She tried again. “The medical staff wouldn’t tell us how she’s doing. Privacy laws or some such. Can you at least tell us if she’s regained consciousness?”
“She hadn’t, last I looked.”
Not very talkative, either.
“And when was that?” Russ asked, shoving his press credentials in front of the deputy.
The deputy glanced at them, but they made no impression.
“Half an hour ago.”
“Is there a chance she can recover?” Angelica asked.
“I’m no doctor, ma’am.”
“Can we at least leave our flowers for her?” Tricia asked, offering up the tulips. The vase was clear glass, so it was evident that it contained only green stems—and nothing lethal. She handed him the vase.
He poked at the flowers and took a tentative sniff. “I’ll put them on the bedside table,” he said, turned, and opened the door to Kimberly’s room.
What Tricia saw took her breath away: Kimberly, her face bruised and swollen, looking more like a jack-o’-lantern than a human being. Crowding the over-bed table and the windowsill were vases of flowers: roses, gladiolas, tulips, and daffodils, and at her bedside sat a well-dressed, chunky man, his hand wrapped around hers, his attention focused only on Kimberly, his expression filled with worry and grief.
“Artemus Hamilton!” Tricia cried.
The literary agent looked up at the sound of his name, just as the door to the room whooshed quietly shut.
“Zoë’s agent?” Russ asked.
“Yes.”
“What’s he doing here?” Angelica asked, no doubt delighted that she could give her cookbook manuscript another heartfelt testimonial.
A moment later the deputy reappeared with Hamilton right on his heels. “Ms. Miles, what you doing here?” Hamilton asked, sounding incredibly nervous.
“The same thing you are.” She turned her attention back to the deputy. “I thought you said Ms. Peters was allowed no visitors.”
“Mr. Hamilton is Ms. Peters’s fiancé,” Barclay said.
Tricia felt her jaw drop—then quickly shut her mouth.
“Why don’t we go get a cup of coffee or something?” Hamilton said and grabbed Tricia’s arm, pulling her away from the deputy, with Russ and Angelica bringing up the rear. Down the corridor, they stopped beside an empty gurney that had been parked near a storage closet.
“Ms. Miles—”
“Tricia,” she insisted.
“Tricia, I had to tell the sheriff I was Kimberly’s fiancé. It’s the only way they’d let me visit her. She hasn’t got anyone else.”
“Yes, I know. How is she?”
He let out a sharp breath. “Doing better than they’d originally expected, but she’s got a few hard days ahead of her and a lot of reconstructive work to come.”
“Did you buy her all those flowers?” Angelica asked.
He nodded. “I felt so bad for her. She won’t want to see her face when she wakes, and she deserves to have something beautiful to look at after what she’s been through.”
There was no arguing that.
“I take it you’ll be staying in Stoneham for another night?” Tricia asked.
“Not at the Brookview Inn. I’ve booked a room at a hotel not far from here. I’ll pick up a rental car tomorrow.”
“Sounds like you’re planning on staying for the duration,” Russ said.
“I’ve asked my assistant to clear my schedule for the next few days.”
“Very generous—specially since Ms. Peters isn’t your fiancé,” Russ added.
“Kimberly and I have known each other for several years. We even dated for a while. I consider myself her friend. And isn’t being with her now the least a friend can do?”
“Yes,” Tricia agreed. Or had simply seeing Kimberly’s battered face reawakened whatever feelings he had for her—of friendship, or otherwise? She wasn’t about to second-guess his motives.
“You must be exhausted after spending the day here. We’re going to dinner when we leave. We’d love to have you join us,” Angelica chimed in, ever the gracious hostess.
Hamilton shook his head. “I got something from the cafeteria an hour or so ago. But thanks for asking.”
Tricia nodded, understanding completely. Angelica, however, looked annoyed.
“When Kimberly wakes up, I’ll let her know you came to visit—and that you brought flowers,” Hamilton said.
“Thank you.”
“The sheriff told me you found her. Did she tell you who did this to her?”
Tricia shook her head. “Sorry.” She wasn’t about to tell him what Kimberly had said—and risk Wendy Adams’s wrath. Besides, the information hadn’t pointed to whoever had attacked Kimberly and why.
“Look, I’d better get back to Kimberly. If she wakes up, I want to be there for her.” He gave them a wan smile and turned toward the main corridor.
Tricia, Russ, and Angelica looked at one another.
“Well, that was certainly unexpected,” Angelica said.
“It sure was,” Tricia agreed.
“But it doesn’t mean anything, either,” Russ said. “I mean, so the guy feels sorry for the poor woman—or maybe he even discovered he cares about her. It doesn’t give us any more information.”
“No,” Tricia agreed, “it doesn’t.”
Twenty
The ambience at La Parisienne reflected its cuisine, from its textured plaster walls to its gilt mirrors and the shiny copper-bottomed pans that hung as decoration. Angelica had pronounced the coq au vin adequate, but assured Tricia and Russ that in her own hands it would’ve been magnificent. And, in fact, it would make a wonderful addition to her European Epicurean manuscript. Russ was about to ask her to explain when Tricia gave him a warning look. He kept quiet.
“Let’s face it, I missed my calling,” Angelica said, as she swirled the last of her pinot noir in her glass and Russ dipped into his wallet to pay for the dinner. “I should’ve opened a restaurant instead of a cookbook store. It sure would’ve been a lot easier.”
“On whom?” Tricia asked, thinking about her sister’s continuing employee problems. “And what’s going to happen at your store tomorrow? You’re still short staffed.”
“Frannie said she’d put out the word that I need help. She has a lot of contacts over at the Chamber of Commerce, you know.”
No doubt about that.
“Of course, if you don’t need Ginny—” Angelica hinted.
“I don’t even know if she’s coming in tomorrow. It depends on how Brian’s doing and if she feels she can leave him.”
Angelica waved a hand in dismissal. “Oh, what’s a little food poisoning?”
“I’m sure you’d feel differently if it was your intestines tied in knots,” Tricia said.
“Let’s change the subject,” Russ said. “Like what are you going to do to protect yourself, Tricia?”
She stared at him, surprised. “From whom?”
“Exactly,” Angelica quipped.
“Come and stay with me,” he said.
Angelica shook her head. “Nope. It’s too far from her shop. And don’t forget about your cat, Trish. You can stay with me. I loved having you this past week. It was just like being back in college with a roomie.”
“Sorry to disappoint you both, but I have my own home, and I have a perfectly good security system. If somebody breaks in downstairs, they’ve got to come up three flights. I have a sturdy door in between, and a cell phone if my land-line goes dead.”
“You can’t count on someone having a coronary trudging up those three flights. And remember, Kimberly was bludgeoned with a sledgehammer. That could knock down a door, no matter how sturdy,” Russ said.
“You’re not going to frighten or bully me into anything. Either of you.”
Angelica sighed and turned her attention to Russ. “Doesn’t she sound like the heroine in a bad movie or novel? You know, the stupid character—usually a woman—who goes into a darkened basement or attic when there’s a serial killer on the loose?”
“May I remind you that I have no basement, and whoever killed Zoe is not a serial killer?”