Authors: Donna Fletcher Crow
“Well, young lady, how’s the headache?”
“Still there, but better.”
“We want to get some X rays of that lump on your skull to be sure there isn’t a hairline crack under it. But do you feel up to talking to a visitor first?”
“Sure.” Laura hoped he meant Tom, even if “visitor” was a strange way to refer to her husband.
“No more than 10 minutes,” the doctor instructed.
Then the freckled face of Officer Monaghan appeared over her. Actually, she saw very little but the top of his red curls as his head was hung so low. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. The chief will apologize officially, but I had to come first. This shouldn’t have happened. It was my fault.” He produced a handful of brilliant bronze and yellow chrysanthemums from behind his back.
“Thank you.” Laura tried to make her smile match the brightness of the flowers. “I’m not blaming you. I volunteered. But what happened?”
“We got stuck in the traffic when you made all those sharp turns.”
Laura wanted to nod, but motion still hurt her head. “Yes, I was looking for a parking spot.”
“We weren’t far back. We caught two of them, but one got away. There were three, right?”
Laura thought for a moment. “Yes, three.”
“And we recovered this.” He held out the replacement briefcase that had earned this world-class headache for her. “The one ran off with this but stashed it in a bin a few blocks away. A street-cleaning crew found it.” He placed it on the bed beside her. “When you feel like it, we’d be obliged if you’d go through it and tell us if anything is missing.”
“Not likely. It was just maps and stuff. I keep my money and credit cards in my pockets.”
“Right. Well, if you’d just take a look. Anything might give us a clue. I know you want this cleared up as much as we do. Do you think you could identify the ones we’re holding?”
“They were wearing ski masks.”
“Yes, I know, but maybe something about the way they stood, or their clothes?”
The nurse stuck her head in the door. “The doctor said—”
“Ten minutes, I know. I’ll be right out, Miss Nightingale.” He turned back to Laura. “Dr. Jenkins said you’ll be released this afternoon if your tests are satisfactory. We’d appreciate it if you’d stop by the police station—just see if anything jogs a memory.”
“You caught them in the act, isn’t that enough?”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But they will probably claim they were just passing—that the one who got away was the mugger.”
“I don’t know what help I can be.”
The nurse appeared in the doorway, but she didn’t have to say anything. Sgt. Monaghan turned to go. Laura wanted to ask where Tom was, but the effort was too much. She slid off to sleep again.
She was being wheeled, bed and all, to the X-ray lab when she next wakened. The joy of waking was that each time she felt brighter and her head hurt less. But then the poking and prodding seemed endless as more extensive tests followed.
Finally they took her back to her room and the only sight she really cared about. Tom. “Laura, how are you?” He was freshly shaven, but his eyes looked haggard.
“Much better. Tom, thank you so much for staying the night with me.”
“You knew?”
“Sort of. Off and on. But it helped a lot—knowing you were there.” She reached for his hand.
“I couldn’t have been anywhere else.” He squeezed her hand until it hurt, then dropped it. “I was so worried … Laura, I’ve got a lot to tell you—” An aide came into the room with fresh ice water. “But not here.”
Laura smiled. She wanted to hear what he had to tell her. But for the moment she was content just to lie there and look at the midday light on Tom’s features as he stood by the window: his straight nose, his chiseled cheekbones, and the light in his eyes—that was what was different. In spite of the dark circles, his eyes had a kind of gentle glow that could warm a room. Or a heart. Gone was the stern look of the Edwardian disciplinarian that she so often encountered. Yes, she was anxious to hear what he had to tell her.
“Well, you’re a lucky lady, Mrs. James.” Dr. Jenkins bounced into the room holding a clipboard. You have a hard head, young woman. There shouldn’t be any permanent harm from that encounter with a lead pipe. I’ll prescribe some painkillers for the headache, and you can go when you feel like it.”
“What about eating? Travel?” she asked.
“Eat all you can to get your strength up. You should be able to travel in a day or two—just be sure you’re over any light-headedness before you fly. Any other activities are fine—just do whatever you feel like with common sense.”
“I wasn’t planning to go bungee jumping.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.”
A short time later the nurse wheeled Laura to the door of the Royal Jubilee Hospital, and Tom helped her into the car.
“Well, as the saying goes—you never know when you start out in the morning,” Laura said as they pulled away from the curb.
Tom grinned. “That was yesterday morning. We’ll try to keep things a little more routine today. But do you feel like stopping at the police station? They told me they needed to see you.”
“Oh, yes. Officer Monaghan came up to see me before you got there this morning.”
Tom pulled up before City Hall with its high arched windows and distinctive clock tower and helped Laura out of the car. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”
“Might as well get the formalities over. I don’t see what help I can be, but I have to try.”
Laura supposed she would be asked to view a lineup—the sort of procedure one saw on countless television police shows. Instead, however, D.I. Snow received her formally with a very proper apology and ushered her into an interview room. A moment later Sgt. Monaghan brought in a tall, stooped man with red hair.
Laura bit her lip. Yes, maybe she had seen him before. Something about his posture, maybe? Or the ring in his left ear? No, she hadn’t seen his face before. And yet … But something seemed wrong. Backward.
She scribbled a few words on a slip of paper and handed it to the sergeant. “Have him say this.” She turned away so as to concentrate on his voice.
“That bag looks ’eavy, Lady. We’ll just ’elp you with it.”
Yes, the voice had the Cockney accent she remembered. But there was something else pulling at her memory. “It sounds the same, but—”
“Take him out. Bring the other one in,” Snow ordered.
The man turned toward the door, and the window in the top acted like a mirror, catching his reflection. “Oh! It’s him. The man in the mirror—at the castle. You were following me!”
“Prove it.” The man shrugged and slouched out ahead of Monaghan.
It was the slope of the shoulders that made another memory click like a slide slipping into a projector. The man sitting with his back to them at the Old England Inn. That was how they knew where she’d be the next day. She shuddered, thinking of being watched so closely.
A moment later the door opened again. Laura gasped. She should have known—all those “fortuitous” meetings—“ Monty!”
“Who?” Officers and suspect asked in unison.
Laura shook her head. “I don’t know his name. I thought of him as Monty because we saw that exhibit of the Canadian Mounties—”
“You—I told you to leave my wife alone!” Tom lunged.
But Snow was quick with his restraining hold. “Franklin Tiegs, this is. Ironic you should call him Monty—the RCMP have had a lookout for him for some time, but never could get any proof.”
“You still don’t have any.”
“You followed my wife all over Victoria like a lap dog!”
“That’s not a crime.”
“You put those drugs in her briefcase. How did you manage it?”
The accused clenched his square jaw.
“I think I know.” Laura spoke up. “I was too airsick to work on the flight. I put my case in the overhead bin behind me.”
“You knew customs might be watching you, didn’t you, Tiegs?” Snow approached the broad, dark-haired man. “So you picked on a lady so innocent-looking they’d barely glance at her passport.”
“I want to call my lawyer.”
“I think that’s an excellent idea.” The officer started to usher his prisoner out.
“Wait.” Laura stopped them. “What about Darren?”
“Darren?”
“Darren Larsen. The boy you put up to snatching my case yesterday.”
Tiegs shrugged. “Never heard of him. I’ll ask my lawyer if he knows him.”
Back in their hotel room Laura rested in bed with a tea tray on her knees before Tom pulled up a small chair and sat beside her. “Laura, I apologize. About that Tiegs fellow.”
“What do you mean?”
“The way I all but accused you of leading him on.
Well, he is good-looking—”
Laura laughed. “In an awfully rugged way. Not my type.”
“Yes, but if I hadn’t been so blinded by my distrust, I might have been able to put it together far sooner that you were in danger. As it was, every time you jumped at a shadow I thought you were trying to keep something from me.”
She nodded. “I know. And those hang-up phone calls—I thought they were Marla.”
“Laura—there’s so much I need—”
“Oh! Tom, I forgot. I promised I’d look through that bag. Hand it to me, please.” He reached over and set the case beside her. “Thanks. Even the police must realize this is silly, or they’d have had me do it at the station. Still, I promised.”
She dumped the contents on the green, flowered coverlet and began sifting through them: map, guidebook, newspaper, various pamphlets, notepad. No, just as she expected—all there. She tossed the notepad on the top of the pile and turned back to her tea.
“What’s this? This isn’t your writing.” Tom picked up the pad and examined the scrawl on the cardboard backing. The square-looking letters were printed boldly, written in haste, but pressed deep into the cardboard: SANCTUARY.
Laura frowned as she squinted at the block letters. Definitely not her writing. And a nearly new pad. Who had been making notes on her paper? And why? Then she noticed the much lighter scrawl beneath. “Tom, what does this say? Can you turn that light up?”
Tom took the notebook to the window and held it up to natural light. “I can’t read all of it, but that’s definitely a D. I’d think Darren had autographed your notes, but he didn’t have hold of the case long enough to write anything.”
“No. Besides, I just started that pad. The one I used at Anne Hathaway’s House is—” She gasped. “Wait a minute. Maybe he
did
have it long enough.” She looked at the scrawl, added almost as an afterthought following the carefully incised letters above it. It was as if Sanctuary was the message, but then the writer suddenly realized the word might be meaningless without his identity. “Could Darren have been the third man?”
“Wouldn’t you have recognized him?”
“I had less than a second. But suppose whoever put him up to taking my bag in the first place—”
“Not whoever. Tiegs.”
“Right. Has to be. Well, suppose whatever hold Tiegs has over Darren, he forced him into a second attempt. This time Darren didn’t drop the bag accidentally—he stashed it where he could hope it would be found—”
“And then ran off into hiding himself.”
“Right. Hiding from everybody—Tiegs, the police, Kyle—”
“Not from everybody, or he wouldn’t have bothered leaving a clue to his whereabouts.”
Laura nodded. “Kyle must be out of his mind with worry. Call him, Tom.”
“Do you think he’ll know what this means?”
“If we’re right about all this, Darren must have figured someone would understand it.” She slumped back against the pillows. Tom would take care of everything. She could just close her eyes and …
“Laura, I’m so sorry! I wanted to come up to the hospital, but they said you couldn’t have visitors.” Glenda bent over the bed and hugged her. “How are you?”
Laura thought for a moment, then smiled. “Fine. Starving. My headache’s gone.”
Kyle examined the note Tom showed him. “Yes, that’s Darren’s writing. What does he think he’s up to? How could he possibly be involved with a drug pusher? And to steal from you—twice! Believe me, when I get my hands on him—”
“No, Kyle.” Laura held out her hand. “He’s in some kind of trouble. He needs help.”
“He’ll need help all right when I find him. Can you make any sense of this?” He handed the pad to Glenda.
“Kyle, I know how worried you are about Darren,” Laura began, “but try thinking of him as one of your patients, not—”
“Oh!” Glenda stood pointing to the word on the notebook. “I know where he is.”
“You do?” Kyle looked amazed behind his silverrimmed glasses.
“Yes. He’s taken sanctuary in the church. You know—the medieval concept that a person was safe in a church if they claimed sanctuary.”
Kyle scowled. “How do you know that? How would Darren know about such a thing?”
“I took him to see
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
one night when you had to work late. He loved it. He talked a lot about the concept of sanctuary afterward—the idea of being really safe and accepted someplace.”
Kyle looked thunderstruck.
“He wants you to go to him.” Laura said it softly; this whole thing was obviously an enormous blow to Kyle. “He wouldn’t have left you the note if he didn’t want to be found.”
Kyle shook his head. “He left you the note.”
“Me?” Now it was Laura’s turn to be thunderstruck.
“He trusts you, not me.”
“My notebook was handy, that’s all.”
“No, it’s more than that. He’s hiding, asking for you. He could have come to me. He could have run home. I’d have given him sanctuary there. But he was afraid of me.”
“Would you have given him sanctuary? Or would you have lectured him?” Glenda asked.
Kyle shook his head. “I don’t know. I tried so hard to do it right. I know what all the books say. I can help my patients. But I fail with my own brother.”
“Maybe because you were trying too hard. Trying to do it all yourself,” Glenda suggested.
Kyle nodded. “The great, self-sufficient, all-knowing Dr. Larsen—Physician, heal thyself.”
“We should call the police,” Tom said.
“That would rather violate the whole sanctuary thing.” Laura started to get out of bed, then realized she was in her nightgown. “I’ll talk to him first. Then he can talk to the police.”