Or maybe it was both of them. Maybe they had worked together to carry off the fraud, one calling the shots, the other providing the expertise. Perhaps both of them had gone to see Sadie early this morning, to plead with her not to expose them, maybe even offer her some sort of enticement. When she'd refused, they had bludgeoned her. Tom had seemed shocked enough when we discovered her lying in the stall, and even more shocked when he found that she was still alive. But he was certainly capable of faking it. He'd tried pretty hard to convince me that the horse had done it, too. And Sunday afternoon, when I'd told him about Mother Hilaria's diary and mentioned the leverage Sadie might have, he'd been very curious and even apprehensive. His reaction had seemed suspicious then. Now, in the light of the attack on Sadie, it seemed even more suspicious.
The report had nothing more to tell me. I folded it into the envelope and put the envelope in my purse, feeling infinitely sad. It was time to talk with the Rowans, father and son.
The yellow happy face was still bouncing across the computer monitor on the reception desk in the Carr County Hospital, and the desk was once again deserted. I pushed through the doors and walked rapidly to the nurses' station. A different nurse was there, wearing different glasses- plastic-rimmed, with sharp cat's-eye points at the outer corners-but the same stiff white uniform and the same starchy annoyance with the world. Her badge identified her as Vera Williams, RN.
"I'm looking for Sadie Marsh's room," I said.
She glanced up to see if she recognized me, discovered that she didn't, and went back to the form she was filling out. "Patient information is available from the receptionist in the lobby. Back through those double doors, please."
I leaned on the counter and assumed a cheerful drawl. "I checked there first, Vera, but Cherie Lee's on her break, wouldn't you just know? She's my cousin-my daddy's sister's second girl. O' course, you'd never know it from lookin' at us. She got all the purty in the fam'ly," I chuckled. "I c'n see you're real busy, but I wonder-could we take just one eentsy peek in your computer?"
Thus propitiated, Vera became almost human. ' 'Who are you looking for?"
"Sadie Marsh."
"Oh, yes. Intensive Care. Down the hall, to the left."
There was another nurses' station in Intensive Care, this one staffed by a redhead with freckles and a cheery expression.
"I've come about Sadie Marsh," I said. "She was admitted earlier today."
The cheeriness vanished as if it had been wiped off her face. "Are you a member of the family?"
"No," I said. This time, I opted for something closer to the truth. "I'm her attorney. I found her."
She shook her head. "I'm very sorry."
"Excuse me?"
"We did everything we could."
"Oh," I said. In my pocket, the cross blazed brighter and hotter.
She leaned over and began to shuffle pieces of paper. "Maybe you can help us fill in the deceased's personal info. Do you know the name of her next of kin? Husband? Children?"
"No," I said bleakly. "She lived alone. I don't know
that she was ever married." I leaned forward. "What was the cause of death?"
She kept on rummaging among the papers. "Let's see, what am I looking for? Lord, sometimes I'd forget my head if it wasn't-Oh, yes, here it is." She found a piece of paper. "We need a social security number. And insurance information." She fixed her gaze on me, inquiring. "Did she have coverage?"
"I don't know. How did she die?"
She frowned. "I thought you said you found her."
"I did. But-"
"She was kicked in the head by a horse, wasn't she? That's what the EMS guys said."
"That's what it looked like. But there was reason to believe that someone-" I stopped. "Was the cause of death confirmed by the doctor who examined the wounds?"
"Of course," she said. "Doctor Townsend went ahead and put it on the death certificate."
I was startled. "He's already signed the death certificate?"
"Well, yes." She shuffled a few other papers. "He was on the floor when she died so he just went ahead and wrote it up. He's the JP, too, you know, which makes it convenient. He likes to be prompt. He never leaves paperwork lying around for later." She thrust a form at me. "Here it is. See?" She pointed with an inch-long pearly pink nail. "Accidental death due to head trauma. Kicked by a horse. Now, about that insurance coverage-"
"Did Doctor Townsend look closely at the wound?"
She raised her chin and compressed her lips, a clear signal that my questions were trying her patience. "I really don't know. Now, if I can just get you to give me the insurance information so we can get the billing wrapped up-"
"I'm sorry. I can't tell you anything about Sadie Marsh's insurance. Did Deputy Walters come over from the sheriff's office?"
She was almost amused. "The sheriff's office? You've got to be kidding. They don't bother about people who get kicked by horses or run over by bulls or bit by rattlesnakes. Or stung by bees. You'd be surprised how many people nearly die from bee stings. Why would the sheriff bother about a horse?"
Why indeed? And who knows what happened between the time I called Stu Walters and the time Sadie Marsh died? Maybe the deputy had a political reason for not investigating. Maybe he talked to the EMS techs or Tom and they convinced him it was an accident. Or maybe he just hadn't gotten his investigation in gear before Royce Town-send, MD and JP, made the accidental-death theory official.
Whatever the reasons behind it, the result was an accomplished fact. Now that Townsend had recorded the cause of death, it would be damned difficult, if not impossible, to get it changed. A doctor-especially Townsend-would be reluctant to admit that he'd failed to examine a fatal injury closely enough to determine what had caused it. And a JP would hate to confess that he'd closed a possible murder case before the sheriff's office had started to look into it. I could talk to Townsend, but I wouldn't get very far. As far as Carr County was concerned, Sadie had been kicked to death by a horse, and that was that.
I took a different tack. "Let me ask you about Mr. Rowan. Mr. Tom Rowan, Senior. He was admitted this morning as well."
"I'm afraid that-"
"Don't tell me he's dead, too!"
"He's in guarded condition. His son is with him now, and I really can't permit another-"
"What's the room number?"
"I'm sorry. I can't-"
I assumed my sternest courtroom demeanor. "I am an attorney, Nurse. Mr. Rowan, Junior, would not be pleased if I were not permitted to see his father in order to discuss certain urgent legal matters."
She hesitated. "Well, since he's your client-"
"What room?"
"One-ten."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. When you have a chance, will you have your secretary call us with Miss Marsh's insurance information and social security number?"
"Oh, absolutely." I turned and walked away.
The blinds had been adjusted to block the sun streaming in through the west window. Tom Senior was lying motionless under a white sheet on a narrow, railed bed. His nose and mouth were covered by a plastic respirator mask, and his skin was a lifeless gray. He was hooked up to some sort of humming apparatus on a cart beside him-life support, I supposed. A respirator. Tom Junior was standing at the end of the bed, shoulders slumped, hands in his pockets. His face was bleak.
"How is he?" I asked quietly.
"Hanging in there."
"What happened?"
"Coronary. The last thing he needs with his lungs in the shape mey're in." He gestured at the machine. "Doc's got him on a respirator."