Stella stepped into the main house, dreading the internal bath she would receive. Each treatment lasted longer than the previous one. Her first, while unpleasant, had involved only half an hour of suffering. Yesterday’s had extended to more than three hours. Why? Were there really so many toxins in her body that had not yet been eliminated?
Fear wrapped clammy fingers around her heart. When Dr. Hazzard examined the contents of her bowels, would she know Stella had eaten solid food? Would there be consequences? She pulled in a breath. Please, God. Don’t let her find out.
As she walked past the dining room entry, a voice flitted to her ears.
“Please, Dora, you must eat something. Claire would have wanted you to.”
Stella peeked her head inside. The Australian woman, Margaret Conway, held a spoon of tomato broth to Dora’s lips. The emaciated woman sipped then gagged.
“How are you feeling today, Dora?” Stella stepped beside her and patted her shriveled hand.
Dora sent her a tight smile.
“She’s trying,” Margaret answered for her. “But I fear I’m not able to get food into her fast enough to make much of a difference.” She cut a glance at the doorway and lowered her voice. “She’s so weak, she can’t chew. So I’m left with nothing more substantial than this tomato broth. I don’t know what to do.” Worry drew lines across her forehead.
“She’ll recover, in time?” How had Dr. Hazzard let Dora grow so weak? Surely if she’d fasted this long, any desire for nourishment would be born of necessity, not craving.
Moisture glittered in Margaret’s eyes. “Oh, I hope so. If only I’d known they thought to come to this place, I would have tried my hardest to talk them out of it.”
The wall clock chimed. Time for her appointment. Stella moved toward the door then turned to Margaret. “I’ll pray for her.”
“Thank you.”
Stella walked back to the cabin, clutching her stomach. Her legs wobbled with each step, and her middle still swam with the sensation of flowing water. Why had Dr. Hazzard settled on such harsh and demeaning methods of promoting healing?
When she reached her cabin, she stopped. The door stood ajar. She had closed it when she left. Had someone entered uninvited while she was away?
She pressed the door open, and the hinges squeaked. Light crept in through the doorway, illuminating overturned chairs, open drawers, and clothing scattered over the floor. Her pulse throbbed in her ears.
Who had ransacked her cabin, and why?
Dr. Hazzard must be informed. If a burglar was preying on her patients, she’d be indignant. Stella returned to the house as quickly as her legs could carry her.
“Dr. Hazzard!” she called from the foyer.
Footsteps thudded overhead.
Stella hurried to the staircase and met the doctor in her descent.
“What is it, Miss Burke?” Frustration dripped from Dr. Hazzard’s every word. “This is a place of healing, and I’ll thank you to keep your voice down.”
“My cabin.” Stella pointed toward the door. “Someone sneaked inside while I was here. They’ve torn the place apart.”
“Nonsense.” Dr. Hazzard planted her fists on her hips. “You’re imagining things.”
“Come, see for yourself.” Stella started for the door. “What if I was robbed? The police should be summoned at once.”
Anger fueled Stella’s trek back to the cabin. She pushed the door open wide and motioned Dr. Hazzard inside. “I’m not imagining anything.”
The doctor’s shoes clapped on the floorboards and she let out a low whistle. “This is very real.” She crossed her arms. Though her brow wrinkled, her demeanor lacked surprise.
Stella studied the woman as she set a chair on its legs. Something was off with her reaction. “Are you going to alert the sheriff?”
“Take an inventory of all that’s missing. Bring it to me, and I’ll see it gets to the authorities.” Dr. Hazzard straightened the haunting picture on the wall.
Sighing, Stella nodded. “Very well. But I’d like to speak with an officer when he arrives.”
“That can be arranged.” Dr. Hazzard strode out the door then turned on her heel. “Clean this mess up. I don’t stand for untidy cabins.” With those abrasive words, she left Stella alone.
She didn’t stand for untidy cabins? Stella pinched the bridge of her nose. Was the state of disorganization all the woman had taken away from the scene? She hadn’t even offered an apology that Stella had been burglarized while under her care.
“The nerve.” Stella glanced at the drawing, and the little boy grinned. “As nasty as you are, you know I’m right. I’m a client, and she acted as if I had invited the problem—caused it. Well, I’ll show her. I won’t clean this place. I didn’t make the mess, so the responsibility shouldn’t be mine.”
As she slumped onto the chair, arms crossed, her mind traveled to Wendell. Her overturned chairs and rumpled clothing paled in comparison to his treatment at Wilderness Heights. Memories of the gunfire and Rollie dragging the body into the woods had never been far from her mind, but with her life in shambles around her, they flooded in like the breaking of a dam. When she spoke with an officer about the break-in, she must tell them of Wendell. His death could not go unpunished.
Had it really been Dr. Hazzard who pulled the trigger? Maybe Stella had dreamed it. But if it had been only a dream that stemmed from an overwrought imagination, where was Wendell? She hadn’t seen him since that night.
And she’d heard Dr. Hazzard’s voice, warning him to get back in the house. Stella plucked at her lip. Why had she killed him? For wanting to leave the property? For neglecting the rest of his treatment? Trigger-happy lunatic.
Stella glanced around the disheveled cabin. Would her disobedience garner the same punishment? Her chest prickled and tightened. She had to survive until Henry arrived to take her home. Obedience, compliance, may be her only life preserver until then. She snatched a dress off the floor and stood. As she folded it, her mind calculated the hours until she could reasonably expect him.
She’d requested Dr. Hazzard give the message to Rollie to send yesterday morning. Stella had seen the fear in his eyes when his mother was mentioned. He would have sent it the moment she asked. Henry should have received it within hours. Where between San Francisco and Olalla would he be now? Maybe Oregon.
She stuffed the folded dress in her bag. When she reached for another, her open jewelry casket caught her eye. She lifted it, ran her finger along the velvet liner. Gone. All her valuables had been plundered.
None mattered much. They were just things. Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt her ear. Her earrings. The violet amethysts Mama had given her. Unshed tears scalded her nose. No. Of all the things she owned, not Mama’s earrings.
She rifled through the jumble on the floor, praying they’d fallen under a pile of stockings and been overlooked by the robber.
No. No, no, no.
Empty-handed, Stella slouched against the bed, burying her face in her hands. Sobs racked her chest, and tears drenched her palms. If they’d taken every stitch of clothing she owned, every other piece of jewelry, she’d have readily given them up. But Mama’s earrings? Those tiny amethysts were all Stella had left of her.
Stella dashed moisture from her eyes. This place was breaking her apart bit by bit. Crushing her beneath a weight of hunger and loss. And Dr. Hazzard only cared that the cabin was untidy.
With a sigh, she grabbed her journal and tore out a page. Maybe if she made a comprehensive list, the police could locate her earrings. Clinging to that thin thread of hope, she jotted down her missing items, placing the violet amethysts at the top of the list.
After setting the page on the table, she gathered an armload of dresses, skirts, and stockings and dropped them onto the bed. If she didn’t clean up, the consequences could be dire.