The room was spacious and quiet, a great improvement from the crowded little cubicle in the noisy ER. The view through the wide wall of glass had sent Kit bolting to the windows, forgetting that a nurse or orderly might come barging in. She had returned only later to Pedric’s amused embrace—he was mending, he was safe and happy and she loved him, but right now she wanted to be out there in the amazing garden that rose up the hill just beyond the glass.
The two huge windows were framed by heavy white pillars jutting out into the room, part of the superstructure of the strongly built hospital. The big garden beyond was softly lit, and was enclosed at some distance by the glass walls of the three-story hospital. Kit crouched on the wide sill, her nose to the glass, her heart lost to the garden, to its cascading waterfall that tumbled down beneath the trees and past the flowering shrubs. Bright plashes of water fell and were lost within the rough escarpment of granite blocks—giant, rough-cut stones piled one on another, towering high above her looking as natural as nature’s own casual toss of rocky elements; the water fell down the stone in clear cascades, she wanted to dabble her paw in, to splash at the little pond below where the last rays of the sun reflected, she wanted to leap up the rocks, race up the little trees, she wanted to play out there in that small Eden.
The big windows were fixed in place, there was no way to open them. It would not be until later, as night fell, that Kit would discover, down beyond the end pillar, a narrow, hinged pane with a hinged screen and with handles that would open both. Now, Pedric watched her from his bed and watched the closed door, wary of a nurse’s intrusion. Kit would find the opening later, he thought, smiling, find it sometime in the dark hours and would slip out there in a wild bid for freedom just as Alice had once finessed her way through the first locked door into Wonderland. Watching her, he and Lucinda exchanged an indulgent smile.
This was Lucinda’s third journey out of the house since they’d arrived home, but she was pale still and felt weak. Yesterday’s banking transactions had tired her, as had standing for even that short time at Birely’s funeral. The aftermath of the wreck and attack, the theft of their car and the intrusion into their home, had left her feeling incredibly fragile and vulnerable, quite unlike herself. But now, with Pedric’s surgery behind them, the torn meniscus in his right knee repaired, and with his head injuries healing, she was beginning to feel easier. Pedric’s blood work showed normal levels of sugar, the swelling in his brain had subsided, and he would come home in the morning. The anticipation of having him home so lifted her spirits that when Max Harper and Charlie knocked at the door and peered in, Lucinda’s smile was bright and she was filled with questions.
Both the Harpers were dressed in jeans, boots, frontier shirts, and smelled comfortably of horses. Maybe Max had taken off early, and they’d had a late-afternoon ride. Even before the tall couple stepped in, Kit had hidden herself in the carryall, not sure what Max would think of her there. She peered out for one look as Kate tucked an edge of the brocade down, hiding her from the police chief.
Charlie’s curly red hair was tied back with a leather thong. Leaning over the bed, she hugged Pedric. “Glad the surgery’s over with, and that it went so well.”
Max grinned down at Pedric. “Glad all this mess about the car is pretty much over, too. We’ve impounded it at Clyde’s place, locked up in one of the back shops. As soon as forensics finishes, Clyde’s crew will clean it up and start work on the scratches and dents. Forensics will be going over your packages, too, for fingerprints and to see if any stolen items are mixed in with your own things.” He looked at Lucinda. “Could you give us an inventory, and then come down later, to identify what’s there? Make sure it’s all yours, and maybe go through some of the packages?”
Lucinda nodded.
“Clyde thinks the blood stains should come out of the leather all right,” Max said. “He hopes not to have to reupholster. Blood type matches Birley’s blood in the wrecked pickup, and that on the sleeping bag up at Emmylou’s place. Forensics has particles of paper from the old bills, from the cubbyhole beneath the back console where Ryan and Clyde found Emmylou’s money.”
There had, in the end, been no way for Emmylou to avoid reporting the stolen money, reporting at least part of it when forensics found part of a torn wrapper and two musty hundred-dollar bills that had slipped down among the packages. Emmylou had told Max the money was hers, that it had been left to her by Sammie with the house, and had given Max a copy of the will, leaving her, “All contents within the house or on the property,” and she had told him about Sammie’s letter. Some recluses were like that, Max had said, guy lived in poverty all his life, he died and was discovered to have been worth several million, usually with a handwritten will leaving it all to a favorite charity, Salvation Army or animal rescue or a church that had been kind to him.
Pedric said, “Birely Miller is dead, but no sign of the other man, of Vic Amson?”
“Not yet,” Max said. “We have a BOL out on him. He’s wanted for Birely’s murder, for his attack on you two, for theft of your vehicle, and leaving the scene of the wreck. There are several old warrants for him, including a person of interest in a murder over in Fresno.
“Both Vic and Birely have records,” Max said. “Though Birely’s didn’t amount to much, most of his offenses the result of overenthusiastic bad judgment. Going along with one pal or another, and then left holding the bag. Acting as lookout during a gas station robbery, and he’s still sitting there watching for cops when the other guy slips away. By the time Birely realizes he’s all alone, two sheriff’s deputies are pulling in, to cuff him and book him. Maybe just born a loser,” Max said with a shrug. “Poor guy just couldn’t get it together.”
“If Vic Amson escaped in Debbie Kraft’s car,” Lucinda said, “then was she involved with them?”
“Not sure, yet,” Max said. “Except for what we know from the child.” He smiled. “Debbie’s little girl ratted her out.”
“Vinnie?” Lucinda said, surprised.
“No, Tessa. The little, quiet one. Detective Garza stopped by the house, wanted Debbie to come down to the station to file a report on her missing car. She’d made enough fuss about it, called the department three times since she reported it stolen, wanting to know if we’d found it yet, demanding faster action. Said we’d have to furnish her a loaner, claimed it wasn’t her fault the car was stolen,” he said, smiling. “Said that was due to our failure in protecting her property.
“In fact,” he said, “street patrol was about to haul her in, the day she reported her car missing. Brennan had been watching her, off and on, but he was reluctant to come down on her because of the kids, with their daddy already in prison.”
“What did you tell her when she said you owed her a loaner?” Pedric asked, grinning.
“What I told her,” Max said, “isn’t recorded in the department memos.”
Lucinda laughed. “But little Tessa, what did that shy, silent little child say? I can’t imagine her speaking up and defying her mother.”
“She said quite a lot. Debbie was reluctant to ask Dallas in, finally offered him a chair, in the kitchen. She was making up excuses why she couldn’t come into the station, when Tessa came out of the bedroom, sniffling, bundled up in an old pair of oversized pajamas, maybe her sister’s. She looked up at Dallas, and sniffled, and for some reason, she took to him. Came right to him, climbed up in his lap, snuggled right up to him. Maybe because her mother was being rude to him, maybe the kid didn’t like that.
“She told Dallas her momma loaned that man her car, and that Debbie had made him put all the stolen clothes in there before he took it. Debbie tried to shut her up, said there were no stolen clothes, wanted to know where she got that idea, said, why would she have stolen clothes? She told Tessa she had it wrong, that it was the car that was stolen, not clothes. Said, ‘You know that. You’ve got yourself all mixed up.’