Two hours later, Tempest found Sylvie at the hospital after they were both done giving statements to the police.
In an opinion she knew was the opposite of the norm, Tempest loved hospitals. Probably because her grandfather had always told her stories of caring doctors, loving families, and the miracle of modern medicine that made people whole again in the hospital. Sickness, injury, and death were present, but so was love and compassion, with so many people packed inside each hospital’s walls who cared and fought to heal patients. Ash still received honest-to-goodness printed Christmas cards from dozens of his former patients in the U.K.
There was no immediate evidence of who attacked Sylvie. Kumiko said she had turned off the motion-sensor video camera outside the front door because so many birds were around that kept triggering it, distressing both her and Lavinia since at least one of them was a raven.
“Getting attacked by a maniac gets one a private room,” Sylvie said as she adjusted her solitary and tiny pillow. “I wish I’d known that when I fell off my bicycle. I would have made up a better story of why I fell.”
“I heard we’re both investigating.”
“Thanks for your concern for my well-being.” Sylvie’s look could only be described as a sneer. How did she even manage to look down her nose at Tempest from her vantage point in the bed?
“I didn’t think you were one for false pleasantries.”
“Finally sticking up for yourself? Glad to see it.” Sylvie rubbed her bandaged wrists. A bandage also poked out from the side of her hair. A spot of blood showed through the bandage on her head.
“If you’re not well enough to talk—”
“Oh, I’m ready. I’m ready to do anything that helps catch the wretch who dared kidnap me.”
“You really don’t know who it was?”
“I didn’t see—”
“I know. You already said that. I meant your investigation. I talked to your neighbor. I know you found out something about Corbin’s killer. That’s why they had to get you out of the way.”
“I didn’t take you for such a stupid girl. If I knew anything concrete, I’d be dead.”
“And I didn’t think you were so shortsighted. This isn’t a cold-blooded killer. It’s someone who hated Corbin Colt. They don’t want to kill again if they don’t have to.”
“You’re naïve to think I wasn’t in danger.”
“I didn’t say that.” Tempest was tempted to throttle Sylvie herself. “I’m saying it makes sense that they’d try alternatives at first.”
“I’m not working with you to catch a killer,” Sylvie said.
“That’s good, because I wasn’t asking you to. I want to know what happened to you.”
“Pool our information?” Sylvie clasped her hands together in a mocking gesture, realizing a second too late that it would hurt her injured wrists. She swore and turned away. “I’m not working with Nancy Drew.”
“That’s not the insult you think it is. I don’t want to work with you any more than you want to work with me. I just want to know—”
“Haven’t I been through enough? Read the police report.”
“I’m betting you didn’t tell them what you were up to. I don’t think you told your neighbor everything, either.”
A thin-lipped smile formed on Sylvie’s face. “Maybe you’re not so stupid after all. I’m tired. You have ten minutes. What do you want to know?”
“You really didn’t see who did this to you?”
“And not tell the police so I can capture them myself? No. I didn’t see who did this to me, I lost consciousness. I woke up in a dark room, managed to pull off my gag by tugging on something that was probably completely unsanitary and is going to give me tetanus. Then I started shouting.”
“Why were you there in the first place?”
“I was woken up early by a phone call. Around five o’clock in the morning. This morning?” Sylvie sat up straighter and looked around the room. “How long was I out for? Was it only this morning?”
“It was,” Tempest assured her.
“That’s a relief. You hear about those people who wake up in the hospital and it’s been six months. You look the same, though. Don’t you ever wear anything besides a bland T-shirt and jeans?”
“You were talking about your five a.m. wake-up call.” With dozens of racks of exquisite clothes meant to pop on stage and allow for seamless illusions, many of which she’d donned nearly every night for two years, T-shirts, jeans, and her favorite ruby-red sneakers were a welcome change.
“I thought,” Sylvie said, “that it was Lavinia calling.”
“You thought?”
“The voice said she’d figured out what happened to her ex-husband and she needed my help. A woman was whispering. Because she referred to her ex-husband, I knew it was Lavinia—at least that’s what I thought. But the detective told me it can’t have been her who attacked me. Which is a relief. She and Victor were together at his house in San Francisco and were also seen at a café where they were getting take-out coffee at dawn.”
“You didn’t think it was suspicious that someone called you in the middle of the night?”
“It wasn’t the middle of the night. It was around five o’clock in the morning. We all know your grandfather didn’t kill Corbin Colt, so I wanted to help.”
“I know.”
“Right. You said you heard I was investigating. I don’t know that I’d call it investigating.… Laura isn’t the brightest bulb in the box. But I have learned a thing or two from my Dorothy Sayers novels that gave me some ideas—Oh! Lord Peter!” She tried to stand, but her arm was a jumble of IV tubes rehydrating her. “My dog. I need to check on him—”
“Your neighbor is looking after Lord Peter.”
Sylvie gave her an appreciative nod and after one last tug on a tangled cord, lay back onto the bed.
“You don’t know what you uncovered that made someone attack you?”
“I wasn’t even properly investigating. Simply going over mental exercises.”
“Mental exercises?”
Sylvie glowered at Tempest. “Do you want to hear the story or not.”
Tempest raised an eyebrow but held her tongue.
“You probably won’t understand this, Tempest, but I’m convinced that the answer to Corbin’s murder lies in the pages of a book.”
Tempest froze. Did Sylvie know about the hidden manuscript?
“Ah,” said Sylvie. “You know more than I thought. How did you know Corbin was spying on us?”
“What?”
“Oh. So you don’t know? I’m surprised Lavinia didn’t tell you. He was spying on the book club discussions to get ideas for his books. I haven’t figured out how it’s related, but we talk about all sorts of things at the book club. Ivy, in particular, shares a lot—”
“Ivy isn’t involved. She wasn’t even at the séance.”
Sylvie appraised her. “You’re loyal. I’ll give you that. I’m not accusing Ivy of anything. I’m merely pointing out that we talked freely, not realizing anyone was spying on us. Especially a writer.”
“If any of you revealed something terrible enough to kill someone who overheard it, then why only kill Corbin?”
“People,” Sylvie said, “don’t like being betrayed. I’m sorry. I’m not feeling so well.”
“I’ll leave you to get some rest. If they release you tonight, meet us at the Oxford Comma pub at Lavinia’s Lair at midnight.”
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“Because I know what happened to Corbin Colt.”