Murder on the Candlelight Tour (11 page)

The van's radio was on. "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" played, a song I generally detest, but I was in a super good mood this morning so I sang along as I drove merrily homeward. There's nothing like being kissed to put a girl in a good frame of mind. I had to agree with Nick: my life runs more smoothly when our relationship is running smoothly. Although our major problem--me getting mixed up in his case--didn't get resolved last night, at least when we kissed goodnight, we each had a better understanding of the other.

I pulled into my narrow driveway. Homes in the historic district come on tiny lots. My driveway is a rarity; most residents have to park in the street. Rachel's Jetta sat at the curb in the shade of a live oak. I wondered how she'd managed to get her car away from her foul-mouthed boyfriend.

I parked in the porte cochere -- another rarity -- and went around to the back of the van to fetch the box of doorknobs.

It was then that I noticed that the side door to my house was standing open. But Rachel was here, I reasoned, so she could have left the door open while she carried in paint supplies. Yet a worry nagged at me: maybe it's that evil Eddie, robbing me blind. How had he got in on Monday anyway?

Yesterday I'd called ADT to order the installation of a security system. And I'd called the locksmith to have all the locks changed. The soonest they could get to me was next week. Christmas is a busy season, they explained. Must be all the Christmas presents need protection from the Grinches.

I approached the door but some sixth sense caused me to hesitate. Christmas music from Rachel's portable radio flowed through the house. So she was here. "Rachel!" I called, yet still hung back.

Behind me, Nun Street seemed unusually quiet. I glanced up and down the street and saw no one. Every instinct I possessed warned me that something was wrong.

They say when you come home and find your door standing wide open, you should go to a neighbor's house and call the police. But I wasn't about to create further problems with Nick. Yet what if Evil Eddie was in there with Rachel? What if they'd quarreled again and he'd hurt her? I recalled the malice in his eyes when he'd lifted his hand to strike her. If I hadn't stopped him, he would have hit her.

The common sense thing to do, I told myself again, is to call 911 and wait for the police to arrive.

But what if Rachel's hurt? What if she needs me? "Rachel!" My voice sounded strained in my own ears. The house felt odd, giving off strange vibrations. No cars in the street. No neighbors in their gardens. Usually, there's some activity down by The Verandas B&B. Not today. At noon, my neighborhood seemed to be asleep. The innkeepers' car was missing from their driveway. Only a black Mercedes was parked at the curb.

I pulled out my cell phone, punched in 911, gave the dispatcher my name and address, and reported, "My door's standing wide open and I think something's wrong. I know I shouldn't go in there, but my friend's inside, maybe hurt. I've got to check on her. Please, send a police car right away."

The dispatcher repeated what I already knew, "Don't go in the house. Wait for the police. Stay on the line."

I held the phone to my ear and waited. I was about to yell for Rachel again when I thought better of it, decided it was safer to remain silent. If someone was in there, let him think I had gone.

Images of Rachel lying bleeding or unconscious changed my mind. Silently, I crept into the back hall, sidling along the wall that adjoins the library.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw something flash toward me. I whirled to face whatever it was, saw a blurred figure flying toward me, arm upraised. I screamed.

From a distance I heard the dispatcher call, "Ms. Wilkes. Ms. . . ." Then nothing.

Someone was in pain. A woman was moaning. Then I remembered. Rachel. Rachel's hurt. Where is she? Why am I lying on the floor? Why is Nick leaning over me, calling my name? Then I realized I was the one who was moaning. Pain in my head split it apart. All I wanted to do was slip back to that blissful place Nick was determined to pull me from.

He wouldn't let me sleep. He slapped my wrists and repeated my name. He sounded desperate. "Hold on, Ashley. Stay with me, baby. Don't close your eyes. Look at me, Ashley. Look at me!"

I tried to do as he instructed, but my eyelids wouldn't cooperate. Through thin slits, his blurry face drifted in and out.

"The ambulance is here, Ashley. Just hold on. You're going to be all right. Stay with us."

How worried he sounds, I thought.

Then another face, a paramedic's, hovered over mine, spoke calmly to me, took charge. I felt a blood pressure cuff being wrapped around my arm. Heard the puff, puff, puff, as it was inflated, felt its squeeze.

"Let's roll," a voice said. "On my count. One, two, three."

Hands lifted me off the floor, and a hard board was pushed under me. Then the board seemed to float through the air with me on it, and people were running with me out through the door, past my van to the ambulance beyond.

Sunlight struck my eyes. The glare knocked me out.

Curtains enclosed my hospital cubicle. Nick and I were alone inside. Doctors and nurses had come and gone; now we waited for test results. So far, no one had told me anything. My head felt like a baseball a slugger had used for batting practice.

Nick clung to my hand. I wanted to squeeze his but didn't have the strength. Just talking was a great effort. "Rachel? Is she all right?"

His chin dropped onto his chest. He closed his eyes. This was the real Nick. The Nick I loved. "You've got to tell me." Then I realized what I'd just thought.

His eyes locked onto mine. There was pity there and something more. "I'm sorry, baby. She didn't make it."

"She's dead? Murdered?" Like Sheldon?

"The M.E. has to confirm it, but, yes, it looks that way. Head wounds. Sweetheart, please don't cry." He dabbed at my eyes with a tissue. "Try not to cry. You'll only make your head hurt more."

He leaned close. "I wish I could put my arms around you, but I don't want to jostle you."

"It'll be confirmed," I whimpered. "Oh, Nick, what's going on?" Sheldon's dead. Rachel's dead. He tried to kill me too. But I fooled him. I survived. I'm going to get you, I promised. Whoever you are, I'm going to get you for killing my friends. "Tell me. It's hard to talk. Don't make me ask."

He straightened up, wrapped my hand in both of his. "She was struck like you were. We haven't found the weapon yet. It's possible she fell and hit her head, but no one believes that."

I studied him through half-closed eyes. He was suffering. He's a good man, I thought. "Thanks," I whispered.

"She probably surprised a burglar. You too."

I whispered, "No. Eddie."

"Who's Eddie?" His voice became alert, prickly, and he dropped my hand.

"Boyfriend." Shallow breath. "Bad news. Tried to hit her." Deep breath.

Nick pulled out a notebook and scribbled in it. "Does he live with her?"

I blinked. Even that hurt.

At least Binkie's off the hook, I thought. What a way to prove Binkie's innocence, for poor Rachel to have to die.

"I'll find him," Nick promised. "Now, don't worry. Try to stay calm." He lifted my hand and pressed it to his lips.

What a paradox you are, Nick Yost, I thought. He had removed his suit jacket, loosened his tie, rolled up his shirt sleeves. His shoulders were magnificent, but his weapon was an intimidating presence in the small, sterile cubicle.

The curtain swept back and the emergency room doctor stepped inside, a nurse peeping over his shoulder as he read my chart. "How are you feeling, Ms. Wilkes?"

"Awful." Shallow breath. I was nauseated. Earlier I'd had a brief bout with vomiting. "I'm warm."

"That's because your temperature's slightly elevated. But your blood pressure is down and your pulse rate has slowed. All good news." He passed my chart to the nurse, crossed his arms. "Okay. Here's the deal. The CT scan shows only a mild concussion. I want you to lie as quietly as possible, and keep your shoulders and head elevated. I don't want you moved for a while so we're going to keep you here until evening."

"You're not going to admit her?" Nick asked.

The doctor stared at Nick's gun. "She doesn't need to be admitted. Trust me. Besides, we're full up. This is the flu season."

He put a hand on my shoulder that was supposed to make me feel reassured. "The nurse is going to bring you something for the pain and the nausea. Sorry I couldn't give you anything sooner. And keep that ice pack on the bruise. We've stitched you up, so there shouldn't be any more bleeding.

"You're going to have a doozie of a headache for a couple of days. You'll have to take it easy. No driving, not until we check you out again. I'll send you home with a prescription. Now that the CT scan results are in, we can start you on meds. Something very mild. I know your head hurts."

He gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "So, stay calm. Get some rest. I'll be back in about an hour to check on you."

He turned to Nick. "Okay, I know you've got questions for her. You can ask them, but only if she feels like talking. The medication will make her drowsy. She'll drift in and out."

He was gone, disappearing as swiftly as he had come.

"Do you feel up to answering a few questions, Ashley?" Nick asked. "Did you see who hit you? Was it this Eddie?" He drew up a chair, his pad and pen ready.

"No, I didn't see him." Shallow breath. "Just movement. A flash."

He scribbled in his notebook. "I was hoping you got a good look at him. The forensic team is collecting evidence at your house now."

Shouldn't you be there too, I wanted to ask.

"Another detective is handling things. It's more important for me to be here with you."

I'm more important than his work, I thought, glimpsing heaven. I tried to smile, couldn't, reached for his hand instead.

"We'll talk later," he said.

A nurse in a pink pants outfit bustled in. She gave me pills from a tiny paper cup. The medication worked quickly and magically. I was fading, the tiny cubicle receding. I drifted off, feeling safe with Nick watching over me.

His angry voice woke me and I blinked back to wakefulness. Through half open eyes I saw him in the corner of the cubicle, back to me, shoulders squared, rigid as a cardboard cutout. His cell phone was pressed to his ear. "I don't care if there are ten thousand fingerprints in her house, I want every one of them lifted and identified! Take a flea comb to that house. I don't want anything overlooked."

Irritably he snapped off the phone. "No one messes with my girl," he growled.

Velvety sleep dragged me down. A goofy smirk play across my lips. His girl. I was Nick's girl.

I dozed. The ER doc came and went. Each time he said I was doing fine. "Rest," he advised, the pressure of his hand on my shoulder now a familiar gesture. Had they given me tranquilizers? Something very mild, he'd said. Once when I opened my eyes, I thought I saw Jon and Binkie waving to me through the curtain's flap. The next moment they were gone. I lost all sense of time, falling in and out of light sleep.

The next time I awoke, Melanie and Lisa Hamilton were whispering at the foot of my bed. Nick was gone. Lisa was nodding at something Melanie was saying, all the while studying my face. Seeing me awake, she asked sympathetically, "Hi, Ashley. How are you feeling?"

Melanie pushed past her, her face the picture of concern. "Oh, baby sister, how are you?"

"Groggy," I mumbled. I didn't mind her calling me baby sister. I took her hand. "Thanks for coming."

"Wild horses couldn't keep me away."

Where's Nick, I wondered. And what is Lisa Hamilton doing here?

Melanie fussed over me, straightening the blanket. She reached to adjust the pillow. "Don't touch me!" I cried.

She jumped back, offended. "I was only trying to make you comfortable." She looked like she was going to cry.

"It hurts to move my head," I explained.

Lisa moved in closer, peering at me. I didn't want her here. I started to tell her to leave.

"Lisa has some questions to ask you, shug," Melanie gushed, shooting Lisa a warning glance.

"Where's Nick?" My head was swimming.

"He had to go to your house to supervise the homicide team," Lisa said.

Melanie kissed my cheek. "Look at those awful bruises! How could anyone do that to you?" Tears welled up. Her green eyes shimmered. "You might have been killed."

Poor Melanie. "Guess I have a hard head," I joked feebly. I caught Lisa staring at us, like we were an alien species. An odd expression crossed her face. In the blink of an eye, it was gone. She's jealous of Melanie and me, I realized in a flash. What delicious irony, I thought, for here I am jealous of her and Nick.

"What do you want?" I asked. She was the last person I wanted seeing me like this. I could imagine how I looked: bruised, dopey, flat on my back. My one consolation was that Nick was not here to see us side by side, to compare the difference.

"I know you're feeling badly, Ashley. I'm sorry to put you through this, but there's a press conference scheduled for the evening news. I tried to put them off until tomorrow, but you know how the media are. They're clamoring for information about the murders. Two murders in four days in your house--well, you can understand." Her tone was appropriately sympathetic and professional, but under it I sensed she was being patronizing, as if I had somehow brought this calamity on myself.