14 The Chocolate Clown Corpse (12 page)

“This is Lee Woodyard. Is this Mrs. Davidson?”

“Yes.” Her voice was weaker and more whispery than ever. “I must talk to your husband.”

“He wants to talk to you, too, Mrs. Davidson. Where are you?”

“I’m still in the hospital. They won’t let me out. Can I . . . Can I call him?”

“I’ll try to reach him and have him call you. What is your phone number?”

There was a long pause. “I don’t know.”

“What is your room number?”

“I’m not sure. They follow me if I leave the room, so I stay inside.”

“Is the number written on the phone?”

She didn’t answer, but I could hear her breathing softly.

“It ought to be on the telephone, Mrs. Davidson.”

“There are numbers, but I can’t read all of them.”

“Tell me what they are. Please.”

More silence. Oh Lordy! After all the time this woman had spent calling Joe, and all the time he had spent calling her, was she going to get away again?

“There are two I can’t read. Then there’s a four. And a three. Does that mean anything?”

“We’ll make it mean something. Joe has been trying to reach you. I’ll find him, and he’ll try again.”

“It may be hopeless. Moe may come back.” I heard a little noise. Surely it wasn’t a sob. “Or was that a dream?” She whispered the final words, then the line went dead.

I punched the number of Joe’s cell phone immediately. He hadn’t had nearly enough time to get to Grand Rapids; surely he hadn’t turned his phone off yet. But he didn’t pick up. I left a message on his voice mail.

Well, as my Texas grandma always said, there’s more than one way to skin a cat. (I never knew why anyone would want to do that, but that’s what she always said.) I decided to call Webb Bartlett—Joe’s friend, his boss, and his companion for this important meeting in Grand Rapids.

First I called Webb’s cell phone. No answer. Then I called his office. Darned if it wasn’t closed. His secretary must’ve been at lunch, and I didn’t know her cell number. I called the poverty law agency; Webb is often there, though his office is elsewhere. They hadn’t seen Joe at all. Webb had been by earlier to pick up some papers, I was told, and he was now on his way to Grand Rapids.

Finally I told the secretary there that it was desperately important that I reach Joe. “It’s a genuine emergency,” I said.

She sighed. “I understand, Lee, but he’s on a trip about a genuine emergency of his own, and it would take a miracle to reach him.”

But miracles do happen sometimes, I reminded myself. I had to keep trying. However, there was nothing to do right at that moment.

I decided that there was no point in my moping around the
kitchen telephone, so I put on my winter jacket and went to the office. I’d barely walked in when Joe called.

“Hi,” he said. “Andrea says you’ve broken a leg.”

It took me a moment to reply, so he spoke again. “Or was it some other emergency?”

“It’s not a painful emergency, Joe. The effusive Emma Davidson called again. I mean, elusive! The elusive Emma Davidson called.”

“Did she leave a message?”

“A few numbers, but they didn’t make sense to her or to me. She said she’s still in the hospital, but she doesn’t know what room. She seemed kind of dopey.”

Joe sighed. “Damn.”

“That sums it up. She also said it was important for her to talk to you.”

“Seems as if I’ve heard that before. But I simply can’t dodge this meeting today.”

“I understand. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I hate to make you skip your own work to do mine.”

“Oh, you know I hate to miss anything. I can work anytime. Like tonight.”

Another sigh. “I hate to ask you, but if you could try to find her in that hospital and talk to her, it would really help.”

“I’ll be glad to.”

Joe apologized again and said good-bye. And I went to poor, long-suffering Dolly Jolly and told her I had to do an errand for Joe. “I’m terribly sorry, Dolly. I’ll stay late tonight and get the payroll done.”

Dolly, as usual, shouted her reply. “It’s all right, Lee! I know you wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t important! By the way, you had a message!”

“What about?”

“That Montgomery woman called! She wants to talk to Joe, too!”

“Did she say why?”

“Nope! Just said something about leaving for home.”

“Hmmm. Well, I’ll tell Joe when I see him.”

I left for Holland humming. And all the way I tried to understand just why I was so pleased and excited about going there. I finally decided that I simply like being in the thick of things. I’m just a nosy woman. So live with it, I told myself.

Of course, I wasn’t sure I could do anything. I didn’t know how to find Emma Davidson’s room. She was likely to be in the psychiatric ward, and I knew that that sort of area is normally closed to the public. I wouldn’t be able to simply walk in, the way I had walked into the room she had been in earlier. But I had to give the direct approach a try.

So I parked in the hospital parking lot, took three deep breaths to pump up my confidence, and walked into the hospital. I went straight to the volunteer at the desk, the one charged with giving out information to visitors.

“Emma Davidson, please,” I said.

The volunteer, a gray-haired woman, consulted her computer screen. “Yes, here she is—oh. I’m sorry. We don’t have a patient by that name.”

“That’s a disappointment. Her son told me she was here.”

The volunteer looked flustered. “I can’t give out any information.”

I leaned over confidentially. “Could you suggest a room number where she might receive mail? I’d like to send a card at least.”

She looked flustered again as she consulted the screen. “I am sorry. I’m not allowed to give out any information.”

“I’m sure her son would give it to me, but I hate to bother him.”

“I’m sorry.”

I looked disappointed and went away, but just as far as the hospital coffee bar. There I bought a cup of cappuccino, found a table, and plotted. And hoped I didn’t run into one of the security guards who had tossed me out earlier.

The first plan I considered was going into the hospital gift shop, buying the largest stuffed animal they had, and asking them to deliver it to Emma Davidson. I was sure they’d take it up to her, and I could follow the teddy bear.

Yes, that might work. But it would draw attention to me. The volunteer in the gift shop was sure to remember an almost six foot tall blonde, even in Holland, Michigan, where tall blondes are standard issue.

I filed that as a fallback plan and decided to work on the numbers Emma had given me: four and three. I’d begin by exploring.

I finished my coffee and took the elevator to the second floor.

This hospital wasn’t the size of Methodist or St. Luke’s, the facilities in the Houston medical complex where I’d visited relatives once upon a time, but it was too large to simply walk up and down the halls checking all the rooms—unless I wanted to spend all day doing that. I decided to start by assuming that the phone numbers were likely to have some relationship to the room numbers. Four and three.

The second floor housed the maternity ward. I already knew that, since I’d visited new moms there a few times, but I’d never noticed the pattern of room numbers.

I walked along casually until I saw an empty room—no bed, no patient, no name on the door. But it did have a telephone. I went in.

Hurrah! The phone number contained the final two numbers of the room number. I felt a thrill of pleasure and pumped my fist.

Then I wandered on down the hall. There was a room 0243 on that floor, of course. But the young woman in the bed was surrounded by family, and all of them were cooing at a new family member. In Spanish. Definitely not Emma Davidson. I went up the stairs to the third floor. No luck there either. So I climbed to the fourth. I did notice that there were restrooms near the elevator on each floor.

For nearly twenty minutes I wandered the halls, looking as inconspicuous as an ultratall woman can look. Finally I came to room 0643. Aha! There was no patient name on the door, and the door was firmly closed, unlike the doors of the empty rooms I’d seen elsewhere. Their doors had been standing open.

The room was also in full view of the nurse’s station. I waited until one nurse at the station sat down to work on some papers, and the other picked up the telephone. Then I peeked inside room 0643. I saw a short, plump lady sitting in what hospitals pass off as an easy chair. She was near the room’s closet, wrapped in a hospital blanket and looking worried.

“Mrs. Davidson.” I spoke softly.

“Oh! Mrs. Woodyard! I’m so glad to see a friendly face.” Tears welled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks.

I went in, closed the door behind myself, and knelt by her side. “I’m so glad to find you, Mrs. Davidson. What can I do to help you?”

“Get me out of here!”

Oh gee! That was one thing I wasn’t prepared to do. I was sure Emma Davidson was receiving mental treatment. If she left
the hospital and then committed suicide—I wasn’t going to be part of that. “But Mrs. Davidson—”

She clutched my hand. “Mrs. Woodyard, I’m not crazy. I did not attempt suicide. These doctors—even Chuck and Lorraine—everyone thinks I tried to kill myself. I did not!”

“Then what happened? Tilda VanAust and I found you unconscious.”

“I don’t know what happened. The last thing I remember is eating lunch—Lorraine gave me a Bloody Mary. I didn’t want to drink it, but she insisted. Kept saying ‘a little booze’ would relax me. Then I woke up in this hospital, with the doctors poking at me. But this morning I quit taking all the pills they keep giving me, and I’m feeling better all the time.”

She made a dismissive gesture. “That’s not the main problem. I’ll get hold of my own doctor, back in Indiana, and he’ll tell these strange doctors that I’m not suicidal. But I can’t ease my mind until I talk to your husband.”

“Unfortunately, Joe is in Grand Rapids this afternoon. It will be evening before he can get back.”

She dropped her head to her hands. “They may have killed me by then! I’m so frightened! Since Moe attacked me—I mean the clown with the pillow—you’re the only person I can trust!”

I was almost sorry I had come. Her feelings seemed almost irrational, and I might be making things worse. But I couldn’t honestly tell Mrs. Davidson that the danger was just in her imagination. After all, I’d witnessed the attack by the strange hobo clown. I believed she was actually in danger.

Then I heard a noise at the door. Someone was coming. Emma grabbed my hand. “Get in the closet,” she said. “Quick.”

While she talked, she swung the closet door open. I jumped inside and closed the door, leaving just a narrow crack.

I was able to see the nurse who came in. He was a large man, wearing navy scrubs, of course, just like ones the nurses at the desk had on. He had black hair, the type that’s too black. It was obviously dyed. His eyebrows also were a deep black, though their color looked more natural. And he seemed familiar. Why? The phony color of his hair was so distinctive I thought I’d remember where I’d seen him, but I didn’t. Who could he be?

“How’re you doin’?” he asked. “Ready for your meds?”

His voice was deep and resonant.

Emma leaned her head back and half closed her eyes. “I guess so,” she said. Her voice sounded much weaker than it had when she’d been talking to me. But I was surprised by her remark; she’d just told me she wasn’t taking her medication.

The big man handed her a small paper cup, and I was surprised to see Emma take the pill in it docilely. The man then tucked her into bed, urging her to take a nice nap. Emma lay back, again with no argument, and the nurse left.

And the moment he was out the door I knew where I’d seen those black eyebrows. They were on the forehead of the man who had been unloading furniture at the address of P.M. Development, the company that had bid on the Clowning Around building.

Quite a coincidence. Could this be a nurse? Suddenly I doubted it.

I came out of that closet like a Texas prairie dog that had just discovered a rattler coming in the opposite end of its burrow.