Jingle Bell Bark (24 page)

“Carrie?” I said again.

I was already striding toward the back of the room when I heard the moan. Low and throaty, it sent a shiver up my spine and quickened my pace. I skirted the last row of files and saw her.

She was on the floor, lying in the aisle, half beneath her desk. One arm was outstretched as if reaching for help, the other curved protectively over her head. Only the slightest movement of her body indicated that she was still breathing.

Carrie's face was white; her eyes were closed. I saw that all in a glance. But what stopped me in my tracks was the blood. Thick and red, it was matted through her hair, smeared on her fingers, and splattered on the floor around her.

So much blood. I hoped I'd gotten there in time.

Fingers shaking, I punched nine-one-one as I knelt on the floor beside her.

“C
arrie?” I said softly. There was no response.

I'd already spoken to emergency dispatch. The police and an ambulance were on the way. Someone would be there in less than ten minutes, they'd told me.

How much good would that be, I wondered, when Carrie desperately needed help now?

My hand reached out to stroke the older woman's arm. Lying on the chilly floor, she felt cold and clammy to the touch. I didn't dare try to move her. Then I remembered there was a first-aid station next door. There'd be blankets there. It wasn't much, but it was something.

When I returned a minute later, Carrie was moaning again. She shifted her weight and her head tipped back, revealing an ugly gash above her right eye. Blood oozed from the wound in a steady stream.

Head wounds always bled like crazy; I seemed to remember reading that somewhere. Lots of blood didn't necessarily mean that the wound was serious. I leaned down and spread the blanket I'd found over her. Maybe Carrie would be lucky; maybe she'd simply been knocked out.

Even as I covered her, Carrie's eyelashes began to flutter. Her hand came up from beneath the blanket, reaching reflexively for the jagged cut on her forehead. I caught her cold fingers in my own and squeezed gently.

“Don't,” I said. “You've been hurt. Just lie still. Help is coming.”

“Whaaat ...” The word seemed to be dragged from her unwillingly; her voice sounded as though it was coming from a long way away. “... happened?”

“I don't know. It looks like somebody hit you.”

Carrie's eyes opened slowly. She stared at me for a long minute. “Melanie?” she said finally, sounding drowsy and confused.

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?”

“We were supposed to meet, remember?”

Carrie started to shake her head, then winced and lay still. “No,” she whispered after a pause. “I can't seem to remember anything.”

“That's all right,” I said. “You probably have a concussion. I came to the school this afternoon to see you. When I got here, most of the building was dark. Then I heard someone come running out of this office. He disappeared down the far corridor.”

“Who?”

“I don't know. I ran after him, but I wasn't fast enough. I never got a good look at him.”

“Someone was here in the office with me?” she repeated, frowning. “Someone hit me on the head?”

“Yes.”

“I don't understand. Why would anyone want to do that?”

“I don't know,” I said.

Carrie put her hands to the floor, palms down, bracing as though she meant to push herself up. Then she felt the stickiness beneath her fingers and hesitated.

“That's blood.” She lifted her hands and looked at them, staring as though uncertain whether they belonged to her. “Is it mine?”

“Your forehead's bleeding pretty badly. I called for an ambulance. It should be here any minute.”

“My head hurts.”

“I'm sure it does,” I said, as she maneuvered herself awkwardly into a sitting position. “Just stay there. Don't try to get up. Do you want me to run some cold water on a towel for your head?”

“No.” Carrie's eyes shut briefly as she grimaced against the pain. Then they opened again and found mine. “Don't leave me,” she said.

“I won't,” I promised. I reached out and covered her hands with one of my own. She felt incredibly fragile beneath my touch. “Is anything coming back to you?”

“A little, I guess.” She paused, then sighed. “It's still not very clear. I remember staying late to finish up a few things because you were coming to see me about something.”

I nodded encouragingly. “Henry Pruitt.”

“That's right.” Carrie managed a wan smile. “I didn't want to talk about him. But you surprised me when you called and I couldn't think up a good excuse fast enough....”

It seemed rude to press her when her defenses were down, but now she'd piqued my curiosity. “Why didn't you want to talk about him?”

“Why should I? What happened between me and Henry was private, personal. I'm sorry he died. Really very sorry, if you must know. But that's not something I want to share with other people.”

“So you were here in the office waiting for me,” I said. “Alone?”

Carrie thought back. “I think so. I mean, I must have been, right? It's not like anyone from the school would have done this.”

“Do you remember hearing anything? Seeing anyone?”

“No...” She shook her head slightly. “I don't know... Wait, I do remember something. I was getting a file out of the cabinet in the front of the room.”

She and I both turned to look. The top drawer was still rolled open.

“Then the phone on my desk started ringing. That's where the main office number rings and I remember thinking, who would be calling the school
now?
I wasn't going to pick it up. If it was a parent, they could call back tomorrow. But then I wondered if it might be you, calling to cancel, so I walked over to get it.”

“Who was it?” I asked.

“Nobody,” said Carrie. “Or maybe a wrong number. There was just a dial tone. And then...”

“What?” I asked after half a minute had lapsed.

“Nothing,” she said slowly. “Nothing at all. That's the last thing I remember until I woke up down here on the floor.”

“It sounds like someone distracted you with the phone and then snuck up behind you and hit you on the head.” I rose up onto my knees and looked at the telephone on her desk. The receiver was resting in its cradle. “Did you hang up?”

“I don't know.”

“Maybe the police can dust the receiver for fingerprints. Or maybe they can trace who made that last call.” My gaze went to her purse, resting on the blotter not far from the phone.

“By the way,” I said, “last time you saw your purse, where was it?”

“I keep it in my desk.” Carrie's hand lifted, finger pointing toward a bottom drawer that was slightly ajar. “It should be there.”

“It isn't,” I said. “It's on top of your desk.”

“Oh crap,” Carrie muttered. “So that's what this was about. What kind of world are we living in when you're not even safe in an elementary school? I probably didn't have more than twenty or thirty dollars in there. Who would hit someone over the head for that?”

Carefully, using a tissue I got from my bag, I picked up Carrie's purse and handed it to her. Finally, I could hear the wail of sirens, growing steadily closer. A sweep of lights played across the front windows of the building as the first of the emergency vehicles came flying up into the driveway.

“The front doors are unlocked, right?”

“Right.” Carrie was pawing through her purse. She didn't look up. “The cleaning staff arrives around seven. The building's left open until they get here. Then after they're done, they close up everything for the night.”

I stood up anyway, intending to meet the EMTs in the lobby and show them where Carrie was.

“My wallet's here,” she said, sounding surprised.

Almost to the office door, I paused and looked back. She'd flipped the billfold open. I could see credit cards in the sleeves. “How about cash?” I asked.

Carrie had already opened the wallet to check. I saw her reach in and withdraw something. Even from across the room, I heard the gasp of her indrawn breath. Leaving the office door open, I hurried back to her side.

“What?”

She was holding a small scrap of lined paper. As I watched, her fingers opened and it fluttered to the floor. Carrie's eyes rolled back in her head. I scrambled to catch her as she fell again.

The sheet of paper sailed gracefully to a stop, landing face up. I lowered Carrie down to the floor, then looked to see what had caused her to react like that. The message on the paper was brief; its words printed in black, boldfaced letters that stood out in sharp contrast to the white background.

I read it and felt myself go cold.

Consider yourself warned,
it said.

 

 

“Then what happened?” asked Sam.

He made an excellent audience, though he'd frowned through the entire section of the story where I'd been chasing Carrie's assailant through the dark school building. I couldn't say that I blamed him. What on earth had I been thinking?

“The police and EMTs came charging into the building like they thought they were U.S. soldiers liberating Baghdad.” I said, pleased to move on to an easier topic.

I'd arrived home earlier to find Sam cooking dinner in my kitchen: steak and potatoes, his favorite kind of meal. At some point he'd spoken with Bob and they'd decided between them that Davey was going to spend the night with his father. When, I'd wondered briefly as Sam sat me down and fed me dinner, had my fiance and my ex-husband managed to become not only friends, but also accomplices?

Sam had brought Tar with him. The big black Poodle, resplendent in his bright blue wraps, had been sacked out on the kitchen floor with Faith and Eve while we ate. All three had been rewarded with several pieces of steak when we cleaned up afterward. When Sam was planning to be away for any length of time, he hired a dog-sitter to come in and take care of his other Poodles. I was beginning to suspect he'd made such an arrangement tonight.

Dinner over, we'd moved into the living room and gotten comfortable. Sam doesn't always enjoy hearing about my exploits, so I'd been judiciously quiet about my day during the meal. Of course, he knows better than to trust my silences either. Little by little, he was dragging the story out of me.

“Carrie was unconscious again,” I said. “I told the EMTs what I thought had happened. They got her right on a stretcher and wheeled her out. Then I talked to the police for a while.”

Sam leaned back on the couch, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Anyone you knew?”

“No. They looked like two junior officers who'd drawn the short end of the stick and gotten stuck patrolling the backcountry.” As cities go, Stamford, especially the northern, residential area, is generally pretty quiet. “The excitement probably made their day.”

“I'll bet. You showed them the note?”

I nodded. “By that time, I'd slipped it into a baggie. And I told them to tell Detective Marley that what happened to Carrie might be connected in some way to Henry Pruitt's murder. I'm not sure they bought it, though. Especially since Carrie's purse was out and her cash had been stolen. I got the impression they thought it was probably just a kid looking to score some easy drug money.”

“Someone looking for an easy score wouldn't have hit her over the head,” said Sam.

“Nor would they have left a warning behind. Carrie told me she didn't want to talk about Henry. And Jenna Phillips said that the police never questioned either one of them. I hope Detective Marley does follow up and find out what Carrie knows.”

Sam looked thoughtful. “You'd have to think that if she knew anything about Henry's murder, Carrie would have gone to the police already. Unless she's involved in a way that she doesn't want anyone to know about.”

“Maybe the killer only suspects that she knows something,” I said, thinking aloud. “Something Carrie might not even be aware is important. What if she saw something when she was with Henry? Or maybe he spoke to her about something that he'd seen? Henry's job took him all over the neighborhood. And according to everyone who knew him, he was a real busybody . . .”

My voice trailed away. Sam's hand had reached across the small gap between us on the couch. His fingers were skating slowly up and down my arm, and I was finding it harder and harder to concentrate on Carrie's plight and Henry's murder. That was probably just what he had in mind.

“Rebecca Morehouse,” I said.

“What about her?” Sam smiled and leaned closer. His hand grazed my throat, fingers dipping inside the collar of my shirt. If he was paying any attention to what I was saying, I would eat my shoe.

“Henry wasn't killed while he was seeing Carrie,” I said, not without some effort. Sam's fingers were now working their way down my buttons. “He was killed when he was with Rebecca.”

“Fascinating,” Sam murmured. My shirt parted beneath his touch and he slipped a hand inside. Warm skin rubbed against warm skin.

I gasped softly. “Carrie can't talk, or she won't . . . maybe Rebecca will.”

“Not tonight,” Sam chuckled softly. His other arm curled around my shoulders and turned me to him. His thigh pressed against the length of my leg. His lips were only inches from mine.

“No, not tonight,” I agreed.

We had better things to do.