With a scream of the siren the ambulance was off, and I could finally go inside. Everything I had on was soaked through, and though the morning was not really cold, I was chilled to the bone. I stripped right inside the front door so I wouldn't get more water on my wooden floors than I absolutely had to-I could see the splotches left from my previous entrances and exits- and I sprinted upstairs to the shower to let the hot water wash the dirt and rain off. I dressed in record time, turning on the heat lamp in the bathroom to start my hair drying, and I plugged in my usual handheld dryer too; but with a mass of thick hair like mine, it took too long, and I drove to the hospital with damp hair that was curling and waving around my face like streamers of confetti.
I'd taken the time to use my emergency key to the Youngbloods' apartment to grab some clothes for Angel.
It felt very strange to be poking through her things, dropping the basic garments into a plastic Wal-Mart bag. I included shoes, a toothbrush, and a hairbrush at the last second.
Angel was sitting in the emergency waiting room at the little Lawrenceton Hospital, her hands folded and her face blank. She didn't recognize me for a moment.
"What have they told you?" I asked.
"Ahhh ... he's got a concussion, a bad one. He has to stay here for a few days." Her voice was expressionless, numb.
"He's going to be all right?"
"We'll see when he wakes up."
"Listen, then, Angel. . . are you hearing me?"
"Yes. I hear you." She was a pathetic sight. She was as wet as I had been, and she had pulled on Martin's raincoat over her wet clothes, so she was warm enough for the moment; but the damp was sealed inside the coat. Her blond hair hung in rattails down her back, and her feet were bare and streaked with dirt and bits of grass. The passivity of her strong body was so upsetting I had to retreat into briskness.
"I brought some clothes and shoes, and your toothbrush, and your hairbrush. Is Shelby in a room yet?"
"No, he's still in emergency. They brought in a portable X-ray machine, and since I'm pregnant I had to leave. They didn't even want me to put on the heavy apron, they wanted me out."
"Well. We're going to find out what room they're going to put him in, and you're going to go in there and take a shower, and by then the cafeteria here will be open, and we're going to go in there and eat."
Angel blinked. She seemed a little more aware.
"That sounds okay," she said hesitantly. "But no one will be with him."
"You don't need to watch him, they're doing it for you. He's going to be okay," I said soothingly. "Now, I'm going to find the admissions person, and see about getting all this started."
The "admissions person" was glad to see me, since she hadn't been able to get much out of Angel besides Shelby's name and his birthday. I gave the clerk Shelby's insurance program group number, the same as Martin's since they were both covered by Pan-Am Agra's group plan. I gave the clerk an address, next of kin, everything but Social Security number, and I promised her Angel would remember that after breakfast. By dint of being cheerful and persistent, I was able to get Shelby's future room number, and took Angel there, resisting the impulse to ask to see Shelby myself.
After fifteen minutes with Shelby's admissions hygiene kit, a hot shower, and clean clothes, Angel was a new woman, and after we talked our way into the employee cafeteria and she downed a plate of grits and sausage and toast, she was approaching normality.
It was while we were sitting there, Angel with another glass of orange juice and me with my third cup of coffee, that the deputy found us.
He was a young man I didn't know, dressed in a crisp uniform. He seemed concerned and wary, all at the same time. He introduced himself as Jimmy Henske.
"Do you have a relative on the town force?" I asked.
"Yes, ma'am, my uncle Faron. You know Uncle Faron?"
"Yes, I do." He'd questioned Angel the day before, Arthur had told me. Faron was a good ole boy, with a heavy Southern drawl and an unreconstructed attitude about women on the force and black people having power and money. But Faron was also a courteous and anxious man who had no idea he was biased and would swear on a stack of family Bibles that he was fair to one and all.
Jimmy had the family coloring and build. The Henskes tended to be tall, thin, and reddish, with high-bridged noses and big hands and feet (including the women). Jimmy was trying to pay courteous attention to his conversation with me, but his eyes kept straying to Angel. I sighed, trying to keep it quiet.
"Now, Ms. Teagarden, I understand you found Mr. Youngblood in your yard?" He'd torn his gaze away from her to begin his questioning.
I told him what had happened, said I hadn't heard any noises in the night (though with the wind and rain it would have been surprising if I had), and explained that my husband was out of town. Jimmy Henske instantly came to attention; if he'd been a bird dog, he would've been pointing his nose. Clearly, he was wondering if Angel had bashed her husband because Shelby was sneaking over to see me. Or perhaps (and his gaze swung my way) I'd done it when he'd tried to make advances to me?
I did my best to disabuse him of those suspicions by telling him that while Martin was gone, Shelby sometimes patrolled the yard, and that I was sure he must have been doing so the night before because of the incident of Madeleine's ribbon.
It was lucky Shelby had taken Madeleine in to Dr. Jamerson, I thought as I explained the incident to Deputy Henske, because it was confirmation that we suspected someone had been on my property.
Jimmy didn't know what to make of a prowler sneaking into the yard to tie a ribbon on Madeleine's neck, and to tell the truth, I didn't either; but I was glad to think the solution was his problem rather than mine.
After a confused-looking Jimmy Henske left for Spa-colec, his little notebook full of indecipherable squiggles, a nurse came to tell us Shelby was in his room, and conscious.
Angel was on her feet faster than lightning, and I put our trays on the appropriate rack and followed at a slower pace. She needed time alone with Shelby, and I had to call Pan-Am Agra and tell Martin's production head that he would be short a crew leader that day, and for several days following. I took care of that little chore, wondered if I should pick up Shelby's paycheck, and snapped to when an orderly eyed me curiously. I was standing by the pay telephone in the hall, my hand still resting on the receiver, staring blankly at the coin input slot. Lack of sleep was catching up with me as the emergency-produced adrenaline ebbed.
A glance at my watch told me it was all of eight o'clock by then.
It had already been a long day.
With a sinking heart, I realized I had to go in to work. With Beverly in the hospital, it was especially important for me to show up. I wondered how she was doing. Well, I was in the place to find out.
I went to the nurses' station and inquired about both Beverly and her mother, Selena. The nurse, a young woman I'd never seen before, told me briefly that both mother and daughter had died in the course of the night.
I sat in the waiting area for a while with a magazine on my lap, hoping no one would talk to me, feeling sick at heart.
When my mind finally began functioning again, I was almost sorry. My thoughts were all unpleasant ones. Could it really be a coincidence that Beverly Rillington, who had threatened Angel publicly, and Angel's husband Shelby had both been admitted to the hospital with head wounds in the same week?
Finally I roused myself to find Shelby's room, and knocked gently on the door. Angel stuck her head out.
"How is he?" I whispered.
"Come in."
Shelby looked horrible. He was asleep, but Angel told me in a low voice that the doctor had said he must not sleep long at a stretch. He had to be woken up periodically. There was a good reason for this, but my overloaded system didn't absorb it.
"He didn't see whoever did it, Roe, he doesn't remember anything since he ate supper last night. He didn't remember putting on his clothes and his raincoat, or why he thought he ought to go outside ..."
I stared at Shelby while Angel murmured on and on. She was chatty with relief now that she was reasonably sure Shelby was going to recover.
Shelby's face was stubbly with unshaven beard, a state I'd seen before, but the skin underneath the bristles was a distressing gray. The hair protruding from underneath the bandage was matted with blood and stringy from drying with rainwater on it. There was a huge dark bruise on his right arm, which Angel thought was a defense wound. Shelby had taken a blow on that arm defending his own head, but it hadn't worked a second time. One of his ribs was broken, too, Angel said... he'd been kicked when he was down.
I didn't have to look at Angel to know she would kill whoever had done this to Shelby if she could find him.
After a while, Angel ran down. She stood looking at Shelby as if her eyes could glue him to her, as if his life could not escape him if she were there to make sure it stayed.
I was thinking my own thoughts. Why hadn't Shelby heard the attack coming? He'd made his living as a bodyguard for years. He was tough and quick and ruthless. Had the sound of the rain and wind dulled Shelby's senses, so the approach of the trespasser was totally unexpected?
Or had he turned to see someone he knew, someone he did not think of as an enemy?
Chapter Seven
Normally, when Martin returned from a business trip I got to tell him about the kid who threw up on the Berenstain Bears book, or what the plumber had told me when he'd come to repair the hot water heater.
When he walked in the front door late that afternoon, I hardly knew where to begin. As it turned out, Martin had stopped at the Pan-Am Agra plant, so he already knew that Shelby was in the hospital. After his first anxious questions, he settled down to listen with that total concentration that made him such a good executive.
I think Martin was just as shocked by Angel's pregnancy as by Shelby being attacked in our front yard. And when I told him about the ribbon around Madeleine's neck and the deaths of Beverly and Selena Rillington, he had to get up and walk around the kitchen.
It was still raining, and I watched the drops hit the large window by the table where Martin and I usually ate, the window overlooking the side of the garage and the steps up to the apartment, as well as some lovely pink azaleas hidden now by the darkness. The drops might hit at random, but they ran down the glass with monotonous regularity. The rain increased my sense of being stockaded against the danger outside, besieged.
Martin strode through the dining room, out into the living room, back through the archway into the dining room. He circled the table and shot back into the kitchen again, stopping by the window to stare out into the blackness.
"Who sent the flowers?" he asked abruptly, and I glanced into the dining room to see that they were still in their vase on the table. A few blossoms were shriveling, and one or two bits of baby's breath had fallen to the polished surface of the old table.
The delivery of the flowers seemed so long ago I'd forgotten about it completely. Now, when I added it to my list of happenings, Martin gave me a sharp look, one that said effectively, "All this you didn't tell me over the telephone?"
Martin often reminded me of the Roman officer in the New Testament, the one who told Jesus that when he said "Go," people went, and when he said "Come," people hopped to it. Now, he was apparently trying to decide what he could do about this situation, and he was angrily seeing that there was nothing he could do.
"Do you think the little hospital here is the best place for Shelby, can he get the best care available? I could have him moved to Atlanta by ambulance." Martin looked almost happy at this prospect of action.
"I don't believe there's any need of that," I said gently. "Besides, the doctors here are very aware that the city hospitals have things the Lawrenceton Hospital doesn't have, and they would have sent him to the city without hesitation if they thought his situation warranted that. Plus, you know," I said even more gently, "that's Angel's call, not yours."
Diverted back to Angel's pregnancy, Martin said what I'd been dreading he'd say.
"I like Angel just as much as you, but don't you think it's stretching belief to have her turn up pregnant when Shelby's had a vasectomy? She worked out with Jack Burns and she's going to his funeral, but she blasted him in public when he gave her a ticket. And she didn't react at all when they turned him over the other day. I don't want to believe anything bad about Angel, but doesn't that all add up?"
"You know, Shelby asked me if I'd seen anyone else out here when he was gone," I said evenly.
"What'd you tell him?" Martin turned to me, hands thrust in his pockets to keep them still.
"I slapped the tar out of him." I looked at Martin steadily, blocking my faintly guilty memory of Shelby's embrace from my mind, so he couldn't read it in my face.
Martin looked back at me, eyebrows up in surprise.
"And-what did he do?" Martin asked faintly.
"He believed that he is the father of Angel's child."
Martin slowly took a deep breath, released it, smiled. "Okay. So is he going to get rechecked?"
"He'll have to if they don't want any more children," I said.
"I can't believe old Shelby is going to be a father," Martin said absently, shaking his head.
I bit my lip and looked down so Martin wouldn't see the tears well into my eyes. He pulled his reading glasses (a recent necessity) out of his shirt pocket suddenly, and went to the wall phone to flip through the tiny Lawrenceton directory.
He punched in numbers and stood waiting, his face in its executive mode: mouth in straight hard line, sharp eyes, impatient stance. I thought it was pretty sexy, providing he dropped the look when he turned to me.
"The room number?" he asked me crisply. I gave it to him, propped my chin on my hand, and watched my husband as he talked to Angel, and then said a few words to Shelby.
"He's still groggy," Martin informed me when he had hung up the phone. "But better. Angel said they want to keep him one more day for observation, then he can come home, providing he stays away from work for a few days." Martin clearly felt better since he'd done something, even if it was only punch numbers on a phone.
I glanced down at my watch, and saw to my surprise that it was nearly eleven o'clock. I'd been up almost the whole night the night before, and gone through a great deal of excitement and anxiety since then. Martin's homecoming had given me a jolt of energy, but suddenly I felt as if I'd run into a wall.
"I have to go up to bed," I said, and heard the weariness in my voice.
"Of course, honey," Martin said instantly. "You haven't had any sleep." He put his heavy arm around me and we started up the stairs. "I'll give you your present in the morning," he murmured.
"Okay."
"You are are tired." tired."
"Won't be this tired in the morning," I mumbled, I hoped in a promising way. "I am glad you're home."
I pulled off the clothes I'd pulled on so hastily so many hours ago and gratefully slipped into a nightgown, realizing that I had no memory of work that day at all, though I'd gone in and (I supposed) functioned more or less normally. I brushed my teeth and washed my face because I am constitutionally unable to go to bed without that little routine, and I was vaguely aware of Martin unpacking as I sank into sleep.
Before I open my eyes in the morning, I try to remember what day it is. There's always that happy moment when it's finally Saturday, and I don't have to go anywhere I don't want to. I think that's one of the reasons I had wanted to go back to work; otherwise every day was Saturday, and that little happiness was gone.
I opened one eye and looked at my bedside clock. It read nine-twenty. Since that was clearly impossible, I closed the eye again and snuggled into my pillow. But the room certainly seemed light, -and I could feel the emptiness of the other side of the bed. Reluctantly, I opened both eyes and wriggled closer to the clock. It was still nine-twenty.
I hadn't slept that late in years.
For ten minutes or so, I basked in the novelty of being still in bed at such a late hour. I was too awake to drift back to sleep. From the lack of movement downstairs, I thought Martin was gone. He often went in to work for a few hours on weekends, especially when he'd been out of town; or maybe he'd gone to the Athletic Club to play some racquetball. Going downstairs in a nightgown this late seemed faintly sleazy, so I took my shower first and pulled on my favorite Saturday jeans and a green T-shirt. To atone for my laziness, I carried down a hamper of dirty clothes and started a load of wash before I even poured my coffee. Martin had made a full pot and left it on for me, with a clean cup waiting invitingly beside the pot. He'd also left, squarely in the middle of the table by the window, a package wrapped in white paper and topped with a blue bow.
I drank my first cup of coffee and read the Lawrence-ton paper to postpone the pleasure of opening the package. And the paper dampened my happiness some; the attack on Shelby had made the front page, which was not too surprising. But what was surprising was that the incident of the bow on the cat and the body of Jack Burns landing in the yard were included in the story, tying all the different incidents together in a way that left me disturbed.
I'd been sure Jack Burns had been killed because he knew the identity of a local who was being hidden in Lawrenceton under the Witness Protection Program. I couldn't see what that had to do with Angel's unknown admirer. Combining all these incidents, the story implied my house was radiating evil, as though it was an eminently suitable candidate for exorcism. I wasn't surprised to see a stranger's name on the byline: Sally wouldn't have written it that way.
I tried to regain my relaxed mood by reading the Garden Club meeting report, which was usually a hoot. It didn't fail me today. My old friend Mrs. Lyndower (Neecy) Dawson had wreaked havoc by proposing that the war memorial outside the courthouse be surrounded by ivy instead of having its planting regularly switched by the club. Reading between the Garden Club correspondent's careful lines, one could surmise that the ensuing debate had created bad blood that might last as much as a year, by which time Neecy could have forgotten she'd made the proposal. Or have gone to her great reward in the Garden in the Sky, as the Garden Club membership might have put it.
A flash of white and orange outside caught my attention, and I saw that Madeleine, to whom I'd given scant attention the past two days, had finally been driven to desperate measures. She was stalking a sparrow foraging in the grass. One thing I admired about cats was their focus; I'd never had a pet as I was growing up, so observing Madeleine had been an education for me (one I sometimes felt I could have done without).
However, when Madeleine bothered to hunt, the process was impressive-the intensity of her concentration, the stealth of her approach, the narrowness of her vision. Can birds see color? Can birds see color? I wondered. I wondered.
Whether it was Madeleine's marmalade stripes or her bulk that attracted the bird's attention, this sparrow took off. Madeleine sat up and directed a baleful gaze after the bird, and began to clean her paws in a sulky way. I was recalled to my obligations, and fed her; she did her very best running when she heard me call her for food.
Then I had the pleasure of opening my package. It was heavy, and I wondered how Martin had managed to cope with it on the flight home. I slid off the ribbon and put it aside, and tore off the paper. The box was a plain brown one of thick cardboard, not one of the thin ones that clothes come in.
Not jewelry, not clothes ... hmmmm.
Books. Seven books by some of my favorite mystery writers. Bookmarks from a Chicago bookstore protruded from each one, and I opened the top book, a Sharyn McCrumb, at the marked page.
Each one was signed. Not only signed, but personalized.
I examined each book happily, looking forward to hours of reading, and tried to think of a special place to keep my gift.