“I’m fine,” I said.
“Rosie, you were about to tell us what happened after the taxi dropped you off at Mr. Cameron’s house,” Mr. P. interjected.
“That’s right, I was,” Rose said. She studied my face for a moment and seemed satisfied with whatever she saw there. “There were no lights on in the house, but it wasn’t really dark and I thought maybe Mrs. Cameron was in the backyard.” She leaned around me. “They’re renting the Baxter place while they look for a house to buy.” She directed her words to Liz.
Liz nodded. “Screened-in gazebo,” she said quietly to me.
“There was no one in the backyard,” Rose continued, “so I knocked on the side door, and when there was no answer I looked through the porch window.” She held up her bandaged hand. “And before anyone thinks I was just being nosy, I was trying to be certain Mrs. Cameron wasn’t home. I didn’t have my phone, so I couldn’t exactly call her, now, could I?”
“Where was Jeff Cameron’s body?” I asked.
“I was just getting to that,” Rose said. “When I looked through the porch window it gave me a bit of a view into the kitchen. Those cottages aren’t very big.”
“You saw Mr. Cameron in the kitchen,” Mr. P. spoke up from the foot of the bed.
Rose nodded slowly, her expression suddenly serious. “He was on the floor.”
“Were his eyes open or closed?” I asked.
“I didn’t see his face,” she said. She paused for a moment, replaying the scene in her mind, I was guessing. “I saw his watch and a bit of one cheek. His head was slumped forward like this.” She dropped her chin to her chest. “And of course those fire-engine red shoes.”
The Newton Gravity IVs Jeff Cameron had been wearing when he’d been at the shop.
“What did you do?”
“I tried to get a better look. I banged on the glass. I tried the door, but it was locked.” Rose was absently smoothing the bandage on her left arm. “Then something hit the back of my head—I’m certain it was that boat fender—and the next thing I knew I woke up to a very nice dog nudging me with his rather cold nose and I was two houses away.” She turned to Mr. P. “Remind me to make some dog biscuits.”
He nodded. I saw the lines pulling around his eyes and mouth again and knew Rose’s story worried him.
Rose focused her attention back on me. “Sarah, someone else was in that kitchen, someone in a pink hooded sweatshirt. I just caught a glimpse of her.”
“Her?”
“Yes. I think the person in the pink hooded sweatshirt was a woman. And not just because it was pink.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked.
Rose tugged at the neck of the hospital nightgown. “Will you think I’m being an old fool if I say I just have a feeling?”
“You’re not an old fool, but I think it would help if you could put your reasons into words.”
“All right.” Her gray eyes narrowed. “That sweatshirt.” She lifted her hands to her shoulders. “It was baggy. Avery has one that she wears—the black one—and the shoulders were the same. The seam at the top of the shoulder comes down onto her arm. It was the same for the person wearing that pink one. It didn’t fit right.”
Rose was very observant. I didn’t doubt for a moment that she’d caught that detail even though she’d gotten only a quick look at the person. “Anything else?”
“When the person—she—raised her head I keep feeling I saw something that made me think I was looking at a woman. Cheekbones maybe, or mouth. I can’t be sure.” She pushed back the blanket and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
I caught her by the arm. “Where are you going?”
“We can’t waste any more time talking,” Rose said, squaring her shoulders. “Leesa Cameron killed her husband. We have to do something.”
Chapter 3
No one said anything. Rose pressed her lips together for a moment, and her chin came up. “You don’t believe me.”
Liz spoke first. “You were hit on the head pretty hard.”
“Get out,” Rose said.
“I’m not saying you didn’t see something,” Liz said, gesturing with one hand. “But it was starting to get dark, you said yourself you could only see a small bit of the kitchen and then somebody hit you over the head. You might not have seen what you thought you saw—that’s all. The police didn’t find any body.”
Liz turned to me. “I talked to Mo’s grandson. He was still here when I got here. He said he checked the yard at the Cameron’s house, he knocked on both doors and he even looked through the window. He didn’t see anyone—alive or dead.”
Rose picked up the call button that had been lying next to her on the bed. She held it up, finger poised over the end as though she was about to eject us all out of our seats. “Get out of my room right now or I will have you thrown out.”
Her voice was steady and even, which was an indication of how angry she was. Where most people got louder when they were angry, Rose became cool, quiet and focused. “I don’t care if you are Elizabeth Emmerson Kiley French; you’re not welcome here right now,” she said.
Liz looked stricken, the color draining from her face. She got to her feet, her eyes never leaving Rose’s face.
I stood up as well and put a hand on Liz’s shoulder. “Just . . . just go. I’ll take care of everything here and I’ll call you later.” She pressed her lips together and her eyes slowly slid to meet mine. “Go,” I repeated. With one backward glance at Rose, she did.
Rose fixed her gaze on me, a clear challenge in her eyes. “Do you believe me?” she asked.
I folded my arms over my chest and tipped my head to one side to study her. The hospital gown and robe were several sizes too big, her hair was going in all directions and there was a large bandage on her wrist. But a mix of defiance and anger burned in her eyes. Rose may have been tiny, but I would have rather taken on a black bear over a picnic basket than get into a skirmish with her.
“Well, if I didn’t, do you think I’d be stupid enough to tell you?” I asked. “And for the record, I do believe you, although you can’t be certain Leesa Cameron killed her husband. You don’t have any definite proof that Jeff Cameron is dead, let alone that she did anything. He could just be injured.”
“Then we better get going.” She looked at Alfred. “Could you get my clothes, please, Alf? I think they’re in that closet.” She pointed at a small locker on the wall opposite the end of the bed. Then she scanned the floor. “Does anyone know what they did with my shoes?”
“Rosie, what are you doing?” Mr. P. asked.
“I’m getting dressed so I can sign myself out of here and go back to the cottage so we can find out what happened to Mr. Cameron.” She leaned sideways and shook a finger at a space just past my left shoulder. “Sarah dear, my shoes are by that chair. Could you hand them to me, please?”
I shook my head. “No.”
That got all her attention. She straightened up. “You could go with Liz,” she said, a warning edge to her voice.
“Not happening,” I said. “As your daughter”—I put an extra emphasis on the last word—“I’m telling you that you’re staying here until the doctor says you can leave. I’ll call Michelle and the two of us will go over to Jeff Cameron’s cottage and find out what’s going on.”
“You’re not my daughter,” Rose said. “Not really. That was just a ruse perpetrated by Liz.”
“No, I’m not,” I said cheerfully.
Both Rose and Mr. P. looked confused at my apparent unconcern.
I held up my cell phone. “But I would be happy to call Abby, who is your real daughter, so she can weigh in on all of this.” I made a sweeping gesture with one hand as though I were a Price Is Right spokesmodel showing off the prizes for the Showcase Showdown. “Or have you already called her?”