Sinking Ships: An Abishag's First Mystery (The Abishag Mysteries Book 1) Page 6

  Kat speculated that Hillary knew Brad Jeppers had done something havey-cavey in the whole pirated videos thing. Kat ended that message saying, she’d have “her people” look into Jeppers further.

  Havey-cavey?

  Her third message was about the investment firm. Kat didn’t mention the executive, only that Hillary had worked as a receptionist for two years and quit the firm shortly after payments from the executive began appearing in her accounts. She ended the message by saying her “consultant” still had a couple more interviews to do and that she’d let me know when he got back to her.

  Kat’s fourth message was the shortest—nothing on the neighbor. She’d stopped by the house on her way home, and when no one answered the door, she picked the lock. The hysterical yapping of the resident Pomeranian drove her from the house. Deleting the message immediately, I feared needing to bail Kat out of jail before completing our investigation.

  Remembering her tentative message about Thomas’s accounts, I made a note to check the more recent disks. I couldn’t remember anything significant happening in Thomas’s life during the time he started paying Hillary off. I thought again about the salvage entries in the 1950s accounts when Hillary had been a baby. Maybe she’d overheard something as a child? Maybe she’d sat on the information till she needed the money.

  I was beginning to understand why Tina said Hillary deserved to die. When I could figure out how to ask tactfully, I’d see how much Tina knew.

  As I slipped my iPhone into my pocket, a yawn overtook me. My brain had stopped its circling, and I could now nap. I made a mental note to talk to Mrs. Timmons. She knew something about Thomas and his wife Carol, maybe something worth blackmail.

  A strange list of murder suspects—a brother-in-law pirating videos, a former employer, a neighbor with a crazy Pomeranian, and maybe my brain-dead husband. Assuming a blackmail victim was the murderer. I’d better talk to Kat about that—a solid proof hinged on its assumptions.

  The words of the angry note left on the counter echoed in my head. Was blackmail the only reason for Hillary’s murder?

  As I huddled on the cold boulder, the cell phone vibrated, but I would deal with it later. My thoughts turned suddenly to Vicky checking Thomas’s color. Would he still be around for me to warm his bed again? Something twisted in my chest. He’d paid liberally to keep Hillary silent and for a long time. How evil had been his deeds the night of the shipwreck? Would I be able to lie next to him, wondering, and guard his last nights with comfort and peace?

  Rule 6 in the Handbook for Abishag Wives: She always puts her husband first.

  Could I do that? Would I protect my old, brain-dead husband at the cost of my life? Could I endanger my friends?

  Sick with exhaustion, I stared at what was left of the freighter Isabelle—the canted hull above the waterline, hunks of metal rusting on the beach. What if despite all the data we collected and clues we traced, the killer found us first?

  Leaning into the hot, dry Santa Ana winds blowing out to sea, I dragged myself to the house and upstairs. In my bedroom, I dropped the sweater on the floor and collapsed on the bed. Should I call Florence Harcourt and tell her that I couldn’t do this? Before I could reach for the phone, weariness overtook soul searching, and a tidal wave of sleep crashed over me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I dreamt that Thomas woke from his coma while wrapped in my arms. He called me Carol, and then his gray-green eyes widened.

  “Who are you?” The little man, who’d looked like a child asleep, had a deep voice, rough in his rage. His face, gentle in dying, turned menacing.

  “Leave well enough alone.” A storm beating against the house swallowed his words. As I tried to escape, he reached for me.

  I gasped when a hand touched mine. I woke hearing wind pummeling the windows.

  Dog flipped the light switch, and I covered my face against the merciless glare.

  “It’s 9. If you want dinner and a shower before your time with Crowder, you have to get up now.”

  I scrambled out of bed, still blinking in the bright light, wailing, “How can it be so late? I wanted to talk to Mrs. Timmons, and—”

  “You needed your sleep.” He pushed me from the room. “Mrs. Timmons left at 4, but she made soup.”

  Groggy, I slumped at the kitchen table, toes hooked in the chair rungs. My skin still crawled knowing that the floor had been covered with Hillary’s blood, and I didn’t want my feet touching it.

  Dog handed me a loaf of fresh baked bread, and I sawed off a hunk and slathered it with sweet butter. The steam rising from the pot on the stove smelled of tomatoes, onions, and tarragon. He filled bowls with thick vegetable soup for both of us.

  I peeked at my phone, but Dog took it away as he sat. “Kat told me she left about 40 messages, but you can listen to them tomorrow. Focus on Thomas.”

  I looked longingly at the phone. “Did Kat tell you…?”

  He shook his head. “Finish your dinner.”

  He cleared our plates while I showered. Afterwards I used the first wife’s lavender lotion while Florence Harcourts’ instructions about aromatherapy and the comfort of familiar scents simmered in my subconscious. The remains of the dream and the possibility of evil doings made me wonder how I could lie next to him. As I reluctantly entered the bedroom, I found that Dog again had arranged Thomas on his side. He softened the bedroom lights as I flicked off the bathroom light.

  Standing next to the bed, I hesitated, seeing only the little man, his pink skin rosy like a child’s. Dog asked softly, “You okay, Les?”

  I nodded, slipping into bed, my arms automatically wrapping around Thomas. The man who may have illegally salvaged a sinking ship, the man who may have seen the drowned bodies and never reported them, the man who may have been paying his blackmailing niece for years—that man was gone. Only this Thomas remained.

  “Sleep well, my Thomas,” I whispered against his neck. Through the long night, I watched his shoulders rise and fall.

  * * *

  When the mantel clock chimed 6, I carefully slipped from bed. I heard Dog climb the stairs and rubbed my arm. It’d fallen asleep holding Thomas. It felt like it’d be numb forever.

  I nodded at Dog as we passed, me heading for the bathroom and him for Thomas. When I returned, Thomas lay on his back and Dog was checking his vitals.

  “How’s he doing?” I yawned.

  “He’s still dying, but his vitals are holding steady. Mrs. Timmons won’t be here for an hour, but you can raid the fridge if you’re hungry.”

  I shook my head, remembering the dragging weariness of the day before. If I was to solve a murder while fulfilling my duties as an Abishag wife, I needed to pace myself. “I’m taking a nap, but I’ll set my alarm this time.”

  He nodded. “Kat said she’d be here after 11 but wanted to talk to you when she arrived.”

  I hid a grin. She’d left early and was returning late. Typical Kat.

  Dog caught my grin, and his lips quirked in a rueful one of his own. “When Vicky Silas takes over, I’ll tell her not to disturb you.”

  “Vicky Sellars.” I stifled another yawn and headed for my bedroom.

  I woke before the alarm two hours later, refreshed. Briny sea air rippled the curtains, but it was a warm breeze so I changed into khaki shorts and a red tank top. The night before I’d gone downstairs barefoot because it’d been only Dog and me. I figured Mrs. Timmons wouldn’t mind, and I didn’t care what Vicky thought. My Thomas would be fine with me not wearing those wretched sandals.

  Next time I married a brain-dead rich man (not that I planned being an Abishag wife again), I’d stick to my beloved huaraches.

  As I opened the bedroom door, the smell of fresh-baked banana muffins wiped out any worries about my couture. Thomas’s door was ajar and I saw Vicky Sellars pottering around the room. Silently I sped down the stairs, through the foyer and dining room, scarcely noticing the warm carpet and cold tile.

  “Mrs. Timmons,” I sang as I
pushed open the kitchen door and stalled on the threshold. She wasn’t alone.

  Sitting in the chair I’d tagged mine, a guy about my age stared at me, a half-eaten muffin in hand, his eyes and mouth wide open. Not nearly as handsome as Donovan Reid, he had dark hair, a broad, tanned face, and crinkly gray eyes of the type that some females find appealing. A pair of muddy work boots sat on the mat at the back door. He wore holey gray socks. Dressed in jeans and a sweat-stained t-shirt, his dirty hands tightened on the muffin.

  Mrs. Timmons looked at him adoringly.

  I didn’t like the way he eyed my shorts and tank top, so I turned to Mrs. Timmons, trying to remember what she said about her family. “Your grandson, ma’am?”

  He laughed, but his eyes studied me with no humor. “Actually your grandson. Step-grandson to be exact.”

  The grandson of Thomas Crowder looked like a bricklayer, not a trust fund baby.

  “Sit down, Leslie.” Mrs. Timmons herded me to the table with a plate containing a muffin, a sliced peach, and yogurt. A coffee pot and mugs sat on the table. “This is Miss Tina’s youngest—Sebastian.”

  I poured a cup of coffee, breathing in the fragrant steam. “That’s a mouthful. What do people call you?”

  “Sebastian,” he said. “The name was your husband’s idea.”

  What had Thomas been thinking? I took a bite of muffin. Heavenly.

  His gaze tracked down my bare arms. “So you’re my new grandmother.” His gaze returned to my face, but I couldn’t read what he’d decided. “How’s my grandfather doing?”

  Behind me, I felt Mrs. Timmons pause at the sink. “The hospice aide said there’s no change this morning.” I said. “He had a quiet night, peaceful.”

  “You can tell the difference between peaceful and brain dead?”

  Mrs. Timmons gasped. Though his tone was mild, I saw flint in his eyes.

  “Sebastian.” She refilled his coffee cup. “Miss Greene is helping your grandpa find his way to heaven as comfortably and lovingly as she can. Behave.”

  I toyed with the yogurt, but I’d lost my appetite. I could handle the detective’s disgust with Abishag wives, probably because it wasn’t personal. I could handle Donovan Reid, who in his self-absorbed although wildly handsome way, treated me like a paper doll. His priority was the reputation of the Abishag Agency.

  But this guy seemed to see the real me—and found me wanting. Maybe because he was Thomas’s grandson, it hurt.

  With Herculean effort, I forced myself to say serenely, “The aide is with your grandfather now, but he’s ready for visitors. Would you like to see him?”

  Impassive, Sebastian nodded. He kissed Mrs. Timmons’ cheek and headed for the stairs. Tucking a muffin in a bag, she grimaced good-naturedly, enveloping me in a cinnamon-scented hug. “Never you mind, sweetie. It’s his grief talking.”

  The paper bag crackling pleasantly in my hand, I hurried to catch up with Sebastian. He’d stalled on the bedroom threshold, staring.

  As a hospital volunteer in high school, I’d held babies. Sometimes the parents would watch me cuddling their frail infants taped with tubes, looking more like stranded fish than newborns. Sometimes I saw their despair, sometimes I saw repulsion, and sometimes I saw them treating their child as already dead when the baby still needed holding.

  I saw some of all this in Sebastian’s eyes. “Come on.” I took his hand, and he let me pull him to Thomas’s bed.

  I nodded at Vicky, who seemed to be trying to disappear into the drapes. “How about opening the shade? Thomas could use a little sunshine.”

  I dropped Sebastian’s hand, and he licked his lips nervously, retreating a half step as sunlight illuminated Thomas. Dog had changed his clothes; he no longer wore simple, pale blue cotton pajamas but something more glamorous in a dark sapphire satin. I suspected my Thomas didn’t approve of satin, that he’d stashed it in a drawer when his late wife or maybe Tina had given it to him.

  Gently I took my husband’s hand, his skin dry and thin as tissue, and rubbed it lightly with my thumb. “Good morning, Thomas. Sebastian’s dropped by to see you. Good thing you’re looking so dapper.”

  “He can’t hear you.” Gingerly Sebastian fingered the sheet at the foot of the bed.

  “We can’t be sure. There are studies showing that even patients with minimal to no brain activity exhibit chemical and bio-electric changes when touched or spoken to.”

  I expected Sebastian to be skeptical but instead saw a faint trace of hope on his face.

  I decided to forego the Handbook’s rules on leaving family members alone with the dying. “Would you like a few minutes with your grandfather?” I asked.

  After another few seconds of lip chewing, he nodded.

  I released Thomas’s hand gently. “Thomas, we’ll be back in about fifteen minutes. Let’s go, Vicky.” I left my muffin on the desk and nudged Vicky from the room.

  Surprised to see us, Mrs. Timmons rallied and poured coffee for Vicky. The aide looked askance at the kitchen floor, mumbled she’d take her coffee to the patio and fled.

  Mrs. Timmons sighed. “As if Miss Hillary still lingered.” Which gave me the cold grue, and I thought about fleeing myself. I stiffened my spine and stayed to pump Mrs. T for more information.

  Pretending bravado, I slid back into my chair, stuck a finger in my abandoned yogurt and licked it. She handed me a spoon.

  “So that’s Sebastian.“ Odd. I hadn’t intended to talk about him at all.

  She picked up a towel and dried a muffin pan. “And Mister Crowder’s favorite, if he’d admit it, which he never did. First time he’s come inside since his grandfather was brung home to die.”

  “Really?” I slowly licked the yogurt off the spoon. I could tell this stuff was homemade. I’ve eaten every store-bought yogurt out there, and none tasted liked this. “Sebastian seems like the dutiful sort. He’s been busy?”

  I had no idea what sort Sebastian was.

  “Been hard on the boy, seeing his grandpa like that. Thomas Crowder, little as he was, filled a room. He’s dwindled to near nothing.”

  Made me glad that the only Thomas I knew had been the one I married. Men who filled a room intimidated me, but my Thomas could never do that.

  With obvious pride, she said, “Sebastian graduated from college when he was but 20; finished his Masters thesis in April. He’s planning on starting a doctorate program in anthropology next year. This summer he’s been working as a grounds man on Mister Crowder’s properties.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Properties? Thomas has more than this one?”

  Shaking with a deep belly laugh, she said, “Oh my, yes. Six houses, if you count the lodge in Colorado and the bungalow on Molokai. The four houses here in Southern California keep Sebastian busy enough. This one here, another in the desert, one near San Diego, and that smallish one in Santa Monica. That last one’s more a patio home, close to Mister Crowder’s corporate offices for when he worked late. Mister Sebastian lives at that one as he’s going to the university in the fall.”

  Great. So I might see him at school next year. How awkward would that be?

  “Course with that part-time gal they’ve hired to garden, Mister Sebastian don’t need to come out here more than Fridays.”

  A chill ran down my spine. Hillary was killed on Friday. Did Sebastian have reason to kill her?

  “Why’s he here today?”

  She winked. “I’m thinking he’s curious about you.”

  I felt my cheeks warm. Aware that my fifteen minutes were vanishing, I said, “I think it especially kind of Hillary, for the sake of the family, to have cared for Thomas.”

  Mrs. Timmons snorted. “Miss Hillary was never kind.” She pressed her lips together as if regretting speaking ill of the dead—or ill of the family.

  “Tina said something like that too, ma’am. That she wasn’t surprised Hillary had been murdered.” I pretended to speak reluctantly.

  A muscle twitched along Mrs. Timmons’s jaw. “An unnatural
person. A barracuda, my husband called her. Her eye was always on the prize, and she liked stomping on folks to get it.” She slipped the muffin pan into a cupboard and hung the towel neatly. “But no more on her. The police will find her killer, and I’ll be tempted to make him cupcakes. Though I won’t as there’s no rewarding them that breaks the Lord’s commandments.”

  Seeing that I was playing with my food more than eating it, she removed my plate. “You go on and rescue Mister Sebastian. Say something nice to the boy. It was a good deed for him to come when it hurts his heart so.”

  I scrambled out of the kitchen and ran upstairs. Looking drawn, Sebastian sat on a chair next to the bed, gripping Thomas’s hand, his eyes staring out the window to the hills beyond.

  When I touched his shoulder, he released his grandfather’s hand with a start and wiped his eyes. “Time for his meds?” he asked gruffly.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. The aides have all that figured out. If you want more time with Thomas, take it. I’d planned to read to him till the gardener comes.”

  Thankfully, Sebastian didn’t question why I needed to talk to the gardener. He stood, only a few inches taller than me, probably the size his grandfather had been when he’d “filled a room.”

  “I should go. I’m late.” He hesitated, and I smiled encouragingly. I couldn’t think of anything to say except that I hoped he hadn’t killed Hillary, so I just smiled.

  Impassively, he stared. “You know I told my mom not to get an Abishag wife for granddad, to let him die with dignity, not be the butt of every joke about geezers and co-ed bed-warmers.”

  I fought to keep smiling. He’s Thomas’s favorite, I reminded myself.

  “I’ve changed my mind. I’m glad you’re here for Granddad.” He swallowed, nodded curtly, and padded from the room in his holey socks.

  I ran to my room to watch Sebastian walk to a beater car parked near the gate. His hand trailed through the blackberry shrubs, popped a few berries into his mouth. That explained the stains on his hands.