Murder Takes a Dare: The First Marisa Adair Mystery Adventure (Marisa Adair Mysteries Book 1) (27 page)

As the automatic door to the patio opened, Anita frowned in annoyance. “Mrs. Kenton,” she called, “you should go back to your room.”

The old woman held up her bedraggled doll. “Mayla wants to sit out here. She says the crickets make beautiful music at night, just like a concert.” She rolled her wheelchair through the door.

Her face set in implacable lines, Rose stood up. “It’s late. You must return to your room. It’s past the baby’s bedtime.” She advanced threateningly toward the older woman. “If you can’t sleep, I can ask the nurse to give you something.”

“No, thank you,” she refused fearfully. “Never mind. I’m leaving now. Mayla changed her mind and wants to go back home, anyway.” She pressed the button on the wall, and the door slid open. She passed through it without a backward glance.

Anita glanced guiltily at the door. “Perhaps we should do a bed check,” she said tentatively.

“Anita.” Rose rolled her eyes in exasperation. “How many times do I have to tell you? We can run up and down the halls all night like chickens with our heads cut off. We could go around, change all of the wet and soiled sheets, put the linen in the washers and dryers, fold it, and repeat it two more times. And every time we check those beds, what will we find?”

“Sopping wet beds,” Anita responded dutifully.

“Exactly. It’s totally futile. We’ll be worn out and exhausted, and the beds will be wet again as soon as we leave the room! If we just change the beds right before we leave, who does it hurt?”

Anita pushed down the niggling, gnawing feeling of guilt. “You’re right, Rose.”

“Of course, I’m right.” Rose nodded with conviction. “And, if the patients push their call buttons, the nurse will hear it.”

When Mrs. Hill appeared on the patio, they jumped.

* * * * *

Clay lay in his bed and twisted against his bonds.

Mrs. Hill had shoved him onto his bed and efficiently strapped his wrists to the bedrails. She had reached into his pocket and held up his cell phone. “I won’t even take this away from you. I bought a gadget off the internet from some teenaged information technology prodigy. It’s been worth its weight in gold. Can you guess what it is?”

Clay had gritted his teeth. “A signal jammer that works on mobile phones.”

“Very good! Most of you older people have no concept of technology.” She glanced at the landline phone on his bedside table. “I’ve also turned off all of the phones in the facility.” She’d checked the restraints, satisfied they’d hold him. In the quiet darkness, he heard the click as she locked the door from the outside.

He had to reach the knife he kept taped to the underside of his right-side bedrail. He strained against the straps binding his wrists, trying to loosen them enough to grasp the knife. He was enticingly close, yet he couldn’t quite reach the hidden weapon.

As he thought of Althea, alone and vulnerable, he pulled harder against the straps. Back and forth, back and forth. He felt the moisture on his forehead, and the trickling sensation in his armpits. The straps bit into the soft flesh of his wrists. He set his jaw, and kept pulling.

While he worked to free himself, his mind ran over and over the stranger’s words.
The man was obviously a lawyer; he had mentioned a law office. He had said he was there to write a will. And Mrs. Hill had presented the woman who resembled her, probably her mother, as Mrs. Craft. Mrs. Craft, whose last husband had left her his extensive real estate holdings. Mrs. Craft, who didn’t have any family, and no friends outside the nursing home.
The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. 

Clay thought his bonds were minutely looser. The pain in his wrists was excruciating. He could feel a dampness around the straps. Whether it was sweat or blood, he couldn’t be sure.

His mind was moving as quickly as his arms.
What about Angelique Crimpton? Why would the nurse come into the hospital on her night off, dressed up as a ghost?

His fingertips grazed the hilt of the knife. As adrenaline flooded his body, he struggled back and forth against the straps, straining so hard he saw the pinpoints of light behind his eyelids. With a mighty heave, he finally loosened one strap so his slick hand slid through the opening.

He ripped the knife free of the restraining tape, and cut the straps from his other, pinned wrist. He slid from the bed, panting. His heart beat so hard in his chest Clay thought he would surely have a heart attack.

Closing his eyes and throwing his head back, he forced his breathing to a more normal rhythm. Slowly, the pressure in his chest eased. Clay staggered to the door, and listened intently. He couldn’t hear a thing. He tried the door handle. As he already knew, it was locked.

In the pale moonlight, he turned toward the window. Carefully, he unlatched it. Grasping it with both hands, he tried to heave it open. Layers of old paint thwarted him, and it remained stubbornly closed.

Clay crept to his closet. He reached inside. His hand closed over the spare, solid wood cane hanging in the dark recess, and he drew it out. He hefted it, assessing the weight.

He reached for the blanket on the rumpled bed. He wrapped the cane in the soft cotton fabric, and turned to the pale square of window. He raised the wrapped cane above his head, and then sharply struck the window with it. The glass exploded outward with what seemed to his sensitive ears to be a deafening crash.

Clay ran to the door, and listened.

When he didn’t hear the sounds of running footsteps, he hurried to the window. He bundled the blanket on the windowsill to protect himself from the broken glass, then hefted himself on it. He pivoted on his behind, ignoring the crunching of glass under the blanket.

Clay hesitated. The dark, seemingly impenetrable woods were behind him. That way, he knew, led to a large house on the river. He could go there for help…He hoped Esther had made it through to get the police, but he couldn’t bet Althea’s life on it.

He trotted to the parking lot, checking frequently over his shoulder. The large, sprawling building was only dimly lit, as usual for the time of night, and no one was around.

His hands shaking with urgency, he tried the driver’s side door of the car nearest to him. Locked. He worked his way through the few cars scattered in the deserted parking lot. Panic began to rise up through his body, nearly choking him. All locked. He looked up. One car was parked near the lobby.

If he tried that one, he’d be in full view of anyone at the nurses’ station or in the common room. On the other hand, it was the only car left. It was his only hope of escape, and knew he had to try it, no matter what the risk.

Crouching down to reduce the chance of anyone inside seeing him, Clay trotted awkwardly to the car. He bent over the door. It was his last chance to escape. He tugged at the handle. Locked. His entire body seemed to sag in hopeless defeat.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. His body twisted into a defensive position to meet the new threat.

Her eyes blurred with tears, Tara packed the last of her belongings in the box on her desk. Ten years, and it all came down to a cardboard box of odds and ends.

“Ms. Ross.”

Tara’s head jerked up, and she blinked the tears from her eyes. When she recognized the man leaning against the doorway of her office, the impersonal smile on her face faded. “Lieutenant Camden! What are you doing here?”

“Just tying up a few loose ends.” He sauntered to the chair next to Tara’s desk, and gracefully dropped into it.

Tara felt a stab of panic in her mid-section. “Loose ends?” she squeaked.

The blue eyes were expressionless. “I searched Reed’s office and his desk. What did you think I meant?”

Tara sighed in relief. For the first time, she noticed the manila envelope in his hand. “Did you find anything?”

He hefted the envelope. “Not much. We’ve searched his house, his car, and his office. We can’t find the gun he used for the murders.”

Tara’s smooth brow furrowed. “Does that lend credence to Marisa’s theory Payton didn’t kill anyone?”

The lieutenant shrugged his shoulders. Wearily, he loosened his tie. “It raises more questions than it answers.” He peered into the box on her desk. “What’s this?”

“I’m resigning my position as the Director of Marketing.”

“Doesn’t the hospital need you more now than ever?” The strong face reflected compassion, and the eyes were tinged with pity.

Tara stood up. “You know that I did it, don’t you? Alex and Marisa covered for me, and even Payton’s mother contradicted his statement, but you know I went there to kill Payton Reed!”

Camden smiled. “I’ve interviewed a lot of criminals in my time. Not only do they generally wait for me to accuse them, but they also invariably deny it!”

Hiding her face in her hands, Tara fell back into her chair.

“Ms. Ross.” He waited for her to uncover her tear-stained face. “If you’d killed him, we’d be having an entirely different conversation. However, all you did was shoot the lamp.”

Tara’s pink mouth opened in astonishment.

Camden’s smile widened into a grin. “Please, Ms. Ross, give me some credit. I am a police lieutenant. For the most part, my job involves paperwork, scheduling officers, and making work assignments. To keep from losing my sanity in the bureaucratic morass, I get personally involved in selected cases. While you and your friends have nearly driven me mad, the upside is I keep my edge. I also have to admit I’ve had some fun.” He sobered. “Why did you go there to kill him?”

Tara focused on the paperweight on her desk. “I started working at a hospital ten years ago as a marketing intern. My previous employer had told me if I wanted to advance, I would have to have sex with him. Of course, I refused, and I quit that job. When I came to work here, I found most of the directors were women and the CEO never once abused his authority. When I was promoted, I knew it was on my own merits, not because of how I look.

“I developed a drinking problem. I worked hard not to let it affect my job. At some point, though, the line blurred and it did effect my job. When a friend of mine went into chemical dependency rehab, I got sober, too. Unfortunately, I got more and more involved in the internet, especially an online group that I run. I spent all my off time on it. Soon, I was spending my work hours on it as well.”

“So the online activities took the place of drinking as your new addiction?”

Tara ran an agitated hand through her blonde curls. “Very insightful. Anyway, Payton tried to fire me because of my online activities. I was furious with him.”

“Mad enough to kill him? You said he tried to get you fired…”

Tara heaved a deep breath. “Marisa saved me this time. I thought if he was out of the way, we’d get a CEO who wasn’t so…in my business.”

“You thought if you got him out of the way, things would revert back to the way they were.” The young police lieutenant crossed his legs.

“I thought that, but I was wrong.” In her agitation, she stood up. “The previous corporation no longer exists. We have new owners. Marisa was right. Even now that Payton has been arrested, the corporate office will send someone else just like him. And healthcare itself has changed so dramatically in the past decade. The money we get from the insurance companies and the government is less than before, even though we have more patients.” Tara shrugged.

“Perhaps it’s time for you to move on. If you get professional help, you can overcome the online addiction. You have a strong marketing background you could take anywhere. Banking, manufacturing, higher education—the possibilities are endless. You could start afresh.”

Tara’s laugh was shaky. “You sound like a professional recruiter.”

Camden laughed outright. “I’ve been compared to a lot of things, but never a headhunter.”

Tara flopped into her chair. “Do you think there’s any validity in Marisa’s theory?”

“That the killer is still running around loose?” Camden twisted his neck. “Normally, the most obvious answer is the correct one.” As Tara opened her mouth, he raised his hand. “Normally. In this case, however, something keeps bothering me.”

Tara half rose from her seat. “What?”

“I don’t know. Call it a hunch or a feeling or intuition.”

“You’re scaring me. If Payton didn’t kill Jonah, then Marisa is still in danger. We must protect her! Let’s go to her house now, and make sure she’s okay.”

“Ms. Ross, it’s very late. How would we explain barging in on Marisa? A niggling sensation in our guts?”

“Lieutenant Camden! Marisa will understand. Let’s go!” Frantic with a sudden surge of anxiety, Tara grabbed her purse. As she preceded him from the room, she looked back. “If we’re going to join forces to barge in on her in the middle of the night, can I at least call you by your first name?”

As Tara flipped off the light and pulled the door shut, she became aware of her companion’s uncomfortable silence. She looked at him inquiringly.

The lawman took her arm. “They call me Cam at the station.”

She stopped in mid-stride. “What’s your real first name?”

“Dreamus. My name is Dreamus Camden.”

“Dreamus.” She rolled the name around on her tongue. “I like it.”