“I have to get dressed . . . go to work,” she said in a blurry voice, as Rambo whined worriedly. She struggled to push herself up but fell back dizzily. “Help me up, China,” she whispered. “Please . . .”
I didn’t try. We were way past the point where ginger ale or peppermint tea would get Smart Cookie on her feet and into her uniform.
“Lie still, sweetie,” I commanded, reaching into my jeans pocket for my phone. I knew that Sheila wouldn’t want to alert the dispatcher, who would spread the news all over the department quicker than you can say 911. So I called Connie.
“Oh, dear God,” Connie said breathlessly, when she heard my report. “I’m so glad you’re there, China! Is she all right? Sounds like a concussion. Is the baby—”
“No idea,” I said, breaking in. “We need to get her to the hospital. Can you handle the dispatch yourself? She’ll want us to keep this under wraps until we know something definite.”
“Will do.” Connie stopped babbling and became all business. “Somebody will be there in less than five minutes, China. Hang tight.”
I ran into the bedroom, pulled a blanket off the bed, and covered Sheila, who was shivering. I encouraged Rambo to curl up as close as he could get, to keep her warm. Then I made a compress out of a damp washcloth and pressed it against the gash in her scalp. All the time, I kept telling her that she was going to be just fine once EMS got an IV into her and pumped her full of fluids.
I hoped to God it was true.
• • •
WHEN Sheila was in the ambulance and on her way to the hospital, I put Rambo in my Toyota and dropped him off at the K-9 facility, telling the supervisor that the chief wanted to board him overnight for a day or two. Back in the car, I took a few moments to phone McQuaid. I told him about Sheila’s accident and asked him to get in touch with Blackie, who was working that new case up in Lubbock. Then I phoned Ruby to ask her to open the shop for me, and explained why.
When I got to the hospital, Helen Berger, a friend and fellow herb guild member, was on duty in the ER. She told me that they had already taken Sheila upstairs for a CT scan. I hung around for a while, pacing the floor and biting my nails, before deciding that since I wasn’t helping matters, I might as well go to the shop. I gave Helen my number and Connie Page’s and asked her to get in touch with both of us when there was news.
“I hope we can keep this quiet for now,” I said in a lower voice. “Jessica Nelson from the Enterprise monitors the EMS runs in town. I wouldn’t be surprised if she popped in to see what’s going on.”
“I understand,” Helen said gravely. “Patient privacy is a watchword around here.”
It’s good to have friends in the right places.
• • •
AT the shop that morning, it was business as usual, except that the Library Reading Circle was meeting for lunch in the tearoom. It’s a largish group, so Cass and Jenna, her helper, were already setting up for it. On the menu: an easy chicken and pesto wrap, tomato basil soup, and fruit. Several of Lori’s students came in and went upstairs to the loft to work on their weaving projects, and Ruby was teaching her Tuesday morning meditation class in the Crystal Cave’s back room. Khat, as usual, was stretched out on the windowsill beside a pot of bright green parsley, napping in the sunshine. It would have been a lovely morning, if I hadn’t been so uneasy about Sheila.
And then something happened to ratchet up my uneasiness a few dozen points. Merilee Kaufman, one of my frequent customers, dropped in on her way to work at the antique shop on the square. While I was ringing up her purchases—a box of mini lavender soap bars and a bottle of eucalyptus oil—she asked me about our fall classes. “I heard that Kelly Sutherland is teaching wreath-making,” she said. “Do you know when?”
“First and third Saturdays in October,” I said. “The classes are all listed there.” I pointed to the magnetic bulletin board that hangs on the wall at the end of the counter, where customers can easily see it. I had posted the list the day before and made a colorful caption for it—FALL CLASSES—using some handy magnetic alphabet letters I bought at the five-and-dime.
But what I saw jerked me back for a second look. Between the class list and this week’s tearoom menus (fastened to the board with cute yellow smiley-face magnets) somebody had posted a photograph. I recognized it right away: the sepia-toned photograph I had seen in the box in the storeroom, the picture of the smiling couple with the baby and the little girl, sitting in the porch swing on the veranda—on my veranda. The photo was stuck on with a heart-shaped magnet, and behind it was a single sprig of lavender. Fresh-picked lavender, just out of the garden. And as I turned back to Merilee, the bell over my front door rang twice, emphatically, as if it were making a point. I looked to see who had come in, but the door stayed shut.
“Your bell is ringing but nobody’s there,” Merilee said unnecessarily.
“I know.” I sighed. “I have no clue.”
I had no clue to the photo, either. I had put the Corticelli carton of photographs back on the shelf in the storeroom, intending to take it home and go through it some Sunday afternoon. I remembered doing that, quite clearly. So how had that photograph gotten to the bulletin board? The simplest explanation was the likeliest one, I told myself, exchanging Merilee’s purchases for her credit card. It had fallen out of the carton and Ruby or Lori had picked it
