Miranda Vaughn Mystery 01.00 - Chasing the Dollar (30 page)

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Before Helen went to bed, she wrestled the recliner against the front door to keep Melissa out until the locks were changed.

The next morning, while waiting for the locksmith Jack had recommended, Helen settled at her desk to finish sorting through the pictures of her nieces. Her hip was less irritated than she'd expected after yesterday's escapade, but she was still grateful for the excellent lumbar support of her desk chair.

While she waited for the computer to boot, Helen glanced out the window at the overcast day and noticed something on the grass, about thirty feet away, halfway between the woods and  the stairs to the back deck.

Helen pushed herself out of her chair and moved closer to the window. It wasn't some
thing
. It was some
one
. She looked again. A woman, lying face down, wearing white clogs, blue pants and a bright pink top. It had to be Melissa. The damned woman must have hidden out there last night, waiting in the shadows for Helen to return and Jack to leave. The joke was apparently on Melissa, falling asleep and missing her chance to impose her will on her patient again.

Helen shoved the window open. "Melissa! Wake up and go home."

Melissa didn't move, as oblivious to Helen's wishes as ever.

"Give it up, Melissa," Helen shouted. "You're fired, and I've barricaded the doors until the locksmith gets here to change the locks. You're not getting inside here ever again."

The sun came out from behind the clouds, and in the bright light, Melissa's hands looked deathly pale. It could have been a trick, but Helen didn't think so. No one slept that heavily.

Helen reached for the phone in her pocket and dialed 911.

"What is your emergency?" a reassuringly calm male voice said.

"I'm not sure," Helen said, "but I think there's a dead body in my yard."

"What's the address?"

She told him, and he said, "The first responders are on the way. What happened to the person?"

"I don't know. She's just lying there."

"Is she breathing?" 

"I don't know." Even as she said it, Helen realized how foolish that sounded. She should have checked. "Give me a minute, and I'll go find out."

Helen pushed the recliner away from the front door and went outside, across the side yard to where Melissa was still lying, unmoving. Helen had to suppress the feeling that the nurse would, at any minute, jump up and yell, "gotcha!" Oddly enough, she almost wished that would happen.

The dispatcher said, "Are you still there?"

"Yes." Helen could hear sirens in the distance. "She's not breathing."

"What about a pulse?"

Helen knelt beside Melissa and placed two fingers on the woman's neck. She felt nothing except cold—too cold—skin. Maybe Helen had missed the artery, though. She wasn't a nurse, after all, and she couldn't exactly ask Melissa how to find a pulse.

Helen moved her fingers around the woman's neck, searching for signs of life and finding nothing. A sharp pain in her hip forced her to change position. As she straightened, she realized the material of her pants was wet where she'd been kneeling on the grass. She glanced at her knee, and it took a moment to comprehend the reason for the damp red stain.

Helen backed away from the body, absolutely convinced now that it was a body and not a person any longer.

"There's no way she has a pulse," she told the operator. "I'm not a doctor, but I think she'd need a lot more blood inside her and a lot less of it soaked into the ground in order for her heart to beat."

A DOSE OF DEATH

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