Richard speaks so grammatically correct. "How about Zack, or Susan—or both?"
"Or one of them could be trying to pin the blame on the other." He thought for a moment. "Who here would know how to hot-wire a car?"
"Ted Palmer or maybe that rocket scientist with the bimbo."
"I'd lay my money on Ted."
I straightened. "I've got to find out what Eileen knew about Laura Ross. I need to get into their room and rifle through her stuff."
"Isn't that just a little illegal?"
"So is framing an innocent person for murder. Besides, it's only breaking and entering if you're caught."
"The police have already searched the inn. If they'd found something incriminating, wouldn't they have confiscated it?"
"Not if they didn't know what they were looking for?"
"You've lost me.”
"It's like that scotch bottle. The cops saw it as just a plastic bottle. I knew Adam had handled it. I might get a whole wealth of information just by touching Laura's things." I smiled at a new thought. "Have you got any more of those latex gloves in your little black bag?"
"It sounds like aiding and abetting to me. What's your plan?"