If She Should Die (19 page)

“Patricia Prince! Don’t you look lovely today!”

Patricia stopped slowly, gazing at a man exactly her height with thin white hair, bulging pale blue eyes, and a nose turned large and red by acne rosacea. “Thank you, Dr. Holt. It’s hard to know what to wear in weather like this—one day cool, the next warm and sunny.”

“Camel’s hair is always a fine choice. Except in the dead of summer, of course.” He snickered at his own feeble joke. “Are you visiting a patient or here on behalf of some of your charitable works?”

Patricia looked at him sharply. She was not involved in any charitable works. Was he insulting her? No. He looked blandly amiable.

“I’m here to see Miss Ireland.”

He frowned. “Miss Ireland?” Then light dawned behind the pale blue eyes. “Oh, your ward.”

“My husband’s former ward.”

“Yes. Quite a nasty blow she took to the head. I don’t suppose you know the details of what happened?”

Patricia raised an eyebrow. “She didn’t tell you?”

“She didn’t go into specifics. I’m sure she will when her nerves have settled down. And, of course, I didn’t push her for information. I was more concerned with her medical condition.” I’ll just bet you were, Patricia thought. Holt had a reputation as a gossip. He was fishing for information, the more salacious the better. “A policeman was here,” he informed her in a confidential tone. “Not Sheriff Teague. Some flunky deputy.”

“I’m certain Christine told him everything anyone needs to know.”

“Christine? Oh, Miss Ireland.” He reached out and touched the sleeve of her jacket. “Such a stylish cut. Did you get it in New York?”

“Downtown.” Patricia tried not to flinch away from the man. She knew he was being friendly because Ames had saved his son from a prison sentence he probably deserved. Holt also fancied himself a ladies’ man, although how he could keep up that illusion after one glance in the mirror amazed her. He made her flesh crawl.

Patricia caught a glimpse of Sloane Caldwell coming down the hall. She thought he might stop to talk and rescue her, but he merely smiled, nodded, and headed for Christine’s room. Meanwhile, Patricia realized Dr. Holt was staring at her. Years ago, before she’d married Ames, gossip had linked her to this smarmy little man and she’d been appalled.

“How is Mrs. Holt?” Patricia asked.

“Uh, fine. As usual.”

“And your sons?”

“Fine, fine. Doing well in their respective colleges.”

“That’s wonderful,” Patricia said sweetly. She couldn’t stand Holt, but she didn’t need another enemy in this town. After Eve Prince’s death from an overdose of sleeping pills, people had said Patricia had been a careless nurse, not keeping track of Eve’s medication, letting her hoard pills. Then Patricia had married Ames six months after Eve’s death and they’d said even worse about her. Not about Ames, of course. Ames, they said, had acted hastily in a haze of grief.

They’d been right about the reason for Ames’s proposal. What they hadn’t known was that Patricia had discovered Eve’s hoard of pills and taken them away from her two days before her death. Giving in to Eve’s desperate pleas, though, Ames had retrieved the pills and helped his wife take the overdose to end her suffering from rampant and agonizing pancreatic cancer. If it hadn’t been Patricia’s day off, townspeople would probably have said Patricia murdered Eve to get her out of the way. But Ames had let everyone know Patricia hadn’t been in the house all day when his wife died. And later he’d confessed to Patricia what he’d done. She’d always kept his secret, and although she was not in love with him—had in fact only married him because of the security he offered her—she would never betray his confidence.

“I take it you have a much better relationship with this Kathleen person than you did with Dara,” Dr. Holt was saying.

“It’s
Christine
, and yes, I do.” That was certainly an exaggeration. Patricia had never argued with Christine as she had with Dara, but she’d resented the intrusion of her and Jeremy into the household because it had made an already tense situation even tenser.

Now, though, Patricia wished she’d been friendlier to
Christine over the years, because she needed a confidante. Patricia was not certain what made her sure Christine had good sense and might know how to help her out of the mess she’d gotten herself into lately. Maybe it was because Chris had always seemed older than her years. Maybe it was because she’d always acted so sensibly and responsibly. Or maybe it was because Patricia was just desperate. But it was far too late to mend fences now.

“Christine isn’t as high-strung as Dara,” Patricia went on to Dr. Holt. “And I’m not her stepmother. Dara never liked the fact that her father remarried.”

“Very selfish of her.” Holt peered at her. “I’ve heard about Dara’s remains being found. So tragic. Has the family any idea of who is responsible for the poor girl’s death?”

“No, and my husband has requested that I not discuss it.”

“Certainly that makes sense. Still, the situation must be hard on you.” He gave her a fondling look. “Very . . . upsetting.”

“Yes.” She wanted to scream at the man to stop gazing at her lasciviously, but instead she forced another pleasant smile. “You’re so kind. You always have been.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh my, look at the time! I’m running late as usual. It’s been wonderful seeing you again.”

“And you, too, my dear. Perhaps we could get together sometime for coffee. Or better yet, a relaxing drink at some quiet little place—”

“Sounds fabulous,” Patricia flung over her shoulder as she hurriedly stepped away from him. “And say hello to your lovely wife and those handsome grown-up sons of yours for me!”

She didn’t see Holt’s scowl that followed her down the hall.

“Good God, Chris, you look dreadful!”

Christine grimaced. “Sloane, if people don’t stop telling me how bad I look, I’m going to get a complex.”

“Sorry, sweetie.” He still called her “sweetie” in spite of their situation. They had remained amicable, if not close, ever since their break-up. “You know I wouldn’t deliberately hurt your feelings.”

“And I appreciate the sentiment, even if you did just tell me I look dreadful. Are those flowers for me?”

“Yeah. I saw them sitting at the nurses’ station and swiped them for you.”

“And they just happened to be yellow roses, my favorite!” He laughed and handed the arrangement to her. She sniffed them and sighed in delight. “Thank you, Sloane. A whole dozen. They must have cost the earth.”

“Just a small token of my esteem and my extreme gratitude that you’re all right.” He took the arrangement from her, set it on the bed table, and drew closer to the bed. “I’ve been instructed by my lord and master Ames Prince not to ask any questions about what happened this morning, although I must tell you that already the Winston rumor mill has you at death’s door.”

“Far from it, no matter how bad I look. But I guess there’s little hope that Jeremy won’t hear about it.”

“I think he can be kept in the dark at least until tomorrow. And by then you’ll be home. Won’t you?”

“So they say. I can’t wait. I hate hospitals.”

“I remember. Not too fond of them myself.”

Sloane reached out and gently touched her hair. “Poor girl. What a hell of a thing to happen to you.”

There was nothing romantic in his touch—only sympathy—but Christine suddenly felt self-conscious. In
her diary, Dara had said one of her lovers was S.C. Christine was convinced S.C. was Sloane. She couldn’t help picturing him locked in a wildly sexual embrace with Dara. She felt her face turning red from either anger or embarrassment; she wasn’t sure which.

“Chris, you’re looking kind of strange. Do you want me to call a nurse?”

“First I look dreadful; now I look strange,” she said with an attempt at lightness. “Your visit is cheering me up immensely.”

“Sorry. You always said I didn’t have the soul of a poet.”

“I did not!”

“Yes, you did, one night when you’d had too much wine and insisted on reading someone called William Wadsworth to me.”

“Wordsworth. My favorite poet. You were bored senseless. I believe you dozed.”

“I never doze. I’m always the life of the party, the one full of loud, pointless stories. The one with the lampshade on my head while I do the jitterbug or burst into a rendition of ‘Great Balls of Fire.’ ”

“You the life of the party?” Christine laughed. “I think not. You’re too concerned with making the right impression.”

“You make me sound like a colossal dud!”

“Not a dud. Just . . . correct. A gentleman right out of a Henry James novel.”

Sloane grinned. “Now you’re teasing me, which means you’re all right.” He bent and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “I’m so happy you’re not seriously hurt. When I consider what
might
have happened to you—” He broke off. “Try to get a good night’s sleep. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

The night seemed interminably long to Christine. Her head hurt, the coarse sheets scratched her legs, her hospital gown kept twisting around her waist, and the nurses seemed unaware that patients were supposed to be getting some sleep. They talked and laughed in normal, or what seemed above normal, voices at the nurses’ station. When they weren’t talking, they were slipping in to make sure she was sleeping comfortably, their rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the tile floor. By one in the morning, Christine felt like screaming.

Eight more hours of this and I can go home, she thought in near-desperation. I’ll be comfortable in my lovely house with music playing and my soft-furred cat following me around, and I’m going to bake a pan of cinnamon rolls to go with my morning gourmet coffee. What flavor shall I choose? Stockholm roast? Kenya? Vanilla nut?

Half an hour later, Christine’s body had begun to slow from the sheer strain of the last two days. Her mind drifted from one unfinished thought to another before she heard a ghostly rumbling somewhere deep in the night. Another storm, she thought dismally. More cold water and dreary days.

The sharp ring of the telephone startled Christine from her dreamy dread of the coming storm. As she tried to lift heavy eyelids, she prayed the call was not from Jeremy, who by now had probably heard she was in the hospital.

She slowly lifted the receiver and mumbled, “Christine Ireland.”

Silence spun out for a moment. But not complete silence. She detected a faint whirring sound. Mechanical.
A sixth sense threw her on instant alert. “Christine Ireland’s room.”

Abruptly a young woman’s voice sounded in her ear. A familiar voice. The hair on Christine’s neck rose and she felt as if she were sinking in cold, dank water as she listened, mesmerized, to Dara Prince singing in a weak, lost voice:

“Everywhere I go
Dark eyes peer at me.
I wish they meant me love,
But I know they desire me harm.
I want to live long and full,
But sadly, I am certain that
All too soon, death waits for me.”

“Miss Ireland, you can’t leave until Doctor signs your release papers,” a sturdy nurse said for the third time. “If you leave without his approval, your insurance company might not pay your claim.”

“Then
I’ll
pay it. I just want out of here and you said he won’t show up for at least an hour. I cannot
stand
this place for another hour.”

“I believe if you’ll just take some deep breaths and stop pacing—and by the way, the back of your gown is open—you’ll feel calmer.”

Christine whipped around to look at her exposed backside. Was making someone wear a hospital gown with only a couple of flimsy strings attached to hold it together in back a special form of torture? She sat down hard on the chair.

“That’s good,” the nurse said in the soothing voice she might use on a toddler. “Now, don’t we feel better?”

“Oh, just peachy!”

The nurse ignored Christine’s sarcasm. “And look! We
have a lovely breakfast. We’ll feel even better when our tummy is full!”

“Maybe you will. I won’t.”

“Now, now—”

“Now, now, yourself,” Christine snarled.

The nurse sighed. “You’re such a pretty girl to be such a trial. I’m sure your mother would be embarrassed by your behavior. At least drink your coffee.
Please
.”

Christine glowered at her, but the mention of her soft-spoken, ladylike mother, Liv, pulled her up short. Liv certainly
would
think her daughter was being a complete bitch. After all, it wasn’t the nurse’s fault Christine had been scared witless last night.

After the phone call, she’d lain stiff with anxiety until dawn. She’d longed to ask for help, but help for what? An anonymous phone call during which someone had played music? Not just music. Music with Dara Prince singing about someone wanting her dead. The remembered sound sent tremors of fear down Christine’s back, but she couldn’t explain to this definitely earthbound, no-nonsense nurse that a murdered girl had sung to her over the phone last night. The woman would think she was not only a bitch but also crazy. Considering the way Christine’s luck had been going lately, she’d end up in the psychiatric ward.

“All right, I’ll have some coffee,” she said. “I’m sorry I’ve been so cross, but has anyone ever thought of getting new mattresses for these beds?”

“The bed not as comfy-wumfy as the one at your house?” the nurse asked as she removed the plastic lid from Christine’s coffee.

Comfy-wumfy?
Did the woman always talk this way? “I have a back problem. I need a good mattress.”

“A good mattress is important, but a night spent on one not so luxurious won’t be the end of you.”

“My mattress isn’t luxurious. Just comfortable.”

“Yes, well, think of all the people who have no mattress at all.” And you should feel ashamed of yourself for complaining, the nurse clearly added silently. With a forced smile, she handed Christine the coffee. “We also have orange juice on the tray. Orange juice will give us energy.”

That’s all
we
need, Christine thought sourly. Energy. I’ll be able to worry more energetically. “You can have my orange juice. I don’t want it.”