Stan Shepherd was still weak and felt as though he’d been dragged a hundred miles behind a pickup truck…then backed over. He felt so tired. So incredibly tired, but they all seemed to be so glad to see him awake that he hated to give in to the fatigue and close his eyes again.
But all the questions…they were asking so many, probably to evaluate whether he had brain damage. He tried to answer them, but the question he had for them seemed more pressing. Where was Celia? What had happened to him? Had they been in an accident? Was Celia hurt…or worse? Is that why no one wanted to tell him where she was?
“Celia,” he whispered again, and his mother, standing on one side of the bed, offered him that cup of water with the straw that probed at his lips like some kind of medical instrument. He sipped obediently.
“Honey, don’t try to talk.”
“Stan, can you tell me your birth date? Your name and address? Your mother’s maiden name?”
“Thought she said not to talk.”
The doctor who stood over him wasn’t amused. He was serious, so Stan tried to give him what he wanted. “April 22. Stan Shepherd. I live at 313 Burgundy Drive, Newpointe, Louisiana. Want the zip?”
The doctor smiled. “No, that won’t be necessary. Detective, could you tell me the last thing you remember?”
That was a tough one. He closed his eyes and tried to think. Celia. He remembered Celia crying over him, calling 911…
“I was sick.”
“Yes. Do you remember when you began to feel sick?”
“I don’t know.” He began to get concerned and looked around the room again, taking grim inventory of the people watching him. Two doctors, a nurse, his father, his mother…
“Where’s Celia, Mom? Is she all right?”
“She’s…not able to be here today. Just relax, darling.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. He turned back to the doctor. “How long have I been here?”
“Two days. You came in Tuesday night. It’s Thursday now.”
“Thursday? What happened to—” He tried to sit up, but realized he was too weak.
“You’ve been in a coma, Detective. You were poisoned.”
“Poisoned? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, I’m afraid not. It was arsenic poisoning.”
Arsenic? He closed his eyes, trying to think. Arsenic. Like Nathan, Celia’s first husband. Poisoned. He’d been in a coma…Had almost died.
His skin felt cold, damp, and he brought a trembling hand up to wipe his temples. “Where’s my wife?”
Silence again.
His eyes filled. “Is she dead?”
“No, of course not,” Hannah said quickly. “No, darling, nothing like that.”
“Then what?” he asked, growing agitated. “Why won’t anybody tell me where she is? I want to see her. She must be worried sick.”
His father pushed between Hannah and a nurse, and set his hand on the railing of the bed. “Son, we don’t know how to tell you this.”
“Just spit it out,” he snapped. “I want my wife.”
“Celia’s…not allowed to see you. There’s a court order…”
“A court order? What kind of court would order a thing like that?”
“Son, did you know that Celia’s first husband had died of arsenic poisoning, and that she was charged with that murder?”
Oh, so that was it. He closed his eyes again, racking his brain for some logical sequence of thoughts. That grogginess still hung on. Was it the arsenic, or the coma, or the damage that had been done to him? He forced his mind back to the question. Had he known about Celia’s first husband?
“Yes,” he said. “She told me before I married her. She told me everything. But she didn’t do it, Dad.”
“Son, I wish I could believe in her, but you were poisoned the same way. And there’s evidence…”
“What evidence? I want to talk to Jim Shoemaker. I want to talk to Sid.” He struggled to sit up again, and this time half made it. “Do they think she did this to me? Have they arrested her?”
“Yes,” his mother said. The word, uttered with such regret, shot to his heart like an arrow, knocking him back down.
“No,” he said. “How could they be so stupid? Celia couldn’t—wouldn’t—do this!” His breath was coming harder. “Where is she? In jail? Get her out, Dad! I don’t care what it costs or what you have to do. Get her out!”
“She’s out,” he said. “She was released on bond.”
“I want to see her!” he managed to shout. “Now!”
“That’s impossible, son. Judge DeLacy ordered her to stay away from you. There’s a grand jury investigation going on, and she—”
“She didn’t do it, Dad! She didn’t!”
“Then who did?”
He fell back and laid his hand over his eyes, trying to think. “I don’t know. But I know she didn’t. Give me the phone.”
Bart and Hannah looked at each other, but neither made a move. “Why?” Bart asked.
“I want to talk to my wife.” His voice was a barely whispered rasp now, but he wouldn’t give up. “She must be scared to death. She must be humiliated. Give me the phone, Dad.”
“I can’t do that, Son. I have to protect you.”
“I don’t need protecting from her! At least let me call the judge. He can’t make that court order hold if I ask him to let me see her. I’m a grown man.”
“You’re a sick man,” his father said. “You’re still very, very sick. You’re not out of the woods yet. You have to rest, and we can’t take the chance of having her finish off the job…”
“Give me a break!” The words came with such passion that they almost took what was left of his voice. He couldn’t believe they would do this to his wife. His body begged him to give in to sleep, to rest, to recovery, but his mind fought. He had to get up and get to her, wrap her in his arms and tell her it would be all right. Then he realized that it couldn’t be all right, not while the killer was still out there. What if he poisoned her, too? What if she was an open target? “Call Jim and Sid. I have to talk to them,” he said. “I have to make sure that someone protects her.”
“When you’re rested and feeling better,” his mother said. “We’ll call them then.”
“No, not then,” he said through his teeth. “Now. Mom, so help me, if you don’t, you’re gonna have to tie me down to keep me in this bed.”
She shot his father a distressed look. “All right,” Bart said finally. “We’ll call them.”
“Now. Call them now.”
“Okay.”
He closed his eyes as Bart picked up the phone. He didn’t relax until he’d heard him ask them to come. Then, finally, he surrendered to the sleep pulling at him.