Ten minutes later, I was riding shotgun in the rented minivan we used for deliveries, drawing vertical lines in the condensation that had formed on the glass. Seated behind the wheel was Marco, who, as it turned out, had a clue after all.
“So what was your plan?” Marco asked, pulling out of the alley. “Make your hospital run, then get Lottie to stop at the courthouse afterward so you could talk to Morgan?”
I drew crosshatches through my lines, tic-tac-toe style. “Possibly.”
He reached over to run his thumb under my chin. “Sunshine, don’t you trust me to get the job done?”
“Yes. But you hate hospitals, so I thought-”
“Are you sure you trust me?”
I heard the hurt in his voice and turned to reassure him. “Of course I trust you. Haven’t I always relied on you to get the job done?”
“Abby, I’ve had to pull you out of more than a few dangerous situations because you didn’t rely on me. You’re impetuous. You rush into things without thinking them through.”
“Not true. I’m just a fast thinker.”
“A good PI has to come up with a strategy, set it in motion, and watch for results. That takes patience.”
“But I don’t work like that.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Try to understand it from my point of view, Marco. You know how I love being independent, but right now I feel like a prisoner, unable to come and go as I please without someone always there watching me. And that’s not going to change until we find out who was behind the kidnappings. So what are my options? Let the DA make his case against Raand and hope he’s got the right guy? Or take immediate action ourselves?”
“My being around all the time makes you feel like a prisoner?”
Was that all he got out of my impassioned speech? “I didn’t say you were the cause of my feelings. Whoever planned the kidnappings is the cause.”
“This bodyguard arrangement isn’t permanent, you know.”
Great. Marco was stuck on the prisoner concept. “I know it’s not permanent.” I drew more vertical lines in the condensation. “I just wish I knew how long it would be until I wasn’t in danger anymore.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Abby. It is how it is. I’m doing my best to keep you safe.”
I drew a box around my lines. “What if the true mastermind is never found?”
“Seriously, Abby, if you have a problem with me being around all the time-”
“No! Absolutely not! I love your being around. It’s different, certainly, but…”
He lifted an eyebrow. Yikes. Was I making it worse? And in all honesty, why wasn’t I enjoying Marco’s company more? What normal, red-blooded twenty-seven-year-old woman wouldn’t want a hot guy like Marco, the love of her life, the man of her dreams, keeping a protective eye on her at work-sitting at her desk and hogging her computer not withstanding-as well as bunking down in her apartment? In her small apartment. That she already shared with a roommate and a cat.
Why did my window drawing look like bars on a jail cell?
I used my coat sleeve to erase my artwork before Marco saw it. Stress, I assured myself, was causing me to think irrationally. Once everything went back to normal, so would our relationship.
“Listen, Marco. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or unwelcoming. You’re merely hearing the voice of a frightened, frustrated florist.” I smiled at him and reached over to squeeze his hand. “I really do appreciate you. Bear with me, okay? I’ll try not to be such a pain.”
“I know losing your independence is hard on you, Abby. Hell, I’d feel the same way.” He squeezed my hand back. “We’ll get through this together.”
“Thanks for understanding.”
“No problem. And I found someone to keep you company this evening.”
Not another sitter!
“Rafe is working the day shift this week, and since he doesn’t have wheels, he’ll be bored stiff. If I can drop him at your place, I won’t have to worry about him getting into trouble. You okay with that?”
More than okay. Ecstatic. If I decided to get out and do a little sleuthing, Rafe would be putty in my hands. “I suppose,” I said, trying to sound resigned.
Marco pulled the minivan up to the rear entrance of the hospital so we could unload the two large boxes of floral arrangements. The entrance opened onto the hospital’s lower level, where the laboratory and X-ray departments were located, accessible up the long hallway past the bank of elevators. Close by was the physical therapy center; through large glass windows I could see therapists working with patients.
As I waited inside for Marco, I heard a rapid tap-tap-tap of high heels striking the cement floor and glanced up the hallway to see a slender woman in her thirties, with big honey blond hair and an oversized, shiny gold tote bag slung over one shoulder, heading toward the entrance. I studied her as she approached. She seemed very familiar. I was sure I’d seen her recently. A flower shop customer perhaps?
As she passed, she glanced at me and did a fast double-take before hurrying on. She was probably trying to figure out how she knew me, too.
When Marco came in, we carried the boxes to the bank of elevators and rode up to the second floor.
“We’re taking these to Peter Chinn in room 203,” I told him, after checking the tag on one of the arrangements. “That should be at the other end of the hallway.”
“You didn’t tell me you were delivering flowers to Chinn.”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“You’re not going to harangue Chinn about your back door and ramp, are you?”
I scoffed. “He’s injured, Marco. Of course I won’t.” Not on this visit anyway. Maybe a few subtle hints, but no haranguing.
“Then why not leave the flowers for the nurses to deliver?”
“They’re busy and understaffed. And as I told you, I enjoy making deliveries.”
“I’m surprised you’re allowed into the patients’ rooms.”
“They didn’t used to let me, but now that they know me, they usually do, unless the patient is seriously contagious, requests privacy, or is in the intensive care unit.”
“How about the maternity ward?”
“I’m allowed.”
“So did you bring those flowers for Paula?”
I glanced at Marco. Damn. He knew we’d made her up. I could see it in the slight upward turn of the corner of his mouth. “Busted,” I said, and he shook his head.
“You’re so transparent, every thought and emotion plays out on your face.”
“I’m trying to correct that.”
“Don’t do it on my account. I like your face just the way it is.”
As a courtesy, I stopped at the nurses’ station to tell them my destination and get their approval. “No problem,” one nurse said, waving me on. She barely gave me a glance. Marco, however, was another story. As was typical with most every female, all three nurses stopped what they were doing to watch him. In fact, two of the nurses couldn’t take their gazes off him-or his hot pockets. I was surprised they didn’t form a conga line behind him.
A loud moan came from one of the rooms as we trundled the boxes up the hallway.
“I hate hospitals,” Marco grumbled.
“So you’ve mentioned. You were an Army Ranger, for heaven’s sake. You’ve seen worse.”
“Why do you think I hate hospitals?”
We stopped in front of 203, a private room. The door was open, but I knew better than to walk in without announcing myself, especially to a male patient. I called, “Floral delivery,” but nobody answered.
“Would you look to see if Peter’s presentable?” I asked Marco. “I don’t want to embarrass him.”
Setting the box on the floor outside the door, Marco walked to the end of a short hallway, past a bathroom, to see into the room. He peered around the corner, stared for a moment, then turned around and came out. “That’s not Peter Chinn.”
“Isn’t this 203?” I checked the ticket Lottie had written for the delivery. “Oh, wait. Lottie makes sloppy numbers. I’ll bet this says 208.”
Marco had a contemplative frown on his face as he picked up his box and carried it back up the hallway. “I don’t know who was in that room, but he reminded me of Tom Harding.”
“Tom Harding?” The former owner of Tom’s Green Thumb Nursery and Greenhouse, otherwise known as the first man I helped send to prison? No way. “Harding got a twenty-year sentence, Marco. If he were ill, wouldn’t he be in the prison’s infirmary?”
“Yes, he would. And the man I saw was heavily bandaged, so I’m sure it was a mistake.”
We carried the boxes to 208, where I called, “Floral delivery,” and, after receiving no response, Marco once again stepped inside.
He backed out quietly. “This is Chinn’s room, but it looks like he’s sleeping. Why don’t you leave his flowers with the nurses? They can bring them down later.”
“I hate to put that task on them. Maybe Peter’s just resting his eyes. Make some noise.”
Marco scowled. “No way.”
I sighed. Sometimes you just had to do things yourself. Holding my box, I announced myself again, then walked up the short hallway and peered around the corner. The assistant city attorney was propped up on several pillows, eyes closed. A television mounted on the wall was tuned to CNN, and behind him, a heart monitor made a steady blip across the screen.
“Floral delivery,” I called again.
Peter turned to gaze at me through half-closed lids. “Okay,” he said in a singsong voice.
I waved Marco in, but he refused to set foot in the room, so I put down my box and went back for the other one. “See how simple that was?” I said to Marco.
“Just put the flowers out and come back,” Marco said. “I’m leaving in two minutes.”
Right. Like he could go without me. Maybe it would do him good to get a sample of what my life was like, unable to travel anywhere on my own.
“And no haranguing!” he whispered as I headed inside.
“I’ll put these on your bedside table and window ledge,” I said to Peter, dispersing the arrangements. “Would you like to read the cards that came with them?”
“Okay,” he responded in the same dopey manner as before. I had a strong hunch he was sedated.
“How are you feeling?”
He pointed to the back of his skull. “Got a concussion.”
Oh yeah. Sedated. “From a slip on the ice, right?”
He didn’t reply. I studied him as I laid the gift cards on the tray table. He had his lips pressed together like a child with a secret. Hmm. What was that about? Was there more to his accident than the public knew?
“Was that how you got the concussion, Peter?”
“Not supposed to say.”
I moved closer to his bed. “For legal reasons?”
He frowned, as though he was trying to remember.
“Abby, let’s go,” Marco said from the hallway.
“One minute,” I called. I turned back to Peter. “Do you remember falling on the ice?”
He plucked at the blanket, as though he were getting agitated; then the blips on his monitor got closer together, so I backed off. “That’s okay, Peter. Just keep getting better. Anything I can do for you before I go? Pour some water? Turn up the volume on the TV? Run the next planning commission meeting?”
He pursed his lips into a pout. “I rang for the nurse, but she hasn’t answered. She brought me tea but forgot my honey.” He sounded like a sad little boy.
“Do you want honey?”
He nodded.
“I’ll be right back.” I dashed into the hallway and glanced around.
“Let’s go,” Marco said.
“I need to find honey first.” I saw a trolley cart parked down the hallway and made a beeline toward it.
“Honey who?”
Only a male would assume that referred to a woman. I found a box of honey packets on the cart, grabbed a handful, and showed him. “Actual honey, made by bees, for Peter’s tea.”
“Hey, it was an honest mistake.”
“How many women named Honey do you know?”
“One, and so do you.”
“Do not.”
“Sure you do. Honey B. Haven. Tom Harding’s girlfriend.”
I came to a sudden stop. Honey B. Haven? Wait a minute. Was that the woman with the ginormous hair whom I’d seen leaving the hospital? Because if that was her, seeing both her and someone who looked like Tom Harding was an awfully big coincidence.
“Marco, I thought I saw Honey downstairs when we came in. Do you think it’s possible Tom Harding is a patient here?”
“There’d be cops outside his door, remember?”
“Then you think it’s a coincidence that Tom Harding’s girlfriend was here?”
“There are all kinds of reasons for people to visit hospitals. Maybe she was visiting Paula and her new baby. Now, let’s take those packets to Peter and leave.”
“How about this instead?” I shoved the packets into his hands. “You take these to Peter. I’m going to see who’s in room 203.”
Without waiting for his response, I hurried up the hallway, only to stop short of entering the room. What if the man in that bed was the same jerk who had tried to do away with me?
Ridiculous, my little voice of reason whispered. Do you see any cops?
Not a single one. I took a breath and slipped inside. A large man lay beneath a blue hospital blanket, tubes in his nose and mouth, an IV in his hand, and a heart monitor behind him making slow blips across the screen. The top of his head was swathed in bandages, and his eyelids were purple and swollen, yet he did bear a striking resemblance to Harding, who was a big man-craggy-featured, thick-bodied, ham-handed, and intimidating, with eyes that were cold and a gaze that was remorseless. I’d never forget his piercing stare, or how I’d gotten entangled with him in the first place.
Through a series of events, the main one being the purchase of a box of what I thought was fertilizer, I had been able to tie Harding to a murder-make that a murder and an attempted murder (mine)-that got him sent to prison for a very long time. I knew he’d been sent away. I was in the courtroom when the sentence was read and he was led out in handcuffs. Thus, the man in that bed could not be Harding. Still, he bore a strong resemblance. Could he be a brother?
I slid his bedside chart from the holder, flipped open the cover, and focused on the name at the top. Patient: Thomas Harding.
I gripped the chart, staring at the name in disbelief. Tom Harding!! Why wasn’t he under guard? Where were the police to keep him from escaping?
I heard footsteps coming toward the room and quickly slid the chart back in place. As I turned to go, I glanced once more at the huge form lying so deathly still.
Harding’s eyes were open.