But Officer Jones said, "I could borrow my aunt's van. Her late husband was in a wheelchair and it's equipped with a mechanical ramp. She never even drives it anymore. She's got herself a little Honda."
"Officer Jones, have you any idea how much time, trouble, and paperwork this has saved? Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Nobody uses the van anymore. I like OldLady Turner, and will be glad to fetch her and bring her home."
"You're a good man. Thank you. And I wonder if — I shouldn't even ask this, but I will. If there's any way you can find out what they intend to do with all that money, I'd like to know."
"I'll do my best to think of a way to bring it up," he said. "She likes talking to me. Is it important?"
"Frankly, no," Mel admitted. "It's sheer curiosity. Don't bother if you don't feel comfortable about this."
"I'm curious, too."
Mel said, "I'll call the hospital back and tell them you're bringing her to visit her brother. Be sure to go in with her and see if you can decipher what Sven is trying to say."
"He's talking?"
"Not exactly. He's about half conscious and trying to say something. Nobody can tell what it is. Maybe his sister will understand him better than strangers."
Mel decided he should also be there at the meeting of brother and sister. But only in the background. He was casually loitering in the hall outside Sven's room when Officer Jones wheeled Miss Turner out of the elevator. She greeted Mel politely. "Thank you, Detective VanDyne, for making this possible."
He smiled and nodded and followed them into the room.
"Wheel me as close as you can," she said to Officer Jones.
When she was close enough, she put her hand on her brother's forearm and said, "Sven, I'm here. Hilda is here. And I'm going to see to it that you don't lollygag around in this bed for much longer. Sven, open your eyes and look at me."
He turned his head toward her, his eyes opening slightly, a bit cross-eyed.
"That's better," Hilda Turner said firmly, and patted his arm rather roughly.
Mel and Officer Jones exchanged looks that said, She's a tougher lady than we knew. Mel realized that it was probably she, as the big sister, who had bossed Sven around since childhood, and he was accustomed to obeying her.
"You're going to get much better with me around, Sven. If nice Officer Jones can bring me here every day, or even every other day, I'm going to see that you come home soon, good as new. Do you understand me?"
Sven, confined by tubes and monitors, managed a slight nod.
"All right. Now tell me this word you've been saying over and over," Hilda said in firm voice. "Rabbit."
The nurses, the doctor, and everyone else in the crowded room clearly understood it this time.
"Rabbit?" Hilda asked. "What does that mean?"
"Rabbit!" he repeated loudly, then closed his eyes again and took a deep breath after this effort.
"Sven, take a nice nap," his sister said, pressing a freshly ironed handkerchief to her eyes. "I'll be back soon. You are going to recover."
She looked up at Officer Jones, and he turned her wheelchair around gingerly so as to not run over anybody's feet or some tubing or pull the plug out of some important bit of medical equipment. Mel held the door open and followed them.
"You're a courageous woman, Miss Turner," Mel said. "And I suspect you, and only you, can make him recover."
"Would you like to go down to the lunchroom and have a cup of coffee or tea?" Officer Jones asked Miss Turner.
Her voice was now a bit shaky as she said, "That would be very kind of you. He looked so awful with all those tubes and beeping machines. But he sat with me in this same hospital when I lost my lower legs. He must have been as worried then about me as I am about him now."
Officer Jones got her settled and went to fetch flavored but unsweetened tea for Miss Turner and coffee for himself and Mel.
Hilda Turner was getting a better grip on herself and confided in Mel, "I can hardly believe that I forgot something important. There's a corridor between this hospital and some small apartments for the families of seriously ill patients.
That's where Sven stayed when I was in here. Do you think I could stay there and save Officer Jones the trouble of hauling me here and back home every day?"
Mel said, "I'll find out."
"It's not that I can't afford it," she said with a faint smile.
Mel thought this was a good time to ask what they intended to do with all their money, but couldn't bring himself to do so when she was so worried.
Instead he asked, "What do you think 'rabbit' means to him? He said it so clearly."
"I have no idea. There's something tickling the back of my mind, but I can't quite grasp it."
"You'll let me know when you do, won't you?"
"It's probably something really trivial. I will tell you, if I can figure out why he'd say it. And, Detective, when you contact the manager of those apartments, would you explain I need one with bars to hold on to in the bathroom?"
When Officer Jones returned, carefully carrying their drinks on a flimsy tray, Mel explained what they'd been talking about while he was gone.
"Apartments for families? Who would have guessed? But I don't mind driving you every day, Miss Turner, if Detective VanDyne approves it. And my aunt, as I told you, never wants to drive it again."
"I can't put you to all that trouble," she said, once more becoming the big sister and bossy. "But I will have to be taken home and ask my neighbor to pack my clothing and medicines — if Detective VanDyne can get me an apartment."
"I'll use whatever clout it takes to see that you have one," Mel said.
"I could do your packing," Officer Jones said. She said, almost sounding girlish, "You? Pack‑
ing up my underwear? I don't think so." Officer Jones turned slightly pink. "Oh."
After Mel had reserved an apartment adjoining the hospital that met Miss Turner's needs and Officer Jones had her on her way home to be helped to pack by her neighbor, Mel returned to his office to start over with his stacks of paperwork that both the death of Denny and the attack on Sven had generated. He'd already put what he'd gone through in three piles on the counter behind his desk.
The first pile was papers that were entirely irrelevant. This was the smallest pile. The second consisted of documents and copies of interviews that he suspected might not be worthwhile, but which he'd go through again. Papers that he believed might contain the key to either or both of the crimes made up the largest pile. And he still had a big mass of folders and loose papers remaining that would end up in one of the piles.
When he'd made significant headway, he went around the corner and bought a sandwich, chips, and a soda to eat a late lunch at his desk. Then he called Jane.
"Did you learn any more about anything useful at your needlepoint class this morning?"
"Tazz didn't show up, thank goodness. I think I really scared her away."
"She deserved being scared away."
"I just wish I could scare Elizabeth away." "Who is Elizabeth?"
"One of the other people in the needlepointing class. She's such a snoop. She mentioned to Ms. Bunting that she's seen Ms. Bunting's husband drop her off and wanted to know what he did while she was in class. As if it were any of her business. Ms. Bunting said he was going to the country club where he'd played golf earlier. He'd lost his driver."
"What driver? He has somebody who drives him around?"
"No, it's an old-fashioned name for a golf club, Ms. Bunting said. Like mashies, wedgies, spoons, lofters, niblicks, and something called deck, that might have been a club or a brand of club. Ms. Bunting wasn't sure which," Jane said.