He nodded. "I understand."
We were quiet for a long moment, and then I asked, "Do you know if K. T.—Kirsten—knew Cal at all?"
"She hasn't mentioned it," he said, his eyebrows going up a bit. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh, you might want to talk to her about that," I said, shrugging. "So. How was the lobster dinner after the signing?"
"We didn't go. Kirsten had a bit of a headache, so we went back to the hotel and heated up some chowder. She knocked off early, so I went and grabbed a few beers at the Salty Dog." He cocked an eyebrow. "Wait a moment. Are you suggesting one of us might have had something to do with what happened to that selectman?"
I debated what to do. I didn't want to interfere in his life, but there had been a murder. After a moment's hesitation, I decided that Ted probably should know what I knew. "Someone mentioned that she and Cal used to go to things together," I said. "Charity dinners and stuff."
He shook his head. "She never mentioned it."
"I understood they exchanged a few words the other night."
"Kirsten and Cal?" He looked startled, and then gave me a suspicious look. "Are you suggesting that the woman I'm dating is a murderer?"
"No!" I said. "I just... I'm trying to figure out what happened. I was hoping maybe if she knew him, she could shed some light on the situation."
"Why does it matter?"
I held up my stained fingertips. "Because I don't want to go to jail," I said.
And even though chances were slim, I also didn't want my children's father sleeping in the same bed as a murderer, I thought but didn't add.
The rest of the afternoon was slow, but I was anxious, feeling like I should be doing something, but not sure what it was. Once the store closed, I took Winston for a quick walk, then went upstairs and put on moose PJs and my favorite slippers, even though it was only eight o'clock. I made myself a sandwich, giving Winston a little bit of my turkey, then pulled my cookie recipe book out of the shelves and flipped through until I found one of the girls' favorites: oatmeal thins.
I called Audrey as I gathered the ingredients, but my call went straight to voicemail. I called Caroline next; same thing. Sighing, I put down the phone and focused on the cookie recipe—and the issues that had haunted me since the book signing.
I had just pulled the pan out of the oven when the phone rang. I glanced at it; it was Ted. Twice in one day! I felt my shoulders tighten, and my heart rate sped up. "Hello?" I said cautiously when I picked it up.
"Someone's... someone's attacked Kirsten," he said.
"What? What happened?"
"I don't know," he said. "I just got back from picking up Chinese food, and she's... there's blood everywhere, and she's unconscious, and I don't know what to do, and..."
"Oh my God," I said. "Where are you?"
"At the Ivy Gate Inn," he said. "Room 232."
“Have you called 911?”
“Yes; they’re coming.”
I wasn't surprised he'd called me; I'd been in charge of all medical issues from the time we got married, and he'd been happy to leave it all to me. It must have been automatic to call me when there was a medical crisis. "All right, hang in there. I'm on my way."
22
The Ivy Gate Inn was one of Snug Harbor's beautiful former cottages, and only a few blocks from the bookstore. I parked my CRV on the street and hurtled into the reception area, where a startled-looking young woman stood behind the front desk. I glanced down at myself and could see why; I was still in my moose pajamas, with giant bear-paw slippers on my feet. "Where's Room 232?" I asked.
"Up the stairs to the left," the woman answered, then said, "Can I help you with something?" but I was already thundering up the stairs.
I pounded on the door, and Ted swung it open. He gave me a quick up and down. "Wow."
"I was in a hurry," I said tartly. "Where is she?"
"Over here," he said, pointing to the enormous king-sized bed. There, sprawled across the satin coverlet, was Kirsten, wearing a silk teddy. Her oval face was pale, and her dark hair was matted with blood.
"Oh, no," I breathed. "That's a bad head wound. Is she breathing?"
"She is," he said, running a hand through his thinning hair and kneeling by her side. The tenderness in his eyes as he brushed a stray hair from Kirsten’s face felt like someone pressing on a bruise.
"Who could have done this?" I asked.
"I don't know," he said. "I went out to pick up food, and when I came back..."
I knelt beside her and reached over to take her pulse. Her skin was clammy, but warm. "Her heartbeat is strong, at least. And her breathing's steady, so that's positive; I don't think there's anything we can do until the paramedics get here but monitor her, unfortunately." I scanned the area. "What was it that hit her?"
"A rock. It's over there." He pointed to the corner, where a bloody rock lay. Blood mottled the wallpaper; it looked like whoever had hit her had hurled it at the wall in anger.
I sat back on my heels and took in the room. A plastic bag with two styrofoam containers lay on the floor by the door; from the scent of ginger and garlic, I was guessing it contained Ted's favorite Chinese takeout dish, Kung Pao chicken. "Did anyone see you leave?" I asked.
"Just the front desk person, I guess," he said.
