Sleeping with Anemone (22 page)

“Isn’t this 203?” I checked the ticket Lottie had written for the delivery. “Oh, wait. Lottie makes sloppy numbers. I’ll bet this says 208.”

Marco had a contemplative frown on his face as he picked up his box and carried it back up the hallway. “I don’t know who was in that room, but he reminded me of Tom Harding.”

“Tom Harding?” The former owner of Tom’s Green Thumb Nursery and Greenhouse, otherwise known as the first man I helped send to prison? No way. “Harding got a twenty-year sentence, Marco. If he were ill, wouldn’t he be in the prison’s infirmary?”

“Yes, he would. And the man I saw was heavily bandaged, so I’m sure it was a mistake.”

We carried the boxes to 208, where I called, “Floral delivery,” and, after receiving no response, Marco once again stepped inside.

He backed out quietly. “This is Chinn’s room, but it looks like he’s sleeping. Why don’t you leave his flowers with the nurses? They can bring them down later.”

“I hate to put that task on them. Maybe Peter’s just resting his eyes. Make some noise.”

Marco scowled. “No way.”

I sighed. Sometimes you just had to do things yourself. Holding my box, I announced myself again, then walked up the short hallway and peered around the corner. The assistant city attorney was propped up on several pillows, eyes closed. A television mounted on the wall was tuned to CNN, and behind him, a heart monitor made a steady blip across the screen.

“Floral delivery,” I called again.

Peter turned to gaze at me through half-closed lids. “Okay,” he said in a singsong voice.

I waved Marco in, but he refused to set foot in the room, so I put down my box and went back for the other one. “See how simple that was?” I said to Marco.

“Just put the flowers out and come back,” Marco said. “I’m leaving in two minutes.”

Right. Like he could go without me. Maybe it would do him good to get a sample of what my life was like, unable to travel anywhere on my own.

“And no haranguing!” he whispered as I headed inside.

“I’ll put these on your bedside table and window ledge,” I said to Peter, dispersing the arrangements. “Would you like to read the cards that came with them?”

“Okay,” he responded in the same dopey manner as before. I had a strong hunch he was sedated.

“How are you feeling?”

He pointed to the back of his skull. “Got a concussion.”

Oh yeah. Sedated. “From a slip on the ice, right?”

He didn’t reply. I studied him as I laid the gift cards on the tray table. He had his lips pressed together like a child with a secret. Hmm. What was that about? Was there more to his accident than the public knew?

“Was that how you got the concussion, Peter?”

“Not supposed to say.”

I moved closer to his bed. “For legal reasons?”

He frowned, as though he was trying to remember.

“Abby, let’s go,” Marco said from the hallway.

“One minute,” I called. I turned back to Peter. “Do you remember falling on the ice?”

He plucked at the blanket, as though he were getting agitated; then the blips on his monitor got closer together, so I backed off. “That’s okay, Peter. Just keep getting better. Anything I can do for you before I go? Pour some water? Turn up the volume on the TV? Run the next planning commission meeting?”

He pursed his lips into a pout. “I rang for the nurse, but she hasn’t answered. She brought me tea but forgot my honey.” He sounded like a sad little boy.

“Do you want honey?”

He nodded.

“I’ll be right back.” I dashed into the hallway and glanced around.

“Let’s go,” Marco said.

“I need to find honey first.” I saw a trolley cart parked down the hallway and made a beeline toward it.

“Honey who?”

Only a male would assume that referred to a woman. I found a box of honey packets on the cart, grabbed a handful, and showed him. “
Actual
honey, made by bees, for Peter’s tea.”

“Hey, it was an honest mistake.”

“How many women named Honey do you know?”

“One, and so do you.”

“Do not.”

“Sure you do. Honey B. Haven. Tom Harding’s girlfriend.”

I came to a sudden stop. Honey B. Haven? Wait a minute. Was that the woman with the ginormous hair whom I’d seen leaving the hospital? Because if that was her, seeing both her and someone who looked like Tom Harding was an awfully big coincidence.

“Marco, I thought I saw Honey downstairs when we came in. Do you think it’s possible Tom Harding
is
a patient here?”

“There’d be cops outside his door, remember?”

“Then you think it’s a coincidence that Tom Harding’s girlfriend was here?”

“There are all kinds of reasons for people to visit hospitals. Maybe she was visiting Paula and her new baby. Now, let’s take those packets to Peter and leave.”

“How about this instead?” I shoved the packets into his hands. “You take these to Peter. I’m going to see who’s in room 203.”

Without waiting for his response, I hurried up the hallway, only to stop short of entering the room. What if the man in that bed was the same jerk who had tried to do away with me?

Ridiculous,
my little voice of reason whispered
. Do you see any cops?

Not a single one. I took a breath and slipped inside. A large man lay beneath a blue hospital blanket, tubes in his nose and mouth, an IV in his hand, and a heart monitor behind him making slow blips across the screen. The top of his head was swathed in bandages, and his eyelids were purple and swollen, yet he did bear a striking resemblance to Harding, who was a big man—craggy-featured, thick-bodied, ham-handed, and intimidating, with eyes that were cold and a gaze that was remorseless. I’d never forget his piercing stare, or how I’d gotten entangled with him in the first place.

Through a series of events, the main one being the purchase of a box of what I thought was fertilizer, I had been able to tie Harding to a murder—make that a murder and an attempted murder (mine)—that got him sent to prison for a very long time. I knew he’d been sent away. I was in the courtroom when the sentence was read and he was led out in handcuffs. Thus, the man in that bed could not be Harding. Still, he bore a strong resemblance. Could he be a brother?

I slid his bedside chart from the holder, flipped open the cover, and focused on the name at the top.
Patient: Thomas Harding
.

I gripped the chart, staring at the name in disbelief. Tom Harding!! Why wasn’t he under guard? Where were the police to keep him from escaping?

I heard footsteps coming toward the room and quickly slid the chart back in place. As I turned to go, I glanced once more at the huge form lying so deathly still.

Harding’s eyes were open.

I
froze, unable to draw a breath. Wide-eyed, all I could do was stare back. Where was my bodyguard when I needed him?

A sudden recollection flashed into my mind—the two detectives quizzing me about possible enemies.

One of those eight lay right in front of me.

Harding’s puffy eyelids fluttered shut. I watched him for a moment longer, then filled my lungs with air. Had he recognized me? Was he even conscious?

I ran from the room straight into Marco’s arms. “It’s him,” I said breathlessly. “It’s Harding.”

“Are you sure?”

“I saw his name on the chart! Why is that man here without cops?”

Marco ushered me away from the doorway and said quietly, “I don’t know what he’s doing here, but I sure as hell intend to find out.”

As we started toward the central nurses’ station, I said, “The nurses won’t be able to tell you anything unless you’re family.”

“Okay, I’ll call Reilly. There’s a lounge on this floor somewhere, isn’t there?”

He pulled out his cell phone, but I pushed his hand down before a nurse saw him. “You can’t use that in here.”

“Then let’s go outside.”

We did a quick walk to the elevator and rode down to the basement. Outside the back entrance, Marco made his call while I paced, shivering in spite of my warm coat. Seeing Harding was like being caught in a bad flashback, making me relive the terror that man had caused me.

Take it easy, Abby,
my little voice of reason said.
If Harding is hooked up to all those tubes, with no cops to watch him, the man must be near death. He can’t hurt you. So forget about him. Stay focused.

“Sean,” Marco said, jolting me out of my musing. “Hey, man. I have a favor to ask. Abby and I just delivered flowers to the hospital, and who should we see but Tom Harding. Yeah, formerly of Tom’s Green Thumb. Right. That’s what I thought. He seems to be a patient here but he doesn’t have any guards. Yes, I’m serious. Will you look into it? Thanks, man.”

Marco closed his phone. “Done.”

“When will he get back to you?”

“As soon as he can. Are we finished here now? Can we head back to Bloomers?”

I nodded, my heart still racing. Wasn’t there something I’d wanted to do after making the deliveries?

“Are you okay?” Marco asked, glancing my way as we headed toward the minivan.

“A little rattled.”

“Don’t worry about Harding. He’s obviously not a threat.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling myself, Marco, but I’d feel a whole lot better if I knew for sure Harding wasn’t going to wake up tomorrow, throw back that blanket, and leap out of bed crying, ‘It’s a miracle! I’m alive. Now I have a score to settle with that meddlesome florist.’ ”

“Abby, come on. You saw the guy. He’s got tubes in every orifice.”

Still, as we headed back toward Bloomers, I couldn’t stop thinking about Harding. “When the detectives interviewed me, they asked about enemies, specifically the ones I’d helped put behind bars and whether any had been released. Now I can’t help but wonder whether Harding was behind the kidnappings. Remember the death threats he shouted at me after I testified against him? Maybe he’s trying to make good on them.”

“Harding didn’t look like he was in any shape to mastermind anything.”

“Yeah, now. But how about before he was admitted? I’ll have to ask Nikki to take a peek at his medical chart.”

“Are you sure an X-ray tech has open access to medical records? You don’t want her to get into trouble.”

“She won’t if she’s careful.”

At Marco’s skeptical glance, I said, “It’s what girlfriends do for each other, remember?”

“How about leaving Nikki out of this and letting me worry about your safety? That’s why I’m here. Or don’t you trust me on that, either?”

“Marco, I trust you! I know I’m overreacting. It’s just not often I run into a man I hoped I’d never lay eyes on again—and vice versa.”

Marco reached over to squeeze my hand. “Forget about Harding, babe. Let it go.”

As if it were easy to forget that the man had tried to kill me.

Remembering one of Grace’s stress-buster tips, I drew in a deep breath while imagining Tom Harding inside a big balloon. Then I let out all the air in my lungs with a
whoosh
, sending the balloon with Harding in it up to the sky to be carried off by a strong breeze
.

“Okay, Tom Harding is out of my head,” I reported.

“Good girl.”

After another deep breath, I said, “I’m back on track. Focused.”

“That’s the way to do it.”

“So let’s stop at the courthouse to have a little chat with Greg Morgan, see what he’ll tell us.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Fine. I knew a Salvare who would be more than happy to oblige.

 

Marco’s cell phone rang as he was ushering me into Bloomers, so he headed toward the workroom to take the call. Since there were customers browsing, I motioned for my helpers to follow me behind the counter, where I whispered to them the account of my hospital visit. They were horrified to learn that Harding was no longer behind bars.

“And get this,” I said. “Remember Harding’s girlfriend, Honey B. Haven? With the big hair? I saw her coming out of the hospital. She must have been visiting him.”

“His young chippy?” Lottie exclaimed, then clapped a hand over her mouth when a customer gave her a quizzical glance.

“Honey B. Haven,” Grace said, shaking her head. “What parents in their right mind would burden a child with such a name?”

“If I remember what came out during Harding’s trial,” I said, “Honey worked at a strip club before she met Harding. Maybe that was her stage name.”