Читать книгу Death By Email - Carol Hadley - Страница 11

“Code Blue!”

I always knew I’d write that in one of my books someday, but when it happens for real it’s dreadful. Especially if it happens to a friend — did I say that? Where’d that come from? I wouldn’t call Conrad Twitchell my friend if his life depended on it.

Okay, another poor choice of words.

He was dying and I suddenly realized I didn’t want him to. Now, don’t go thinking I was getting all soft with regrets for the things I said and thought about the Twitwit. It’s not my fault he was a target for some sicko mimicking my brilliant manuscript.

All right, so I sat beside his bed and watched him throughout the night. His convulsions were so violent the restraints dug into his wrists and each time the tremors subsided, he fell back looking quite dead. His face was pale and waxy, his eyes sunken and ringed with dark bruises. He looked like a mutant raccoon.

For a while I thought I was losing my edge. Then I realized that the only reason I didn’t ache to annihilate the kid, at that particular moment anyway, was because he wasn’t yapping at me in his annoying, condescending voice. That always made me crazy. Add to that the fact that he was the same age as my son.

That night it was touch and go. He coded twice and the doctors were amazed that his heart hadn’t sustained massive damage from the poison coursing through his body.

He reminded me of something out of a science-fiction movie with all those machines bleeping and the needles and IV bags dripping counteractive drugs into his veins.

Sometime in the early morning hours his pale hand, long fingers limp and clammy, slid toward me. Before realizing what I’d done, I offered my hand. I tried to retrieve it, but he twitched weakly every time I moved. It seemed as if he needed physical contact. I crouched unmoving beside him the rest of the night, watching him labor for each breath. His body shuddered from the deadly effects of the poison.

His breathing slowly returned to normal as pink and gold clouds over the Cascade Mountain range lit up the sky. He sighed once and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. Trust me, the reason I endured so much discomfort was only to avoid murder charges.

At my age, sitting motionless and hunched over a body for hours is unwise. Make that downright idiotic. I discovered this during the spectacular sunrise when I managed to work my hand loose. I wanted to leave before the officer posted outside the Twit’s door noticed I was gone.

My plan was to make a mad dash for home before I was missed. I use the word ‘dash’ loosely. There was creaking involved and lots of painful lurching until the kinks in my back and legs let go their paralyzing grip.

The blinking red light on my answering machine commanded my attention when I walked in the front door.

“Mia, it’s Tomas. Can you meet with me later today? I know it’s early, but GQ didn’t keep our appointment yesterday. I’d like to get your signature right away. Hopefully, I can catch up tomorrow with h-h-uh, GQ, so we won’t be too far off schedule.”

GQ’s failure to sign was the last thing I expected to hear. It was all we’d talked about for months. She wanted this as much as I did so I logged online to zap her an email, insisting she contact me. Then I logged off, suddenly afraid that I wouldn’t like what she had to say.

Maybe it was just as well that I didn’t connect with her. I ached to blast the traitor for using my plot and getting me into so much trouble. I wanted to ask who she thought she was, but the even bigger question was, “Why?”

It didn’t make any sense unless Twitchell had also plagued her with his bad manners and arrogance. That could have forced her to use my ingenious plot to eliminate him in a way I’d only had the courage to do on paper.

Yeah, sure! Then we’d discover an even bigger coincidence and learn that GQ and I live in the same city. Now that was reaching way too far, even with my imagination. Besides, I’d never mentioned Twitchell to her.

I took a deep breath and dialed the number my agent left on my machine.

“Mia! Thanks for returning my call. Hope it isn’t too inconvenient to see me this afternoon.”

“No problem, Tomas. I have to work, so how does four-thirty sound?”

“I’m staying at the Golden Hotel. Coffee shop okay?”

I hung up and collapsed in my easy chair. This was it! I’d sign that contract and finally be a professional writer.

Just in case I missed something, I rechecked my computer for messages from GQ. There were none so I logged off, a little disappointed, a lot relieved.

I admit I was bursting to brag a little to someone, anyone, about my huge adventure. It isn’t every day that I become the prime suspect for attempted murder, but boasting would have been in bad taste so instead of that, I’d have had to complain.

I settled instead for a hot shower and stale corn flakes.

Detective Smith stood on the porch two hours later when I opened my door to leave for the office.

“You left the hospital without telling anyone,” he complained.

“I didn’t think it was any of your business.”

Darn! Why can’t I keep my big mouth shut? I really want to find the creep who stole my plot, but antagonizing the police wouldn’t help.

“In this investigation, everything is my business.”

“If you insist. I’ve taken a shower, eaten breakfast and am now going to work.” I moved to step around him.

“Not so fast.” He held up a twisted hand, blocking my way.

“Am I under arrest?” I felt my face flush. A frisson of raised hairs chilled my scalp and arms.

“Not yet, but I still have some questions. I don’t see how you could have known that Mr. Twitchell was in danger of poisoning if you hadn’t done it.”

“If I’d kept my mouth shut, he’d have died and I wouldn’t be standing on my front steps answering your questions,” I snapped. “Why are you hassling me? I saved his life, Detective.”

“Oho, many would-be murderers are stricken with remorse and try to undo their crimes. But they are still just as guilty after all is said and done.”

“It’s been nice, but I have to go to work. Are you going to arrest me, or may I leave now?”

“There’s some people I want to see at the office, so I’ll follow you in. We’ll finish this interview there. You may go now.”

How I hate being dismissed, but did I really want to stand there arguing with him?