Doctor Sandrelli traded greetings with Colt. “I see your wife is here,” he said. “Did she take my advice and go home last night?”
“Stayed, I think,” said Colt, his assumption based on her disheveled appearance. The grace of her concern touched him.
The doctor took note of Colt’s clammy brow and fast pulse. He plugged his stethoscope into his ears. “How many years have you been married?”
“Thirteen.” Colt kept it simple.
“And she can still get your heart kicking? Bless you, my good man.”
Mind your own business. Colt didn’t say it. He closed his eyes and bore the torment, both of his past and of the examination that followed. He was rewarded with a room of his own.
The move exhausted him. He slept awhile and awoke with a lot of stiffness and a lot of pain. But he resisted asking for pain medication. He wanted to be alert when Paula returned with Joy.
It had knocked him for a loop when Joy contacted him early in the summer, claiming to be his daughter. A phone call verified it was so. Overnight, the career that had been his life lost first place. At first, his urgent desire to meet Joy was governed by the guilt he bore concerning Paula. But as time passed and the shock faded, he grew impatient with her delays. Already, Joy’s childhood had all but passed him by.
Colt dozed off and dreamed fitfully of searching in vain for his baby girl. When he awakened, he shook off the dream and tried to put personal issues aside. He needed to work through the events of yesterday. As they coalesced in his mind, he reached for the phone. Every muscle, every nerve, every patch of skin protested movement. But he persevered and punched in Monique’s number. It rang unanswered.
Colt tried his publisher and longtime friend, Walt Snyder. But Walt was away from his desk, so he left a message.
Next, Colt rang police headquarters and asked for Detective Browning. His strength was waning fast. Browning had trouble hearing him. “I’ll stop by the hospital as soon as I can get away,” he said.
Colt slept again and didn’t awaken until Detective Browning arrived. The police detective began by asking about the driver who had struck him the previous day.
“Male. Average size,” said Colt. That was all he could say with certainty. The tinted windshield and the glaring sun had hindered his vision.
“Do you feel he deliberately hit you?” asked Browning.
“I’m not sure.”
“What about your wife? Was his intention to strike her with the car?”
Thinking she was Monique? The possibility had occurred to Colt. Uncertain, he said, “What does his accomplice say about it?”
“Hunter Cates isn’t talking.”
“What about Simon Burwell?” asked Colt.
“We’ve been unable to locate Mr. Burwell,” said Browning. “Nor has his ex-wife come forward. We’re watching her house. But so far, no luck. Your wife says you had just come from Monique Burwell’s house.”
Colt corrected him, saying, “Monique Lockwood. She took her maiden name back after the divorce.”
“You’re friends, then?”
“Yes.”
“What’s this about taking a postcard that you found there?”
“If I hadn’t, Burwell’s thugs would have.”
“Why? What was so important about the postcard?”
Colt was summoning breath to explain when Walt Snyder strolled in on the heels of a perfunctory knock. A middle-aged man with a generous girth, a receding hairline and a deep commitment to family and to Profile Magazine, Walt regarded Colt with furrowed brow. “You rest. Leave this to me,” he ordered.
Walt introduced himself to Detective Browning. “I don’t think Colt’s up to this yet. If it’s all right with you, I think I can explain most of it.” He offered Browning the envelope containing the postcard Colt had mailed to him the previous day.
Browning read the message side aloud. “‘Wish you were here. Love, Simon.’” Looking up, the detective asked, “So what’s the story?”
“For starters, Simon Burwell was a married man engaged in what was at the very least a flirtation when he mailed this card to Monique Lockwood from Yellowstone Lodge. Note the date.” Walt leaned in and thumbed the five-year-old postmark.
“I take it that’s important to sorting out this matter?” said Browning.
“You bet. An elderly woman by the name of Myrtle Byron was murdered just a few miles from Yellowstone National Park on that date,” explained Walt. “Simon and Roberta Burwell were the only ones with anything to gain by the woman’s death, since Myrtle was Roberta’s aunt, so naturally the police wanted to question them. Roberta was an invalid and in critical condition at the time they questioned Simon. Needing an alibi, Simon claimed he had been at his wife’s bedside here in Chicago when Myrtle Byron was murdered. No charges were ever filed. The case went cold.”
“And his wife?”
“Roberta? She slipped into a coma and never recovered.”
“So Burwell inherited the murdered woman’s estate?”
“His wife was the heir, but yes, it came to Simon after Roberta died,” said Walt. “Briefly, he played the grieving widower, then turned around and married young Monique Lockwood.”
“Are you accusing Simon Burwell of murdering his wife and her aunt?” asked Detective Browning.
“According to the coroner’s report, Mr. Burwell’s wife died of natural causes. As for the aunt, Myrtle Byron, Simon Burwell was in the area when she died. This postcard proves it. So he had both opportunity and motive in relation to her murder.”
“Motive being?”
“Had his wife preceded her aunt in death, Mrs. Byron might have changed her will,” Walt explained, making his case.
“I see. You know, of course, that what we’re talking about here is out of my jurisdiction,” said Detective Browning.
“Yes, I know. But there’s a link,” said Walt. “Burwell’s attempts to get his hands on this postcard explain what happened at Monique Lockwood’s house yesterday, and Colt’s resulting injuries.”
Detective Browning stroked his chin, deep in thought. After a moment, he mused, “Pretty careless of Burwell to have sent Monique the card in the first place. Not to mention leaving it in her possession after their divorce.”
“My guess is he’d forgotten sending the card until Monique freshened his memory by featuring it on the cover of her travel book,” wagered Walt.
“Travel book?” echoed the detective.
“The contents of the book are irrelevant,” Colt spoke up.
“It’s the cover that counts.”
“You’re sure Burwell has seen the book?” asked Detective Browning.
“If he saw yesterday’s Tribune, he has. They gave it a nice review with the cover featured in color,” replied Walt.
He went on to praise Colt for having coaxed Monique into relinquishing the postcard so that justice could be served. Then Colt confessed that Monique didn’t know he had it.
“You took it without her permission?” Walt’s favor abruptly shifted. “What kind of amateur stunt is that?”
Walt’s thunder was no less than what Colt expected. Profile Magazine was Walt’s brain child. He had nursed it from ignoble beginnings into an uncompromisingly honest periodical respected by the general public and literary critics alike. The conversation soon circled back to Monique.
“Anything else I should know about in that book of hers?” asked the detective.
“No further bombshells that I know of. But I’ll have a messenger bring a copy over,” offered Walt.
“No need,” Colt interjected. “Paula’s bringing one.”
“Paula? Your Paula?” Walt all but cracked the paint with his booming voice. His eyes probed Colt’s face.
“Joy took the bus to Chicago without Paula’s permission. Paula came after her. She looked me up to vent.” Colt gave an abbreviated account.
“I see,” Walt said, and tapped his hat against his thigh. “At least I know to whom we can attribute your lapse in judgment in taking that postcard. Enough said for now,” he added, and stretched out his arm to press Colt’s hand.
It was that deep-seated kindness in Walt that had long since cemented their friendship. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually, Walt was larger than life. And no wimp in the physical realm, either. His grip was such that Colt nearly relented on his decision to stay off painkillers so he could fully savor his first face-to-face visit with Joy.
Paula phoned Jake at his motel. Learning that he hadn’t yet turned in his room key, she took a cab to meet him and stopped along the way to buy a change of clothes.
Jake was waiting for her in the lobby. A lanky, easygoing fellow with eyes the folks in Liberty Flats called “Jackson blue,” he accepted Paula’s congratulatory hug with a crooked grin. He gave her the charger to his cell phone along with his room key. “Take your time. I’ll be in the dining room.”
Jake’s room was small, but tranquil. Paula put her cell phone on charge and sat with her Bible, recharging her spiritual batteries as well.
Afterward, she stepped into the shower. The spray of steamy water eased the soreness and fatigue from her body. Refreshed, she dried her hair, applied makeup with a light hand, then donned the streamlined hunter-green skirt and matching short-sleeved shell and sweater set she had purchased. On her way to meet Jake, she phoned Joy.
“When can I see him?” cried Joy.
“I’m going to get a bite to eat with Jake, then we’ll come for you, and I’ll take you to the hospital. Colt asked for a book, something Shelby edited. The title is Wish You Were Here. See if she has a copy, and if so, ask her if we can borrow it for a few hours.”
Paula met Jake in the dining room. When the waiter had come to take their order and gone, they compared notes on the events of the previous day. Paula’s cell phone rang. It was her youngest sister, Wendy. She had spoken with Jake earlier, and was anxious for an update. Paula answered her questions as best she could, and asked Wendy to brief the rest of the family. Paula’s sister Christine, who was with Wendy at Gram Kate’s chimed in to reassure her that the gap would be filled until Paula and Jake returned and the family could resume their customary schedule of caregiving.
The waiter arrived with breakfast. Paula was finishing a second cup of coffee when Joy called.
“I thought you’d be here by now,” Joy complained in Paula’s ear. “I’ve got the book Daddy wants. Hurry, would you?”
Joy had her father’s straw-colored hair, and an open-faced snub-nosed cuteness that showed every likelihood of blossoming into beauty. Her size seven sneakers were rushing the path leading from her tender years to young adulthood. Seeing her waiting in front of Shelby’s building with a book under her arm and her chin in the air, Paula was caught in a maternal mix of pride and trepidation.
“I’ll bring your car around,” Jake said, as Paula climbed out. He leaned across the seat and called to Joy, “’Morning, blondie.”
“Hi, Uncle Jake.” A feeble smile darted across Joy’s face. Her blue gaze was guarded as she looked at Paula. “You still mad?”
“I thought we’d covered that.”
Joy tugged at her pink and white striped sweater. “I tried to talk to you about Dad, Mom. But you kept putting off a decision. I got tired of waiting.”
“I see that, Joy. But I love you too much to make a snap decision. Was a little patience too much to ask of you?”
Joy responded with an injured sniff. They waited in silence for Jake to bring Paula’s car around. Joy climbed in, waved to Jake as he climbed out, and didn’t look Paula’s way again.
Paula knew no words to bring down that chin. Stop-and-go traffic and a construction detour did little toward easing the breach that had steadily widened since the day Paula learned that Joy had contacted Colt behind her back.
“Have you talked to him, Mom?” Joy broke her silence once they reached the hospital.
“Briefly,” Paula replied.
“Can I see him right away, then?” she asked, as they entered the busy lobby.
“If it’s all right with Dr. Sandrelli. One more thing.” Paula sought words to break the news of Colt’s scarred demeanor gently. “You should know your dad…Colt isn’t… What I’m trying to say is, he’s not exactly like what you may think, based on—”
“His scars?” Joy interrupted. “We exchanged pictures soon after I got in touch with him.”
“You knew and you didn’t tell me?” Paula couldn’t keep the exasperation from her voice.
“I might have, except you growl every time I mention his name,” groused Joy.
It was a limited view, but close enough to the truth, Paula relented. “I see. Very well, then. I’ll try to do better, okay?”
The volunteer at the reception desk tipped her head in silent inquiry at their approach. Paula asked for Colt’s room number and was quickly accommodated.
Joy preceded Paula into the elevator. Two flights up and a few steps into the corridor, Joy stopped short and slapped the heel of her hand to her forehead. “I forgot to get him a present.”
“There’s a gift shop just off the lobby.” Paula opened her purse and withdrew some bills, which Joy folded into her pocket.
“Go on, Mom, I can find my way.” So saying, Joy hurried back into the elevator.
The doors fanned closed leaving Paula to continue alone. She scanned room numbers and found Colt’s at the end of the hall. Hearing men’s voices, Paula slowed her steps and turned into the room. Detective Browning acknowledged her with a quick glance. A gentleman in a business suit had his back to her. Neither he nor Colt saw her in the open door.
“Any idea how I can get in touch with Ms. Lockwood?” Detective Browning was asking Colt.
“Try her e-mail address,” Colt suggested and rattled it off.
“Are you worried about Ms. Lockwood’s safety?” asked the police detective.
“Beginning to be,” Colt conceded.
“Good morning, Mrs. Blake.” Detective Browning greeted Paula. The second man, a portly middle-aged fellow, swung around and paused midsentence. Everything about him seemed to hang in the air—his voice, his gesturing hands, even his thinning hair.
“Paula, I presume,” he said finally, his voice as cordial as his eyes were curious. “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Walt Snyder, Colt’s editor.”
“How do you do?” Paula returned his firm grip. She waded through pleasantries made awkward by virtue of her long estrangement from Colt, and inquired the latest news of Detective Browning.
“Cates’s lawyer was in this morning, requesting bail be set. So far, we’ve put him off.” Browning added regretfully that the driver of the car was still at large.
“I see you’ve brought Monique’s book. Could we borrow it a moment?” asked Walt Snyder.
“It’s Shelby’s, I’ll need it back,” said Paula, with a glance in Colt’s direction.
“Yes, of course. Within the hour,” promised Snyder. “Could I buy you a cup of coffee, Detective?”
The men left together, closing the door. To this moment, shared danger and the gravity of Colt’s injuries had bridged barriers. But the shock had since faded. The urgency, too. The sound of the door closing behind the men punctuated the silence.
Paula stepped up to the bed and broke the ice. “Are you feeling better?”
“Some, though I won’t be skipping rope for a while,” said Colt. “Joy with you?”
Paula nodded.
Colt’s gaze panned from her to the closed door and back again. “So you’re what…the scout mouse?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Scout mouse. If there’s crumbs and no cats, she returns with her young.”
“Joy backtracked,” replied Paula. “Something about a present for the crumb.”
Colt choked on a sip of water. Wincing, he clutched his chest and coughed.
Anxious, Paula asked, “Are you okay?”
He nodded.
“Where’s it hurt?”
“Everywhere.”
“What’re you taking?” she asked.
“Liquids, hold the painkillers.”
“You can’t be serious. You just had surgery!”
He opened his eyes again. “Don’t waste your tender spot on me.”
Stung, Paula retreated. “Maybe I’ll just go and let you and Joy get acquainted alone.”
“All right. Before you go, would you mind dialing the phone for me?”
Paula dropped her purse down in a chair and picked up the receiver. “Who are you calling?”
“Monique.”
Paula punched buttons as Colt rattled off the phone number.
“No answer,” she said. “What is she to you, anyway?”
“There’s nothing between us, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I am concerned about her, though,” he added. “And you, as well, Paula. You should know that Monique’s a redhead. Your current shade,” he emphasized. “About your age, your size. That accounts for yesterday’s confusion.”
“I pretty much figured that out,” said Paula.
“I’m sorry about jeopardizing your safety. Believe me, Paula, I wouldn’t see you hurt for the world.”
It wouldn’t taken much of a shovel to dig up the past and prove him a liar. Instead, Paula ducked her head and said, “Thanks. I appreciate the thought.”
Continuing, Colt filled in the details concerning Monique’s ex-husband, Simon Burwell, Simon’s previous wife, Roberta and the murder of her Aunt Myrtle. As the story unfolded, Paula saw the importance of the postcard. If Burwell wasn’t involved, why lie about his whereabouts?
“The police offered to tuck us away until Cates’s partner is apprehended and Burwell located for questioning,” Colt wound to a close.
It had been a long account for a man of swift-waning strength. One word stood out from the others. “‘Us?’” echoed Paula.
“With Cates’s accomplice on the loose, we could be vulnerable here at the hospital.”
“Maybe you are, but I’m not,” said Paula hastily. “I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything.”
“You know that and I know that. But it’s the driver worrying the police. Walt as well. He’s urging us to play it safe and accept their offer.”
“Look, I appreciate the warning, and you can thank your editor for his concern. But Joy has school, and I have responsibilities at home,” reasoned Paula. “I can’t put my life on hold for fear a thug who mistook me for your friend Monique is now nervous that I can pick him out of a lineup. You go.”
“Not without you.” His gray eyes caught and held her startled blue glance.
“Of course you will. You must!” she insisted.
“How would that look? I can hear your family now. ‘He always did know how to look after his own skin,’” replied Colt.
Defensive, Paula sniffed and countered, “Since when did ‘his skin’ get so thin?”
Heat rushed up Colt’s neck. “I cost you your parents, Paula. I couldn’t live with you then. I can’t now. And I sure can’t live with myself if something happens to you because of my carelessness.”
Again his words kicked the door open to their briefly shared past. Paula’s stomach dropped like a stone and splashed tears to her eyes. She turned and nearly collided with Joy in the open door as she left the room.
Not that Joy noticed. She had a gift-wrapped package in one hand, a rose in the other and eyes only for Colt.