One Foot in the Grape (13 page)

“Why are you wearing them now?”

“We wanted to see if we could cook and move around in them.” He tapped on his chest. “It's a little hard to walk in. I cut the pieces from the solid aluminum strips they use to make cookie sheets.” He pointed at his head, and the purple plume flopped in the breeze. “This was my silver bike helmet.”

“You look terrific.” I nodded my head toward the box I held. “Let me put this in my booth. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

Joyeux Winery was midrow on the first aisle. The winery
flag, a golden fleur-de-lis on a background of royal blue and burgundy, fluttered on the roof. The booths were covered with temporary weatherproof curtains to protect the contents between now and the festival. I pushed the corner open with my shoulder and turned to enter the tent, box first. The curtain closed behind me, leaving me in the dark. With my hands full, I couldn't grab the flashlight on my keys and I crept to the tables just ahead of me. As I felt the edge of the table with my thigh, something exploded against the back of my head. The pain was blinding, and I could hear glass breaking as the world tipped away from under my feet. I dropped the box, grabbed the edge of the table and landed on my knees. Through the roar in my ears, I heard a soft laugh. I tried to concentrate, but my eyes closed. A shove into my shoulder ripped the table from my grip and I fell to the ground.

Just before the world went black I heard a soft whisper. “Just like a bad penny, always turning up in the wrong place. Bad, bad Penny.”

“I
'LL
get some ice. Don't move her.”

“Of course I won't move her. I'm not the village idiot.”

“Penny, if you can hear me, try not to move.” It was Ross. “We couldn't find you, but your car was still here, so I called the police. Lucas should be here any minute. I would have made it to you sooner, but these tents all look the same with the curtains down. I only found you because I recognized your flag.”

A few moments later the front curtain was rolled up and the light hit the backs of my eyelids.

I blinked and saw Ross's worried face staring at me. Then the world swayed once more, sweat beaded my forehead and I shut my eyes against the wave of nausea that rolled through me.

“What happened? Your hair's wet. Is that wine?”

“Somebody hit me.”

His hand felt the back of my head. “They sure did. That's quite a lump you've got.”

“Lucas will want to see this. You were hit with a wine bottle.”

Thomas returned. “Here's the ice.”

Ross pressed the ice against my scalp.

I waited, reopened my eyes, and this time everything stayed in place.

“Should we call an ambulance too?” Thomas leaned on his sword to get a closer look.

“I don't need one. It hurts like hell, but I know who both of you are and who I am. No concussion. No ambulance.”

There were footsteps outside the booth. Lucas stepped into view and surveyed the scene before him: Ross dressed as King Arthur, Thomas kneeling before me in his knight's attire and me flat on my back.

“I see you found her.”

I hated to look foolish in front of Lucas, so I struggled to sit up. Lucas waved me back down. I wasn't feeling so great and was happy to fall back into the folds of Ross's robe.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded. Pain shot through my head and settled behind my eyes. The earth tilted.

“At the risk of sounding unprofessional, you don't look so hot. What happened?”

I told him what little I could while Ross and Thomas listened with rapt attention. When I finished, Ross joined in.

“She said she'd be back, but when half an hour had passed, I decided to look for her. There were only so many places she could have gone and I just knew something was wrong, so I phoned you.”

Lucas looked up from his notes. “Did you recognize the voice?”

“No. They spoke after they hit me, so I was hardly conscious. I only remember what was said because it kind of freaked me out, if you want to know the truth.”

Lucas boxed the bottle, soggy bits of our blue-and-burgundy wrapping paper still clinging to the broken glass. Hayley had prepackaged some of our bestsellers in case we got busy during the festival.

“You're lucky this bottle was gift-wrapped. Otherwise, you'd be on your way to the emergency room right now, having glass removed from your scalp.”

“If you say so, but lucky isn't exactly what I'm feeling right now, to be honest.”

“I do want you to go to the hospital.” He raised his hand at my protestations. “If you don't agree to go there immediately, I'll drive you myself after I get done here. Although I doubt I can get any prints off of this.”

Thomas, who still knelt at my side, looked around. “I don't understand how anyone could have known you were here. Were they just waiting in the dark?”

“My car is easy to recognize. Someone could have seen it coming down the back road.”

Lucas and I looked at each other. Anyone from the Martinelli house might have seen me. They could have walked down the path with plenty of time to get into the tent before me.

“We'll be talking to everyone here, but did either of you see anything that seemed unusual?” Lucas asked Ross and Thomas.

Thomas spoke first. “Well, I don't know about unusual,
but I haven't seen anyone that doesn't belong here, if that's what you mean.”

Ross nodded. “I was on the ladder hanging the banner and facing our tent. I didn't see a thing.”

I felt the back of my head. It hurt, but the skin hadn't been broken and there wasn't any glass. Lucas was right; I was lucky. I looked around the booth. Whoever had hit me hadn't been intentionally kind. The wrapped bottles were lined up on the counter and the easiest to grab. If someone was trying to warn me, they could consider the message received.

I signed the police report Lucas had filled out and handed it back to him.

“Go to the hospital.”

“I will.”

He just stood there.

“I can't believe you don't trust me.”

Lucas looked over at Ross and Thomas. “Follow her.”

In truth, my head was pounding, and I felt no compulsion to do anything else.

*   *   *

KASEY
Hospital is set into the hillside north of downtown. The land for the entire facility was donated years ago by a silent screen actress, and the facility has been operating for the last seventy years. Surrounded by redwoods and pines, the main building was brick and faced west, with large windows out toward the sea. To the right and behind a high chain fence was the Kasey Children's Home. To the left and behind an even higher fence was the Kasey Recovery Clinic. The hospital sat in between.

I swung into the parking lot, near the swings and slides for the Children's Home. The Sterling van pulled in next to me, and I rolled down the window.

“See, I made it. Thanks for the escort.”

Thomas leaned out, the silver-plated chest piece bright in the sunlight. “You were just lucky it was all side streets, otherwise we wouldn't have let you drive yourself. Do you want us to come in with you?”

He was getting stares from the kids on the monkey bars. “You're dressed like Lancelot.”

“Right. Call us later.” They pulled back onto the main road, my own private band of merry men.

I walked to the hospital entrance, watching the children on the playground. The little ones, jumping rope or on the swings, were bundled up in bright knitted caps and scarves, while the teens, ultracool in their low-waisted jeans, played basketball. All of the play sets appeared to be new, the rubber matting beneath the swings decorated with a jungle theme. Large murals of orange and yellow dinosaurs covered the outside walls of the cafeteria and dormitories.

The Children's Home worked with kids of all ages, some given up at birth, some removed from dangerous home environments. They lived here year-round and even attended school right at the facility. The home was a model example of how this type of establishment should work.

On the other side of the hospital, away from the children, were the bungalows used for drug and alcohol recovery. This facility was voluntary, and was one of several in the state preferred by celebrities from Hollywood. The doctor who ran the facility was the author of
And Now You Don't
,
a self-help book
that had spent ten weeks on the bestseller list. The bungalows looked like little bed-and-breakfast cottages, and the specialty treatment received there didn't come cheap. I thought of Chantal and the times she'd been here. Antonia had paid dearly to help her youngest daughter.

The double glass doors swung open with a blast of that same antiseptic smell of hospitals everywhere, and I walked to the admittance counter. A pretty receptionist reading a schedule looked up and smiled.

“Can I help you?”

On impulse I asked, “Is Doctor Brice Shapiro in today?”

She flipped through her paperwork. “He isn't scheduled until this afternoon at two.”

“Where's his office?”

“Room two fifteen. Did you have an appointment?”

“No. I took a fall and wanted this bump on my head looked at.”

“Oh, then you don't want Doctor Shapiro. He's a cardiologist.”

“Oh, that's right. He and my regular doctor have such similar names.”

Before she could ask who my regular doctor was, her phone rang. I slipped around the far side of the counter and down the hall.

I turned left, into the corridor that led to the nursery. Not having kids, these places made me jumpy. I hadn't heard any clocks, whistles or any other signs I'd ever need to be here myself. I got to be an aunt. It was like skipping to the good part.

This place looked nothing like the old maternity wards. According to the sign on the wall, this area was now referred to as the “Birthing Center.” Apparently, the latest trend was
that fathers were not only encouraged, but expected, to be active participants. The rooms along the hallway confirmed this. When doors opened, there were fathers and other family members, some with video cameras. Just a little too much information for me. Here I was averting my eyes while someone's uncle Clyde captured the whole thing on film. The viewing womb. I needed to get out of here.

The chemical dependency and birthing facilities had separate admittance counters but shared a common reception area. The commonality seemed to be stressed-out patients and the nurses who could handle them.

Although it was quiet in the rest of the hospital, it was hopping here. Voices were louder. Patience was shorter. Stephen had told me Veronica had never worked in this area. Good thing. I could picture it now: her foot tapping, the jangle of pearls.

To the left of the counter a nurse stood and flipped through a chart. She was in her late fifties and her name tag declared she was “Greta, Head Nurse
.”
I glanced at the birthing room to my right, peeked at the name on the door, scooted around the crowd at the counter, and went up to her.

“Excuse me, can you tell me where the Harrison room is? The delivery date is today and I know they're here, but I forgot the room number.”

“Suite one oh one, right behind you.” She pointed over my shoulder with her pen as she continued reading.

“Thanks. Oh, quick question. A friend used to work here, but I'm not sure if she still does. It was ages ago. Her name is Veronica. I think her married name is Martinelli.”

With a sigh, she lowered the chart to her side. “You mean Veronica Strand.”

“Yes, that's it. She wasn't married back then.”

She looked at me. “I guess you really don't keep in touch. She hasn't worked since she got married.”

“That's too bad. I'd really like to see her.”

Greta folded her arms. “Oh, she's still around, just as a volunteer. Behind the scenes. She doesn't spend time in the trenches anymore.”

“Right, she was a nurse, wasn't she?”

“I remember when she started working as a candy striper. She put herself through school and became a nurse.”

“You've got a terrific memory, Greta.”

“I've been around a long time.”

“I'd really like to see her again. How often does she come in?”

Greta shifted. “All volunteers work one day a week.” She raised the paperwork between us. Apparently the conversation was over.

“Okay. Great. Thanks for your help,” I said to the back of the chart.

Instead of backtracking, I walked around the other side of the counter and worked my way down the corridor. Because the hospital was a large rectangle, eventually I'd come back to the main entrance. I rubbed the back of my head. It still hurt, but at least I wasn't feeling any worse.

As I walked, I mulled over Nurse Greta's information. Veronica still came to the hospital. Brice was here on a regular basis. Chantal was too, although unfortunately for treatment. Did it mean anything?

I reached my doctor's office, Dr. Armstrong, which, of course, sounds exactly like Dr. Shapiro. Judy, the nurse practitioner, managed to squeeze me in and checked my pupils,
pulse and blood pressure and announced I might have a minor concussion and needed to go home and rest. Feeling like I'd fulfilled my promise to Lucas, I thanked Judy for her prediction I'd live and continued down the hall.

I stopped at the cardiology wing. I'd just go for a walk and see how things turned out. I rounded the corner. The offices were even numbers on the left, odd on the right. Eight offices down on the right, and I was outside number 215, Brice's office. There now. If I wasn't meant to find it, it wouldn't have been so damn easy. The door was open and the office empty. I looked up and down the corridor, but there wasn't anyone around. If I continued to stand in the hallway I was sure to be questioned. Hmm, what to do. What to do . . .

I scurried in and shut the door. That wouldn't work. If they found me in Brice's office with the door closed, the police would be getting a call. I didn't want to have that conversation with Lucas.

It worked better with the door partially closed. Just the desk and bookcase behind it were hidden from the corridor. If anyone asked, I could always say I was leaving Brice a note. I walked behind the desk and paused. His cologne was so strong, I could have found this office blindfolded.

I pushed the oversized leather chair back against the bookcase and scanned the desk. No pictures, mementos or personal touches of any kind. Just a keyboard and flat-screen computer monitor, turned off. There was also a white bust of Hippocrates, probably marble, on the corner. The words “First, Do No Harm” were engraved at the base. I bet Chantal could answer how much harm Brice was capable of.