Chapter 5

 

Didn’t make it . . . ?

I struggled to process the doctor’s words. Vaughn didn’t make it? Why . . . ? What happened . . . ? This was an award-winning medical facility. The staff was trained to save lives. My throat felt like I swallowed a giant cotton ball, so dry I could hardly squeeze the words out. “Surely you don’t mean . . .”

“The patient developed a severe arrhythmia, an irregular heartbeat. That happens sometimes in cases like this. In spite of everything we did to correct it, he went into cardiac arrest. I’m sorry, but Vaughn Bascomb is dead.”

Dead? Denial kicked in, numbing me for what would follow later. How could a man I’d met only hours before go from feeling a little “under the weather” to D-E-A-D dead? Denial, for those who might or might not know me well, is my all-time favorite defense mechanism when life gets too sticky to handle. With denial, the hard truth can be plain as day, yet you can’t see the writing on the wall. I might be mixing metaphors again, but you get my drift.

“I wasn’t aware Vaughn had heart disease. Do you know what might have caused the arrhythmia?” Rita, being the practical, sensible woman she was, wanted answers. Rita, bless her heart, didn’t let herself get bogged down by such trivial things as denial.

The doctor spread his hands and shrugged. “There are any number of causes. We’ll know more after the autopsy.”

“Could it have been food poisoning?”

The doctor shrugged again. “That’s the likely scenario. We’ll have a better idea once toxicology reports get back from the lab.”

I saw Betsy clutch Timmons’s sleeve, her red lacquered nails like splotches of blood against the dark fabric of his jacket. “You still haven’t mentioned Dr. Rappaport’s condition.”

Roger the pudge shoved forward, his stance just short of belligerent. “Betsy’s right. You still haven’t said a word about Dr. Rappaport.”

“Ms. Rappaport’s condition has stabilized.” In the far recesses of my mind, I registered the fact that the doctor hadn’t used doctor when speaking of Sheila. Apparently he reserved that form of address for a degree in medicine, not one in plant reproduction.

Timmons pried Betsy’s fingers from his arm. “Do you think your hospital can care for her adequately, or should we make arrangements to have her transferred elsewhere?”

Todd Timmons’s tone could best be described as . . . snippy. Dr. Evan Michaels, according to the embroidery above the left breast pocket of his lab coat, dug balled fists deep into his pockets. I surmised it was to prevent himself from slugging the smug little twerp.

“We’re perfectly qualified to handle a case of this nature,” Dr. Michaels replied, his voice equally snippy. “The gastroenterologist on call has already examined Ms. Rappaport. She’s been given a sedative and is resting quietly. As soon as a bed is available, she’ll be transferred to ICU.”

“ICU?” Betsy’s dark eyes rounded in her pretty doll-like face. “You said her condition was stable.”

Dr. Michaels seemed to summon the last of his dwindling supply of patience. “This is only being done as a precaution. The ICU will allow us to monitor her more closely.”

Betsy drew herself as tall as her petite frame would allow. “Well, I want to see her. In case you’re unaware, my company, Belle Beaute, is the sole sponsor of her TV show, How Does Your Garden Grow?”

The physician seemed singularly unimpressed by Betsy’s name-dropping. “Sorry, rules are rules. Once Ms. Rappaport is on one of the medical floors you can visit her all you like, but until then . . .” With a brisk nod, he turned and retreated into the ER’s inner sanctum.

“Since there’s nothing more we can do here,” I said, turning to Rita, “we might as well get some sleep and check on Sheila in the morning.”

Rita nodded wearily. “Just let me grab my purse.”

“Give me a sec to power down my laptop,” Roger said to Timmons. “I’m not one to speak ill of the dead, but at least Bascomb won’t be able to meddle in the book business anymore. The man liked to think he knew more about editing than me, the editor. His constant interference threatened my entire vision for the finished product. Now at last I’ll be able to make some progress.”

Timmons, busy pecking away on his BlackBerry, nodded absently.

“Well, I don’t know about the two of you, but I’m exhausted.” Betsy checked her cell phone for the umpteenth time and then closed it with a snap.

“Thank goodness I had my assistant reserve a room at the B and B in town,” Todd said, dropping his BlackBerry into a pocket as he strolled toward the exit. “What about you, Betsy? Staying here in Timbuktu or heading back to Atlanta?”

“Me?” Betsy tucked her clutch purse more securely under her arm. “Sheila and Vaughn rented a house in that old folks’ place where that friend of hers lives. She invited me to stay with them. She gave me a key earlier tonight.”

Roger hefted a bulging computer bag onto his shoulder. “Looks like you and me, buddy,” he said to Todd, “are headed in the same direction. Not much to pick from in a burg with only two stoplights.”

“Guess beggars can’t be choosers, eh?”

“Guess not.”

“Wait up, boys,” Betsy called as she hurried to catch up. “I need a lift to Sheila’s place.”

I looped my arm through Rita’s. “It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it?”

“You can say that again.”

I actually thought about saying that again if only to see if I could make her smile. That, however, required more effort than I was capable of at the moment. It had been a long day, a very long day. Instead I reverted to the euphemistic, “Things always look brighter in the morning.”

“I keep thinking about poor Vaughn. Regardless of everything those awful people said about him, he didn’t seem like such a bad guy. Sheila, on the other hand, isn’t always the easiest person to be around. Oftentimes, she’s selfish, inconsiderate, and demanding. She can be quite the diva when things don’t go her way. I’ve seen her throw a tantrum a time or two that would curl your hair.”

I studied Rita more carefully, but she didn’t return my look. “You don’t sound as though you like her very much.”

“Like?” Rita snorted. “Honey, I could write a book on the foibles of having Sheila as a friend and former roommate.”

There it was again. That undercurrent of dislike—or envy—I’d noticed earlier. The Rita I’d come to know over the years was affable and easy to be around—usually unperturbed by the idiosyncrasies of others. But I’d wager Sheila Rappaport knew which of her buttons to push—and did it with regularity.

We made it almost to the exit when the voice of the admission clerk froze us in our tracks. “Wait up, y’all. Is one of you Rita?”

Had something gone wrong? Had Sheila taken a sudden turn for the worse? Next to me, I sensed Rita stiffen. No doubt, the same fear skittered through her mind.

“I’m Rita,” she replied slowly. “Rita Larsen.”

“Ms. Rappaport’s been askin’ for you. Dr. Michaels gave his okay, but said to keep it short—five minutes max.”

“Has anyone told her . . . ?” I asked, but faltered.

“. . . about Dr. Bascomb,” Rita finished my sentence.

“Dr. Michaels broke the news. Go straight back. She’s in the second exam room on the left.” The clerk picked up a stack of forms and began to sort through them.

Rita headed for the door the clerk had indicated, with me sticking to her like glue.

“Hey!” the receptionist called after us. “Dr. Michaels didn’t say anything about letting both of you go back.”

“I’m Ms. Rappaport’s sister—from Spartanburg,” I fibbed, not breaking stride. No way was I going to cool my heels in the waiting room while Rita got the scoop of the decade. Way I looked at it, I was doing her a favor. As a friend of Sheila’s, Rita couldn’t be objective about what she was about to see or hear. I, on the other hand, could be objectivity personified.

Cautiously, we cracked open the door of room 2 and peered inside to find a gray-haired nurse with a bad perm busily adjusting the dials on machines that went beep. “Ms. Rappaport needs her rest,” she said, not bothering to look up. “Keep your visit short.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, fighting the urge to salute. The woman had that kind of effect on me. If a casting call came out for a remake of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, I’d nominate her for the part of Nurse Ratched.

We sidled into the room.

Nurse Ratched gave Rita and me the once-over as she checked a lead attached to Sheila’s chest that was connected to a machine with squiggly green blips. “Which one is the friend?”

“That would be me,” Rita volunteered.

The nurse eyed me with suspicion. “And what does that make you?”

“I . . . um. I’m the sister—from Spartanburg.”

“Funny, I don’t see a family resemblance.”

“Ah . . . um . . . we had different fathers. Mine was shorter,” I ad-libbed. “And a little chubby.” My smile felt taut as a rubber band about to snap. If I was being cross-examined on the witness stand, I’d fold like a two-dollar bill.

“Hmm . . .”

I could tell from her expression that I wasn’t pulling the wool over her eyes. I steeled myself to be kicked to the curb.

Nurse Ratched stared meaningfully at her watch. “Ticktock, ladies. Five minutes, then clear out.”

The woman had clearly missed her calling. She’d have made a dandy Marine drill sergeant. Things in nursing had changed over the years, I mused. Crepe-soled shoes had been exchanged for Reeboks. Starched whites had been replaced by rumpled scrubs. But one thing was constant—the knack nurses had for running roughshod over unwanted visitors. That remained part of the standard curriculum.

The nurse left us amid a lot of beeping, whirring, and hissing machinery. Rita tentatively approached the stretcher where Sheila lay. I edged close behind. At first I thought Sheila asleep, or unconscious, but then I saw her eyelids flutter open.

“Hey, there,” Rita said, gingerly grasping Sheila’s hand. “You gave us quite a scare. How’re you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been sucked through a straw,” she said, her voice raspy. “I must look like hell.”

She wasn’t far off the mark, but I didn’t want to tell her that. When someone’s come that close to meeting their Maker, it’s my policy to cut them some slack. Unless you’re on a soap opera, it’s hard to appear glamorous with oxygen tubes in your nose, IVs in your arm, and dressed in a gown that your grandmother wouldn’t wear to scrub floors.

I cleared my throat. “We’re sorry about Vaughn,” I told her.

My presence in the cubicle seemed to register with Sheila at last. Sheila blinked back tears and swallowed audibly. “The doctor said his heart gave out.”

“It’s such a tragic . . . accident,” I murmured for wont of a better word. “Food poisoning is a terrible thing.”

Sheila’s gaze fastened on mine and held. “It wasn’t an accident,” she whispered hoarsely.

“What do you mean it wasn’t an accident?” Rita asked sharply.

“I was poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” I repeated, not sure I’d heard correctly.

Had the ordeal addled Sheila’s brain? Left her paranoid and delusional? And what about the food poisoning theory? Even the doctor had said that was the most likely cause for their sudden illness. But poisoning . . . ? No one in Serenity Cove Estates ever gets poisoned. Bludgeoned perhaps. On rare occasions shot deader ’n a doornail. But poisoned? The whole idea sounded too Machiavellian for us straightforward, simple-minded folk.

“We’ve made our share of enemies.” Sheila licked her dry lips. “Someone—I don’t know who—but someone wanted Vaughn and me dead.”

Rita and I exchanged nervous glances.

“I know it sounds crazy, insane even,” Sheila persisted, her eyes riveted on mine. “But I’ve felt threatened for months now. Felt something menacing just waiting for the right moment to strike—and now it has.”

I cleared my throat, not sure how to respond.

As if sensing my confusion, Sheila reached out and clutched my hand. “Please,” she begged, “say you believe me.”