Untitled (25 page)

   "Do you know where we're heading?' Angelica asked.

   "I looked at a map earlier this afternoon. Do you want to eat first or go straight to the hospital?"

   "Visit first. Eat later. I'd like to try a new little French bistro not far from the hospital. One of my customers told me about it the other day."

   "If you've got the address, I'm sure we can find it," Tricia said, as the last of the village fell behind them. Though it wasn't yet dark, the trees that lined the road cloaked it in deep shadow. Tricia turned on her headlights. Theirs was the only car on the road.

   "By the way, I can't thank you enough for sending Frannie to me today, Trish."

   "What?" Tricia asked, disbelieving.

   "We just had the most fun all day long. And I sold a ton of books. The woman's a natural-born salesperson. Too bad she's got a regular job, because I would hire her in a heartbeat. In fact, she's coming back to work for me next weekend. She suggested I order some Hawaiian cookbooks, and we could make some appetizers or dessert and pass it around next Saturday. Have you ever had poi?"

   "No. Isn't it some kind of messy, green goop from a root, that's beaten to a pulp—and looks not unlike goose droppings?"

   "Frannie swears it's delicious."

   "I think I'd just swear if I had to eat it," Tricia said,

glancing into her rearview mirror. A car coming up from behind flicked on its headlights, blasting her retinas with its high beams.

   "You have absolutely no culinary adventure in your soul," Angelica went on.

   They zipped past a deserted vegetable stand. "So says you."

   "Are you kidding? I've eaten eel, whale blubber— highly overrated in my opinion—and once I even ate a box of chocolate-covered ants."

   "On a dare, I'll bet."

   "Of course. I was about eleven. Nowadays I can think of plenty of better uses for luscious dark chocolate."

   The lights of the car following seemed to grow bigger in the rearview mirror. Tricia stepped on the accelerator a little harder, but the too-close car kept pace. A growing anxiety caused her to press down even more.

   "Should we be going this fast on this road?" Angelica asked.

   "Someone's playing with me," Tricia said, and eased up on the gas.

   The car following them bumped her.

   "Hey!" Angelica called, bracing her hands against the dashboard. "That's not playing. That's serious stuff."

   Tricia steered for the side of the road, the spinning tires sending gravel flying.

   The car behind did the same thing.

   "What do they want from us?" Angelica cried, grabbing for her purse.

   "Playing chicken. But it's not a game, and I won't play." Tricia slowed even more, and the car rammed the back end of her vehicle.

   Angelica withdrew her cell phone, frantically pushing the buttons. "Why is there never a cell tower around when you need one?"

   "Keep punching those buttons," Tricia hollered as the car bumped them again, harder this time. The driver meant business.

   "Do something!" Angelica wailed.

   "What?"

   "I don't know. You're the one who reads all those mysteries. What would Miss Marple do now?"

   "She never drove a car," Tricia said, and swerved to the left, hoping to shake their tail, but the car swerved right behind her like a shadow.

   Tricia wrenched the wheel again, desperately hoping they wouldn't go into a spin. The road was some four or five feet above the surrounding terrain, drainage ditches running along both sides of it.

   "If mysteries won't help—think of what James Bond would do."

   "James Bond?" Tricia repeated, grimly holding onto the steering wheel while flashing on a sexy, young Sean Connery. Yes, James Bond would've gotten out of this easily—by dumping oil on the road, or nails to puncture the bad guy's tires. But Tricia didn't drive an Aston Martin; she'd purchased the white Lexus without the "licensed to kill" package.

   As she struggled to maintain control, a dark shape came whizzing overhead—a Canada goose—and then another.

   "We're going to die!" Angelica wailed, shielding her face with her hands.

   Tricia's gaze bobbed from the road to the rearview mirror. The car behind swerved—and Tricia heard the screech of brakes.

   "It's falling behind!" she hollered.

   "Behind what?" Angelica wailed, her hands still plastered to her face.

   "The car, it's—"

   But their pursuer regained control, the car's headlights growing bigger and bigger.

   It rammed them, this time sending the Lexus careening off the road and into a ditch with a shuddering crash.

The flashing
lights of the police cruiser cast weird shadows against the pines. Tricia watched as the winch on the back of the flatbed tow truck pulled her car up the makeshift ramp. The Lexus might've been drivable, but she wasn't about to take the chance. While Angelica had called nine-one-one, Tricia had extricated her own cell phone and called the one person in Stoneham she knew would mourn her.

   Russ stood beside her, collar pulled up around his neck, his hands thrust deep into his jeans pockets, his ears already beginning to go pink. It wasn't until he'd shown up that she'd stopped shaking.

   "I should have listened to you when you said Zoë's killer might come after me," Tricia said.

   "And I should have insisted on driving you to Nashua." He withdrew his right hand from his pocket and wrapped his arm around Tricia's shoulder, pulling her close. She allowed herself to rest her head against his chest.

   If it hadn't been for that goose . . . Russ had found its remains by the side of the road some hundred or so feet behind them.

   Her gaze drifted to where the Lexus had come to an abrupt halt, the tall brown grass flattened and grooves cut into the thawing earth where the wheels had dug in from being towed out. Beyond that was Miller's Pond, with a lone mute swan, silhouetted by moonlight, serenely sailing across the still water. Not a goose in sight.

   "This stupid thing," Angelica growled, shattering the quiet moment. She leaned against the tow truck's bumper as she stabbed the buttons on her phone. "I still can't get hold of Bob."

   "Maybe his phone is turned off," Tricia offered.

   Deputy Placer ambled up, clipboard in hand, pen poised to write. "And you said you couldn't identify the make of the vehicle?" he asked, as though their conversation hadn't taken a ten-minute break.

   Tricia shook her head. "I told you. The car's headlights were on bright."

   The deputy turned his attention to Angelica. "What about you, ma'am?"

   "I was too shook up to notice anything—except that we were probably about to die."

   "Check the collision shops in the morning," Tricia suggested. "I'm sure it hit a low-flying goose. That's the only thing that saved us."

   "Right," the deputy said, his voice filled with sarcasm.

   "Hey, Jim, what's going on with the Carter murder investigation?" Russ asked.

   "What's that got to do with this accident?"

   "Tricia's the common denominator. She was there at the murder; there at the scene of Kimberly Peters's attack. And now this."

   Placer shook his head. "No link that I can see," he said, jotting something down on the paper on his clipboard.

   "No," Tricia muttered, "and I don't suppose Wendy Adams will, either."

   Placer looked up, distracted. "Huh?"

   "Nothing." It was all Tricia could do not to lose her temper.

   The tow truck driver from the Stoneham Garage hooked chains to the bashed and dented Lexus, securing it to the truck. He dusted off his hands and turned to Tricia. "Just tell your insurance adjuster where to find it."

   "Thank you." Tricia made a mental note to call the shop in the morning to see if anyone brought in a car needing a new windshield or other damage repaired. She doubted the Sheriff's Department would.

   The trio stood back as the driver got back into his rig and pulled onto the highway.

   Placer stepped forward. "Tell your insurance company to call on Tuesday or Wednesday for the accident report. We're always backed up with paperwork after a busy weekend. This is my third accident today." He shook his head and muttered, "Women drivers."

   He made the accident—and what Tricia and Angelica had gone through—sound so trivial, the chauvinist pig.

   "Come on, girls, I'll take you home," Russ said.

   "No way," Tricia said. "I want to visit Kimberly." She turned to her sister. "That is, if you don't mind, Ange."

   "Not at all. And I really do want to try out that new French bistro. I'm not letting a little thing like attempted murder spoil my dinner plans for the evening."

   Tricia winced: the phrase "attempted murder" hit a little too close to home.

   "I hope you don't mind, but I brought the pickup, so it'll be a snug fit," Russ said.

   "I only worry about those things after I eat a fabulous meal—not before," Angelica said.

   Russ opened the passenger side door and Tricia piled in, with Angelica squeezing in beside her. After buckling up, they were back on their way to Nashua.

As Russ
had predicted, a uniformed deputy stood outside Kimberly Peters's private hospital room. "Uh-oh," Tricia muttered, clutching the vase filled with colorful tulips. "Do you think he'll let us in?" "Probably not," Russ said. The deputy's name tag read barclay. His broad shoulders and imposing height made him look more like a former linebacker for the New England Patriots than a cop.

   Tricia strode up to face him. "Excuse me, sir, we're here to visit Kimberly Peters."

   He looked down at her from his six-four or six-five height. "No visitors. Sheriff Adams's orders."

   She tried again. "The medical staff wouldn't tell us how she's doing. Privacy laws or some such. Can you at least tell us if she's regained consciousness?"

   "She hadn't, last I looked."

   Not very talkative, either.

   "And when was that?" Russ asked, shoving his press credentials in front of the deputy.

   The deputy glanced at them, but they made no impression. "Half an hour ago."

   "Is there a chance she can recover?" Angelica asked.

   "I'm no doctor, ma'am."

   "Can we at least leave our flowers for her?" Tricia asked, offering up the tulips. The vase was clear glass, so it was evident that it contained only green stems—and nothing lethal. She handed him the vase.

   He poked at the flowers and took a tentative sniff. "I'll put them on the bedside table," he said, turned, and opened the door to Kimberly's room.

   What Tricia saw took her breath away: Kimberly, her face bruised and swollen, looking more like a jack-o'-lantern than a human being. Crowding the over-bed table and the windowsill were vases of flowers: roses, gladiolas, tulips, and daffodils, and at her bedside sat a well-dressed, chunky man, his hand wrapped around hers, his attention focused only on Kimberly, his expression filled with worry and grief.

   "Artemus Hamilton!" Tricia cried.

   The literary agent looked up at the sound of his name, just as the door to the room wh
oosh
ed quietly shut.

   "Zoë's agent?" Russ asked.

   "Yes."

   "What's he doing here?" Angelica asked, no doubt delighted that she could give her cookbook manuscript another heartfelt testimonial.

   A moment later the deputy reappeared with Hamilton right on his heels. "Ms. Miles, what you doing here?" Hamilton asked, sounding incredibly nervous.

   "The same thing you are." She turned her attention back to the deputy. "I thought you said Ms. Peters was allowed no visitors."

   "Mr. Hamilton is Ms. Peters's fiancé," Barclay said.

   Tricia felt her jaw drop—then quickly shut her mouth.

   "Why don't we go get a cup of coffee or something?" Hamilton said and grabbed Tricia's arm, pulling her away from the deputy, with Russ and Angelica bringing up the rear. Down the corridor, they stopped beside an empty gurney that had been parked near a storage closet.

   "Ms. Miles—"

   "Tricia," she insisted.

   "Tricia, I had to tell the sheriff I was Kimberly's fiancé. It's the only way they'd let me visit her. She hasn't got anyone else."

   "Yes, I know. How is she?"

   He let out a sharp breath. "Doing better than they'd originally expected, but she's got a few hard days ahead of her and a lot of reconstructive work to come."

   "Did you buy her all those flowers?" Angelica asked.

   He nodded. "I felt so bad for her. She won't want to see her face when she wakes, and she deserves to have something beautiful to look at after what she's been through."

   There was no arguing that.

   "I take it you'll be staying in Stoneham for another night?" Tricia asked.

   "Not at the Brookview Inn. I've booked a room at a hotel not far from here. I'll pick up a rental car tomorrow."

   "Sounds like you're planning on staying for the duration," Russ said.

   "I've asked my assistant to clear my schedule for the next few days."

   "Very generous—especially since Ms. Peters
isn't
your fiancé," Russ added.

   "Kimberly and I have known each other for several years. We even dated for a while. I consider myself her friend. And isn't being with her now the least a friend can do?"

   "Yes," Tricia agreed. Or had simply seeing Kimberly's battered face reawakened whatever feelings he had for her— of friendship, or otherwise? She wasn't about to secondguess his motives.

   "You must be exhausted after spending the day here. We're going to dinner when we leave. We'd love to have you join us," Angelica chimed in, ever the gracious hostess.