Читать книгу Fair Warning - Hannah Alexander - Страница 11

W illow carried an armload of packages into the motel room that she had just rented for the week. Ginger followed close behind, also loaded down with packages.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” Ginger released her burden onto the cheap, floral-print spread that covered the only bed in the small room. “The guest bedroom at the house where I’m staying is three times this size, the ambiance is—”

“I’m sure it’s a paradise.” Willow suppressed a smile, surprised by the rapport she had developed with this woman with the big mouth and the bigger…uh…fanny.

For the past three hours, after treating Willow to a generous feast at a breakfast buffet, Ginger had played tour guide between stops at the outlet malls. The woman had given a rundown of the shortcuts and backstreets that would help Willow avoid Highway 76—the Branson creep show during the busy months, when traffic crept along more slowly than the tourists on the sidewalks.

Ginger pulled some articles of clothing from one of the bags and spread them on the bed. “Well, anyway, as I said, I don’t know that it’ll benefit you much to stay right here so close to the hospital when you already know the shortcuts through town. Graham gave the other renters condo suites. Insurance covers it.”

“Is there a condo nearby?”

“Here in Branson, there’s always a condo nearby. There’s a furnished duplex over on Blackner that’s always looking for renters. The manager’s a friend of your brother’s. It’d be barely a five-minute drive to the hospital from there.” Ginger quirked an unplucked, copper-bronze eyebrow. “However, the best place to stay is—”

“I know, I know.” Willow chuckled. “Hideaway. You sound like a commercial for the place.” She had almost weakened a time or two under Ginger’s determined but sweet-natured onslaught, especially since she enjoyed this woman’s laid-back attitude and up-front sense of humor.

But she couldn’t allow others to control her life right now, no matter how well-meaning they were. They didn’t know her situation, and she needed that control.

Ginger held up the one purchase she’d made for herself at the Dress Barn. “Mind if I use your bathroom to try this on?” She glanced toward the tiny room. “If I can fit into that broom closet. I want to see if our all-we-could-eat breakfast has affected my dress size in the past couple of hours.”

While Ginger changed, Willow unpacked socks, shoes, jeans, T-shirts, toiletries and a flashlight, while listening to Ginger’s comments, accompanied by an occasional grunt from the bathroom.

“This dress is the gift Graham’s getting me for my birthday,” Ginger said through the crack in the door, which she’d left ajar. “He just doesn’t know it yet. I plan to spring it on him before he can buy me something totally inappropriate.”

Willow unwrapped a package of socks. “When’s your birthday?”

“Next Tuesday. I’ll be fifty-three.”

“No way.”

“Big way. My age is one of the reasons I was forced to come back to America.”

Back to America? “Fifty-three isn’t old.”

“It is to some people.”

“Where were you living?”

Another grunt, then a low mutter about too many buttons. “Belarus. I’m a physician’s assistant, and for ten years I worked at a mission clinic on the outskirts of Minsk.”

“You’re a missionary?” Now that she thought about it, Willow realized that Ginger hadn’t talked much about herself today, nor had she asked any personal questions about Willow. What she had done was fill Willow in on the Branson hot spots and tell her all about the charms of Hideaway and its residents. And she’d called the hospital every hour for a progress report on Preston, who was still sleeping.

Ginger had been the perfect hostess, putting Willow totally at ease—quite an accomplishment. Until today, Willow would have thought that would be impossible.

“Was,” Ginger said. “Was a missionary. Big difference.”

“Why did you have to come back?”

“Heart problems. Mine got broken one too many times by some of the children who came through our clinic. Of course, the chest pains might’ve had something to do with it, as well.”

“Chest pains?” Willow asked.

“Yes, and some big mouth told Graham about it, and he insisted I come back to the States for a workup. So here I am. I had the workup, found a little problem, nothing worth mentioning, and while I was away, some new med school grad replaced me.” She came out the door, her face flushed from exertion. “But I’m not bitter.”

She wore a leopard-print dress that made her look like a very fluffy female stuffed animal with Grand Canyon cleavage. “Well, what do you think?”

Willow tried to keep all expression from her face. “About what?”

Ginger held her arms out and did an ungainly model’s pirouette. “How do I look?”

Oh, boy.

“Come on, give it to me straight.”

“The color looks good,” Willow said. “Excellent color choice.”

“You really think so?” Ginger pattered barefoot to the small dresser and did another pirouette, straining to turn her head far enough to see the back of the dress. “You know, this is the first time in years I’ve had a chance to go shopping for something nice like this. I don’t even know what’s in fashion anymore.”

“Nose rings and tattoos,” Willow said dryly.

“That I cannot do. I’m not a fan of pain. So you really think this dress looks good on me?” She turned to face Willow, hands on hips.

No way was Willow going to lie to this woman. “Um. What I said was that the color is good on you.”

Ginger blinked. “The color?” She turned back to the mirror and frowned. “Granted, I’d have to do something drastic to rein in the neckline, but don’t you think the print gives me a certain flair?”

“Maybe a vertical tiger-print top with a slim black skirt.”

“Oh-oh.” Ginger patted her derriere, chuckling. “Looks like my love for pig fat, borscht and potato pancakes has caught up with me. You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted kholodets.”

“How long have you been back in the States?”

“Going on a month,” Ginger said, turning again to check her reflection. “You don’t think a nice wide black belt would do the trick?”

Willow made a face.

Ginger grimaced. “Didn’t think so.”

“What did you do before you went to Belarus ten years ago?” Willow asked.

“Oh, the usual. Had to get married at seventeen, was a scandal in our small hometown and a disgrace to the family. I was divorced at eighteen, got married again at twenty-five, was widowed at twenty-nine.” Ginger’s gaze sought Willow’s in the reflection of the mirror. “Life does go on, even though I didn’t want it to back then.”

Willow held the gaze. She swallowed. “Any children?”

“Two boys. Twins. They were the reason for the first marriage, and the reason why I did keep going after the divorce and after their stepfather died. They’ve got families of their own now, teenagers and all, paying for their raising.” She winked at Willow. “You?”

Willow closed her eyes and nodded. “I lost a little girl when I was four months along, a month after my husband’s death. Pedestrian versus car.” She didn’t know this fun-loving missionary well enough to confess that she suspected the “accident” was no accident. Saying that in the past had earned her some uncomfortable looks, and even more disconcerting comments.

Ginger turned from the mirror and walked over to plop down onto the chair beside the bed. “Oh, honey, you’ve been through it, haven’t you?”

Willow didn’t want to sink into grief today. She wanted to forget the nightmare for once and forget the reason she was here, doing this right now—because there had been a fire.

She’d become so lonely and overwhelmed by her dreams and her fears that she’d finally given in to her brother’s insistence that she move in with him and forget about what was happening in K.C. He was worried about her emotional stability.

Her own brother probably thought she was neurotic, maybe even psychotic.

And now he needed her, and she wasn’t even sure if he would be willing to accept her help, or if he’d try to micromanage her life, even from his hospital bed.

She realized Ginger was watching her closely.

“You doing okay, hon?”

Willow sighed, surveying the jumble of plastic bags and clothing strewn across the bed. “I’m just a little overwhelmed right now.”

“You didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. I think I’ll change back into my comfy duds, repackage this wild outfit and take it back to the Dress Barn. That way I’ll be out of your hair and you can take a nap.”

Willow looked at the clock. It was after lunchtime, but at last check, Preston had still been sleeping. Maybe a nap would be exactly what she needed. “I think I could use some rest, but I need to get the key and pick up my car.”

“You don’t have to do any of that right now,” Ginger said, patting Willow’s arm as she rose from the bed. “I’m still full as a tick from that late breakfast, but how about an early supper in a few hours? I’m desperate for some girl talk. I love Graham, but he hasn’t had a lot of time since I’ve returned to listen to my chatter.”

Willow looked at the clock beside the bed, then nodded. “You’ve got a date. Give me a couple of hours?”

“I’ll give you three. Try to get some sleep.”

Graham completed the sutures on a five-year-old child who had run through a window, reassured the little boy’s mother one last time that the wound should heal with very little scarring and handed her a sheet of printed instructions for wound care. He also made an appointment card for her, with the date for suture removal.

The phone had rung almost constantly since he’d begun the repair, and his assistant had gone to lunch early today to run errands for the clinic. He needed more help.

He’d thought about asking Ginger to fill in a couple of days a week. As he expanded the clinic—a necessity if he was going to keep up with the needs of so many patients—he would be able to utilize her skills. Right now, however, he needed another volunteer office assistant, someone to answer phones, make appointments, follow up on patient care.

An additional nurse would be great, as well, and a PA such as Ginger would be a blessing from heaven, especially if Graham had to start moonlighting in the E.R. for income.

That was a definite possibility after last night. He could lose renters over this. In fact, one of his renters, Carl Mackey, a transplant from up north, often pitched in here when he wasn’t on duty at the hospital.

As the mother and child left the office, he finished his report on the little boy’s accident, then checked his messages. He had fifteen.

He should never have come to the clinic today. But then, the woman who had just left the office would have incurred a major bill in the emergency department, particularly since she had no insurance. She could barely afford to keep a roof over her head as it was.

Winters in Branson could be difficult for people in the service and entertainment industries. The downtime put a lot of people on the unemployment lines between January and March. April and May were often catch-up months for those with financial struggles. Several of the units at the lodge had only recently been occupied by newcomers to Branson.

Graham rubbed his eyes wearily, then picked up the telephone and dialed the number of the last person to leave a message—the Hollister fire captain.

Graham had been in close contact with the fire department all morning.

As the phone rang, he thought again about Preston’s remark that Willow would probably take the fire personally. She seemed like a perfectly sane, capable woman who was obviously wary of strangers. If she truly had experienced attacks from the person who had killed her husband, it would be a little strange if it hadn’t affected her to some degree.

Preston’s problem right now was his helplessness. Graham would be the one to make the decisions for him in the next few days…maybe even weeks. Those decisions might also affect Willow.

One of the messages on the machine was from Ginger, informing him that Willow had insisted on securing her own lodging, which was a motel near the hospital.

It disappointed him, but he wasn’t surprised.

The phone was answered on the seventh ring. It was the fire captain.

“Hello, Captain Frederick. Graham Vaughn here. Do you have any good news for me this time?”

There was a long sigh, then the captain’s deep voice, with nasal twang, came over the line. “Sorry. We knew pretty much from the first arrival that it was arson, Dr. Vaughn.”

“Graham. Just call me Graham.”

There was a pause. “Don’t think so, Doc. You operated on my wife four years ago when she had that burst appendix. She was scared spitless, and you took such good care of her it was like she was your own. You’re the Doctor.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“So that’s why I can’t figure out why anybody’d want to hurt your property.”

Graham closed his eyes. “Neither can I. How was the fire started?”

“Pretty simple. The perp used the old cigarette-and-matchbook trick. Attach a cigarette to an open book of matches, so the matches will ignite when the cigarette burns down, giving the arsonist time to get away. Looks like the perp took plenty of precaution—used four of these babies, after pouring a stream of lighter fluid from each matchbook to the house, which he had liberally doused with gasoline. It’s no wonder Ms. Traynor smelled the fuel.”

“Any leads?”

“Not much to go on right now. My men and women are good, and we’ve got a lot of help on this case, but we haven’t found a culprit yet, only the sighting of a black sedan in the neighborhood sometime before the fire began.”

“Who saw that?” Graham asked.

“A neighbor down the road from you, coming home from working a late party.”

“There are a lot of people with black sedans,” Graham said. “That doesn’t tell us much.” Carl Mackey had a black sedan, as did the Jasumbacks.

“You’re right, it doesn’t. We’ll check out your renters, of course. We’ve already started the interview process. We did receive a call later this morning about Jolene Tucker. She was run off the road and injured when driving back into town after a trip out to your place for a quick photo shoot just before first light this morning.”

Graham frowned. He’d known she would show up sooner or later. “Who would have run her off the road?”

“I can think of a few people who’d like to do it,” the man muttered.

“Where is she now?”

“No idea, but she earned herself a trip to the E.R. via ambulance. She had a banged-up leg, was treated and released. She insisted it was deliberate.”

“Did she get a description of the automobile that ran her off the road?”

“Sure did,” the captain said. “We even have the vehicle impounded. It was a brown Ford Expedition stolen from a convenience store two blocks from Clark Memorial Hospital earlier this morning because some trusting idiot left his keys in the ignition while he went in to get a cup of coffee. Bet he doesn’t do that again.”

“So no leads there.”

“Nope. The police found the vehicle abandoned later, also near the hospital. Might not be any connection to our fire, but we’re checking all possibilities. You can bet the incident will be in tomorrow’s paper. Jolene’s need for attention might even be a good thing right now, if it attracts a witness or two.”

Graham thought again about Preston’s concerns for Willow and her fears that someone might be after her…and last night’s case of mistaken identity. “What kind of car was Jolene driving?”

“It’s a red Kia Sportage, which is the reason she didn’t sustain any more damage than she did. Good little cars. My wife drives one.”

As the captain lapsed into rhapsody about the delights of his wife’s car, Graham closed his eyes and recalled a detail from the fire last night. He’d come out of the apartment with Mrs. Engle and seen the row of vehicles in the carport across the drive from the lodge, specifically checking to make sure none had been damaged. He’d seen an unfamiliar small dark red SUV among them.

Coincidence? Had to be. But what if it wasn’t?

“Doc, are you there?” Captain Frederick asked.

“Yes, sorry. Jolene did believe the wreck was deliberate?”

“She said it was deliberate, but we all know that woman likes to overdramatize everything.”

“Something just occurred to me, Captain. I may be overreacting here, but it’s possible that Willow Traynor might drive a red Subaru Outback. She looks enough like Jolene in low light that someone could have mistaken Jolene for her. I made that mistake myself.”

“Where is Ms. Traynor right now?”

“I hope she’s safely shopping with my sister, but I think I’ll make sure. Meanwhile, a friend of mine was having a replacement key made for Willow’s car. He had to get the particulars from Preston because I didn’t have them. I wasn’t involved in that conversation.”

“Better keep your friend away from the car. We don’t want to pass up any leads, even if they seem far-fetched. We’ll need to check out that car first.”

“Check it out?”

“What if someone did intentionally run Jolene Tucker off the road because they mistook her car for Ms. Traynor’s? If they were serious enough to do that kind of damage, and if they discovered later that they had the wrong car, they might take it another step and set a booby trap of some kind. Stranger things have been known to happen.”

“I’ll call my friend now. Then I think I’ll take a drive out to the complex.”

“Can you get us the key?” the captain asked. “The officers can jimmy the lock with no problem, but it would be better if we didn’t have to.”

“If we have Willow’s permission, I’ll gladly give the police the key. I’ll just have my friend meet us there.”

“They’ll get her permission before they make any attempts to enter the car, of course. I don’t suppose Ms. Traynor would know about anyone who might have a reason to hurt her, would she?”

Graham thought again about his conversation with Preston. Would she? “It’s possible, Captain.”

“Well, this could be a long shot, but right now we don’t have any other leads on any of the fires that were set last night.”

Graham remembered the other fires that had spread the department so thin last night. “Are you telling me they were all arson?”

“That’s right. All three of them, same M.O., same everything.”

“Was last night the first time this has happened?”

“First I’ve ever seen. How’s Mr. Black doing?”

“He’s in a lot of pain right now.”

“Think he might have made an enemy? Maybe a former renter?”

“We haven’t had any complaints.”

“Well, you just let me know as soon as you find Ms. Traynor, will you?”

Graham promised to do so, then hung up, praying that he was jumping to faulty conclusions, praying that they all were.

He pressed Ginger’s speed dial number, hoping against past experience that this time, for the first time, she would actually be carrying the cell phone he’d given her.

Nope. Not Ginger. She’d probably left it in her car somewhere, relegated to the glove compartment, or perhaps beneath the seat.

He left a message on her voice mail, knowing she probably wouldn’t check it. In fact, her phone could even be out of juice.

And he needed to talk to her right now.