Room At The Inn (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) (12 page)

Great, now
we
were somebody's case.

She patted my shoulder, wished me luck and left me alone.

Time dragged.

My heart pounded endlessly. Could that much adrenaline pumping through you for hours on end be detrimental?

Half an hour passed and Richard hadn't reappeared.

That was okay. If he were with Maggie, he'd make sure she got the best care ... professional courtesy and all that.

I looked down at myself. Maggie's blood stained my shirt and pants, making me look like I'd dived into the slops of a slaughterhouse. I got up and asked the woman at the reception desk where to find the men's room, then staggered off in that direction.

Leaning against the counter, I avoided looking at my reflection in the mirror. As I washed the blood from my hands, my gaze strayed. Red-rimmed eyes looked back at me. My stiff neck and chest ached like I'd gone nine rounds with a heavyweight champ. I raised my shirt. Red and purple welts—the beginnings of bruises where the seat belt had saved me—were livid.

I'd survive.

I shuffled on unsteady legs back out to the waiting room and sat as far away from everyone as I could. I couldn't concentrate to read the out-of-date magazines. I couldn't watch whatever nonsense boomed from the TV attached to the wall. I avoided the eyes of the other people waiting for word on their own loved ones or friends. My head ached and I couldn't think, and it was all I could do to keep from crying. For Maggie, for me, for this whole convoluted mess we were in.

Eons passed.

Like a tape on a loop, in my mind I replayed the image of Maggie lying so deathly pale in the back of the station wagon. Her eyes closed, her hair matted with blood.

Should I call Brenda? What would I tell her? That her best friend was hurt. That she might die.

No, I couldn't put her through that kind of worry.

I'd let Richard do it ... later, when the crisis wasn't so close at hand.

So I sat there. Trying not to think. Trying not to feel. I couldn't manage that either. Instead, I tried to numb my thoughts by staring at the floor, counting the tiles, reciting my times tables. Everything and nothing occupied my mind. I leaned back in my chair, idly rubbing the back of my sore neck. I wanted a drink, no matter how badly my head would pound for it. A nice warming glass of bourbon—

Then I remembered that nice, tall, stiff gin and tonic Richard had made when we'd gotten back from the police station earlier in the evening. Could that comforting drink have impaired my reactions enough to nearly get Maggie and me killed? If I hadn't had that goddamned drink, could I have steered out of the skid? If I'd never taken a sip, would Maggie be bumped and bruised but otherwise okay? If the lady cop had given me a Breathalyzer test, could I have passed it?

Yes, damn it! I knew my limits. I knew the legal and moral ramifications of driving drunk. And after my ordeal at the police station, it would've taken a hell of a lot more than one drink to numb my reflexes—not to mention my anger.

At the time of the accident I was stone, cold sober.

If I owned any guilt for this, it was because I hadn't listened to that feeling of warning every time I passed that spot in the road. Why hadn't I investigated an alternate route into the village? Why?

It was a long time before Richard, dressed in pale blue cotton scrubs, finally walked through the double doors into the waiting room. Instantly on my feet, I met him halfway.

He rested a hand on my shoulder. "They've got good people here. She lost a lot of blood—has a nasty muscle tear—but she's going to be okay.”

I could've cried with relief; instead, I hugged him. "Thanks. I can't tell you—"

He pulled back and looked me in the eye, looking haggard. "
This
is why you needed me to come to Vermont, right?"

"I think so ... yes. I ... just—she would've died if you weren't there for her. Thanks, Rich. Thanks for saving my lady.”

He brushed aside the comment and clasped my shoulder. "She's got a concussion. They're going to keep her for a few days. Are you okay?"

I rubbed the back of my neck. "I think I got whiplash. I don't care. Can I see her?"

"Just for a minute. Come on." He led me back to one of the curtained treatment rooms.

Maggie lay on a gurney with an IV in her arm; a unit of blood and some other bag filled with clear liquid hung overhead. A blanket was drawn up to her chin. I searched under it for her other hand and her eyes fluttered open.

"Were you trying to scare me to death?" I asked her.

"Are you okay?" she whispered, taking in my bloodied clothes.

"I'm fine—it's you I'm worried about.”

"Richard took care of me. He held my hand the whole time. He made me feel safe." Her voice was so quiet, so strained. She squeezed my hand ever so slightly. "Will you bring me some clothes so I can get out of here?"

"Sure. I'll be here first thing tomorrow.”

A nurse tapped me on the shoulder. "Sir, you'll have to leave.”

"Okay." I turned back to Maggie. "I gotta go." I kissed her. Her skin still felt cool to the touch. She wouldn't let go of my hand.

"I gotta go, Maggs," I said again, and reluctantly pulled my hand free. "I’ll see you in the morning.”

A tear seeped from her eye. I dabbed it with the corner of the blanket before turning my back on her, feeling like a monster for leaving her alone.

I couldn't look back.

Richard waited for me in the hall. "Come on, Dr. Wimberly's going to check you out before we go.”

"I don't need—"

"No arguments." He grabbed me by the elbow and steered me to an empty treatment room.

A couple of x-rays later I, too, was dressed in clean scrubs—my bloody, bio-contaminated clothes discarded—and was released from the ER. Though bumped and bruised only, I still felt lousy.

"Do you want to stay in town tonight? If we can find a place," Richard amended.

I glanced at my watch, shocked to find it was after one. "No. I have to bring some clothes up for Maggie in the morning anyway. Do you think you can find your way back to the inn?"

"I expect so. Come on. You look beat.”

We headed for the car. The rain came down hard, that steady downpour that makes flowers grow in the spring. But this was early fall; the flowers would die at the first hint of frost.

I handed Richard the keys and maneuvered myself into the passenger seat. I remembered the bloodstained rug in back and idly wondered what the rental company would charge Richard for a cleaning fee.

Moments later we were on the road, heading south back toward Stowe.

The thump, thump of the windshield wipers was hypnotic. I must've fallen asleep, for the next thing I knew Richard was nudging me awake. I blinked, taking in the inn's familiar parking area and the line of cars I recognized. Of course there was no black Blazer sitting among them.

"You ought to stand under a hot shower for a few minutes," Richard suggested.

"We don't have a shower.”

"I do—and I've got two double beds. You can bunk with me tonight.”

I opened the car door and just about every muscle in my body screamed as I struggled to stand. Richard had to steady me as I staggered to the front door. It was locked. Richard leaned on the bell and it wailed somewhere in the quiet, darkened inn. Nobody showed up for what seemed like ages. Finally the lights came on and a bleary-eyed Zack shuffled to the door, clad in a fluffy, white terrycloth bathrobe like the one Eileen had worn the night she was murdered.

"Do you know what time it is?"

"Somewhere around two o’clock," Richard answered easily, pushing past the startled innkeeper.

"We have rules—" Zack sputtered.

"Take a look at us. Do we look like we've been partying?" I asked.

Zack finally noticed our hospital costumes. "Good God! What happened?"

"I had a little accident." I didn't have the energy or the patience to explain it to Zack—I just wanted to crash. I started in the direction of Richard's room.

"Good night," Richard said, ever polite, and followed in my wake.

I leaned against the wall, waiting for Richard to find the key and unlock the door. He went in ahead of me and turned on the light. I stepped into the room, saw the bed and made a beeline for it.

"Oh no you don't—get in that shower," he ordered, grabbed my arm, and led me to the bathroom.

"I just want to sleep.”

"You won't be able to move tomorrow if you don't.”

"It'll wake the other guests.”

"Well, one of them is a murderer anyway. Besides, in case it escaped your attention, little brother, that same person probably tried to kill you and almost killed Maggie tonight.”

I met his angry gaze.

"I'll try to stay in the shower for twenty minutes.”

Too tired to stand, I think I only lasted five.

By the time I toweled off and staggered into the bedroom, I found the bed turned down and Richard gone. A note on the pillow read:
Went downstairs to call Brenda. Back in a few minutes.

I found two Tylenol and an empty glass on a tray sitting on the bedside table. I poured water from the carafe, downed the pills and hit the sack.

As I drifted off to sleep, I thought about what Richard said. One of the other guests was probably a murderer.

Either that, or one of the inn’s owners.

"Jeff—hey, come on, wake up."

I squinted up at Richard looming over me. My head ached. Every muscle in my body protested at the slightest movement. I closed my eyes, burrowing back under the covers. "Go away."

"They're shutting down the kitchen in fifteen minutes. If you don't get up now, you won't eat."

"I don't care."

"Yes, you will. Besides, Maggie will be waiting for us.”

That, at last, made an impact on me.

I remembered Maggie's frightened, crystal blue eyes boring through me with such trust back in the emergency room the night before. I promised to be there for her—that I'd bring her some clothes. I'd felt like a heel at leaving her.

I managed to rouse myself, feeling hung over and sick to my stomach. The thought of greasy eggs and bacon made my stomach roil. "I can't eat."

"Yes you can. Listen, I'll go down and get you a muffin and some fruit. Get in that shower, or I'll throw you in when I get back." His voice was stern and I had no doubt he'd carry through with his threat. The door closed behind him.

Richard was right. I needed to eat; I needed to take my medication. I had to get rid of the headache or I'd find myself cowering in a dark, silent room all day, and I couldn't afford to waste that kind of time.

Straightening, and then walking, proved an ordeal. Evidently Richard had gone up to my room, for I found a clean change of clothes on the vanity in the bathroom. It took nearly ten minutes in the shower before the hot water eased the aches down to my bones. I'd hoped the cloud of steam would clear my head as well, but things were still a muddle when I emerged.

Richard waited for me in the bedroom, flipping through an old copy of Smithsonian magazine. As promised, a breakfast tray sat on the coffee table in front of the loveseat, along with a muffin, a banana, and a small carafe of coffee. Richard's prescription was simple: "Eat."

"Thanks. Thanks for getting the clothes, too."

He moved to sit on the chair adjacent to me. "The police really did a number on your room."

"My God, that's right. It'll take me an hour to straighten it out."

"It's okay. I got most of it back in order."

"What time did you get up?"

"About seven. You were dead to the world. I was the first down to breakfast, too. I apologized to Zack for coming in so late last night, and explained what happened to Maggie. Susan seemed quite concerned."

"She's probably worried the article won't get finished."

Richard frowned. He isn't half as cynical as me.

"Thanks, Rich. I don't know what I would've done if you weren't here."

"Until we got to the hospital—until I knew she was okay.... I was worried that I'd made the wrong decision, that I—"

I started working on the muffin's paper wrapper. "What are you talking about?"

"The way we got Maggie out of the car wasn't exactly by the book."

"We had to get her out. The fire—"

"I know. I was afraid she'd bleed to death, and yet I didn't know how serious her head injury was. If her neck had been broken...."

"Don't dwell on it, Rich. There was no time. We did what we had to do and she's going to be fine."

He nodded. "You're right. You're absolutely right."

Then why did he look so guilty?

I took a bite of muffin and remembered something Richard had said the night before. "What did you mean when you said Eileen's murderer tried to kill Maggie and me last night?"

He looked up, surprised. "You're the psychic. You mean you don't think these incidents are connected?"

"Yes, but—"

"First someone tries to implicate you for Eileen Marshall's murder. Next they push you down a flight a stairs, then ram your car. I'd say someone's serious about getting you out of the way. Now what did you see or know about the murder that can expose the killer?"

"I don't know."

"Well, you'd better think about it."

I poured the coffee, doctoring it with milk from a small metal creamer. I dug in my pocket for my prescription bottle, shook out a pill, and downed it with a sip of coffee. Some things just didn't add up.

"How'd you find us so fast last night, anyway?"

"I decided not to change clothes after all, just grabbed a sport jacket and headed for the restaurant. I didn't see the car that ran you off the road, but as I came round the bend I saw headlights down the embankment. I didn't know it was you until I stopped."

"Thank God you did."

"Now I want some straight answers.”

I didn't like his tone.

"Jeff, you knew something wasn't right—that's why you asked me to come to Vermont. Why didn't you come home? Why did you stay here?"

"Because ... this was Maggie's trip. I couldn't ask her to leave." Not exactly an articulate defense.

Richard stared at me, his worried frown like a judgment.

"Besides, what if I'd been wrong? What if being wrong blew Maggie's chance at another magazine article? She doesn't want to be a secretary for the rest of her life. She wants to write. How could I spoil it for her on a dumb feeling I wasn't even sure about?"

"Because you trust those feelings."

"Maybe I don't trust them as much as I think I do. As much as I should."

"Maybe none of us listens to our survival instincts like we should," he admitted. "I didn't want to believe in this psychic ability of yours, but we both know it works."

"Then maybe you'll believe me when I say that I just can't walk away from this crap. It holds me prisoner." I wasn't explaining myself well. "If I'd gone home, I would've gotten the same insights—the same feelings, and what I know would've forced me back here. Like it forced me to go to Buffalo with you after I was mugged in Manhattan."

"'There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy,'" Richard misquoted. "Okay, no more guilt trip. But Maggie won't be up to traveling for a couple of days, which means we're stuck here. At least she'll be safe at the hospital—away from this place."

"Then you really think we're in danger?"

"Don't you?"

I nodded wearily. "I guess so." I peeled the banana and broke it in half. God, I really wasn't thinking clearly. Was it some kind of delayed reaction? "What do we do next?"

"It's your call."

"See Maggie. Tell her we're going to leave her up in Morrisville alone ... she'll love that."

"Jeff, she could've died. She needs complete rest for a couple of days. And coming back here is not conducive to the peace and quiet she needs."

"That sounds very logical. But she's Irish, like our mother, and you don't want to mess with those fightin' Irish genes."

"I'll talk to her. We'll get her a TV, make sure she's hooked up to a phone. It's not like we're abandoning her. We'll go see her this morning and later we'll have dinner with her."

I mulled it over. What he said made a lot of sense, and I was more than content to let Richard try to sell Maggie on the idea. He could probably pull it off, too.

I drained my cup and stood. "I'd better go up to the room and figure out what to take to her."

"Meanwhile, I'll take this tray back downstairs and meet you by the car." He dug in his pocket. "Here's your key."

"Thanks.”

The stairs seemed steeper, and I found myself slowing as I neared the top but there was no one there.

The door to our room swung open and I saw that thanks to Richard's efforts a certain degree of order had been restored. The bed had been put back together, with the spread drawn up and smoothed over the pillows. Though Richard would never make it as a domestic, our clothes were neatly folded in piles on top of the bed.

I sorted out some things I figured Maggie would need, putting them in her overnight bag. The camera equipment was stacked neatly on top of the trunks, looking none the worse for wear. I replaced each piece in its foam packing and wondered if the cops had made the mess before or after they'd found the scotch bottle. Had they done as thorough a job on the other guests' rooms, or had I been singled out?

The thought bothered me.

Grabbing the overnight bag, I shut the door behind me and hurried downstairs, turned the corner, and headed outside.

"Jeff?"

It was Susan. No way did I want to talk to her. If it hadn't been for her, we never would've come to Stowe. I would've been home in Buffalo, my car intact. I'd be grilling hot dogs for lunch instead of heading for a hospital, in a strange town, to visit Maggie.

She came to the screen door. "Jeff, the doctor said he was going to drive you to the hospital."

"Yeah."

"Please tell Maggie how sorry I am that this happened. If there's anything she needs—"

I tried to swallow my anger at her phony display of friendship. "Sure. I'll tell her." I turned and walked away.

Richard waited for me by the Buick.

"Let's get out of here," I said. He took the bag from me and put it on the back seat. I levered myself into the passenger seat. He got in, started the engine, and pulled onto the highway.

As we neared the accident site Richard slowed the car, pulling over to the side of the road. "I thought you might want to take a look.”

I made no comment as we inspected the area. No more bad vibes—not a damn thing. If not for the scorched grass and the tilted power pole, no one would ever guess what had happened there the night before.

I faced him. "Let's go."

Hospitals are the scariest places on Earth. But the neat brick building looked a lot friendlier in the light of day than it had in a downpour the night before. We paused at the reception desk to get directions to Maggie's room. Next we stopped at the tiny gift shop for a teddy bear and an African violet in a little ceramic pot before heading up to the second floor. Maggie had a private room, no doubt at Richard's request. A huge floral arrangement sat on the bedside table.

"Hey, someone beat me to it," I said in greeting, eyeing the vase filled with cheerful chrysanthemums and carnations.

"They're from Brenda and Richard. Aren't they pretty?"

Maggie sat up straighter in bed. Her stringy hair, lack of makeup, and a pasty skin tone made no difference to me. She looked absolutely beautiful.

I leaned down to kiss her. She hugged me, wrapping her fingers in the folds of my shirt—reluctant to let go. "I brought you some company," I said, and managed to escape her embrace. I put the plant on the table and handed her the sad-looking, little blue bear.

"He's so cute. I'll bet his name is Roger."

"As a matter of fact, it is.”

Richard stepped forward. "How're you feeling, Maggie?"

"Better, but I've still got an awful headache. If yours are anything like this, Jeff, you have my sympathy."

I gave her a half-hearted smile.

"Did you bring my clothes?"

Richard held up the overnight bag.

"Great. I can't wait to get out of here."

"I don't think you're going anywhere, love."

Maggie's blue eyes narrowed in betrayal. "What?"

"Did the nurses say you were being released today?" Richard asked.

"No, but—"

"If you were my patient, I'd insist that you stay for a couple of days at least. You were involved in a very serious accident."

"Yeah. The car didn't survive," I told her.

"The car was totaled?" she asked.

"It blew up like an H-bomb."

She leaned back against the pillows, suddenly a lighter shade of pale. "But I don't want to stay here by myself. I want to go home—to Buffalo."

"We still haven't been cleared by the cops. But it won't be so bad. We'll get you fixed up with a TV and a phone—"

"I can't afford even that. My purse—it was in the car."

"Rich will take care of it—"

Her gaze darted to my brother, her voice hushed. "I can't ask—"

"Maggie, please let me do this."

She looked away, her hand gripping the bedside rail, her knuckles going paper white. Her sorrow, grief and embarrassment rolled over me. Unprepared, I gasped, groping for the other bed rail to steady myself.

Richard was suddenly beside me. "Jeff?"

I waved him aside, trying to take in a lung full of air. "I'm ... okay."

Maggie looked at me, wiping her nose with her free hand. "What's wrong?"

I swallowed. "Don't ... ever say ... I don't know ... how you feel.” My throat felt like it was closing, making it hard to speak. “Right now ... I know exactly ... what you're feeling."

Her eyes squeezed shut and she bit her lip as the tears overflowed. The onslaught of renewed emotion constricted my chest.

Richard grabbed my elbow and hauled me up off the chair, steering me toward the door. "Go take a walk while Maggie and I talk."

My proximity to Maggie was a definite influence—with every step away from her, my breathing eased. "I'll be back."