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DIRECTLY AFTER BREAKFAST the ladies walked over to the sheriff’s station. With frequent promptings from the other three, Gertie wrote a detailed account of that morning’s conversation with Adam Sampson. (Gertie had the neatest handwriting, having worked as a schoolteacher for so many years.)
Deputy Sheriff Kyle Breaux read the statement and promised to tell Carter about it as soon as he got in.
“Have you heard anything from Harriet?” Mary-Alice asked Breaux when they were about to leave.
“No. We sent out an alert to the airports and border crossings, but we haven’t heard anything yet.” Breaux clapped his hand over his mouth. “Please don’t tell Carter I told you.”
“Not a word,” Fortune assured him.
“Airports and border crossings?” Mary-Alice declared as soon as they were outside. “Honestly! Poor Harriet. Do they think she’s some kind of international criminal gone on the lam?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Gertie agreed. “I mean, this is Harriet we’re talking about, for Heaven’s sake.”
“As much as I hate to say it,” Fortune ventured, “maybe we should start calling hospitals and—”
“Let’s start with hospitals,” Ida Belle interrupted quickly, seeing Mary-Alice’s expression. They made the short walk over to Mary-Alice’s house and started making phone calls. Within half an hour, Fortune struck pay dirt.
“West Calcasieu Cameron Hospital has a Jane Doe who was admitted Monday night,” Fortune said as she hung up. “Traffic accident.”
After making the drive out, it looked like they would not be able to visit “Jane Doe” in the Intensive Care Unit. Fortunately, Gertie had a photo from an author event at the bookstore, showing herself, Harriet, and Mary-Alice.
“I don’t know if that’s her.” The woman at the round reception desk squinted at Gertie’s phone display.
“If you let us in, we might be able to ID her,” Gertie countered. The woman held up a finger and made a phone call. When she was done, she said,
“I’ll bring you in.”
Harriet’s head was bandaged, and her face was puffy and bruised. Her leg was encased in a hip-to-ankle cast and elevated. But Gertie and Mary-Alice both recognized her immediately.
“Harriet!” they cried in unison. Her eyes fluttered open.
“Gertie?” she whispered. “Mary-Alice?”
“Works for me,” the nurse said. “I’ll go get the doctor. Go easy on her. She’s had a concussion.”
The ladies gathered around Harriet’s bed, careful to avoid the thicket of tubes, wires, hanging bags, and beeping monitors. They asked her how she was feeling (not at all bad, considering), she thanked them for coming to see her (not a problem, they assured her), and then an awkward silence fell. Harriet broke it.
“The store,” Harriet said. “How is the store?”
“It’s just fine, darlin’,” Mary-Alice assured her. “Locked up nice and safe. Now, what on earth happened to you?”
Harriet’s eyebrows drew together.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. I was driving to my mother’s house. I know that. It started raining really hard. I remember thinking, next chance I get, I should pull over or turn back, but there was no place to pull over. So I thought, I’ll just keep driving. And then I rounded a corner, and I saw red taillights...” Harriet closed her eyes. “I don’t recall anything after that. I don’t even know how I got here.”
“Do you remember your name?” Fortune asked.
Harriet nodded. “Y’all called me Harriet when you came in just now, and it sounded right to me.”
“Did you really forget your name?” Gertie asked.
“I couldn’t think straight at all at first. They tell me it was a terrible accident. But then I remembered I had to get out of Sinful. That someone was looking for me. Someone who wanted to do me harm. So yes, I did remember my name eventually, but I didn’t tell anyone. They tell me I’d been thrown clear of the accident, so I didn’t have my wallet or anything with me when I was admitted. But it’s the strangest thing. I can’t quite recall why I was running away.”
“I guess it’s story time,” Ida Belle said. “Gertie, would you like to do the honors?”
When Gertie got to the part where Old Mrs. Johnson found Buford Fontleroy Deale dead, Harriet’s eyes widened.
“Florentin,” she whispered.
“Do you think Florentin Menard killed Deale?” Ida Belle asked.
Harriet shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
“What’s his motive?” Fortune cut in. “He doesn’t get to inherit the company as far as I can tell.”
“It’s nothing like that. But it would be just like Florentin to try to defend my honor.”
“Miss Harriet,” Mary-Alice said gently, “the sheriff’s department has been worried about you. I believe they’d like to talk to you.”
“Yeah, we should probably tell Carter we found Harriet,” Fortune sighed reluctantly.
“Me?” Harriet exclaimed. “Whatever do they want to talk to me for?”
“The murder victim was found in front of your shop, wrapped in what seems to be one of your pajama tops,” Ida Belle said bluntly.
“Did you say one of my pajama tops?”
“Oh, and there’s one more thing,” Gertie added. “It seems Mr. Deale was shot to death in your apartment.”