Chapter 11
Eleven
I took the time to go home for a shower and a change of clothes before I headed back to the office. The dog had been fed, and by then, Rachel had probably arrived to take care of her. Edwina was covered. So I figured I could safely spend a few minutes getting out of yesterday’s clothes.
As a result, it was close to ten by the time I finally made it back to Music Row. Rachel’s car was in the lot by then, but Zachary’s little compact was still missing.
“Have you heard from Zach?” I asked as I pulled the front door shut behind me.
Edwina looked up from her doggie bed in the corner, her stubby tail wagging.
Rachel shook her head. “Should I have?”
“I gave him a job last night, so I’m waiting to see what he discovered. Although he probably just stayed out too late and is sleeping in this morning.”
Rachel arched an inquiring brow, and I told her what I’d done. She clicked her tongue. “Probably sleep until noon. Those places stay open all night. And all day. He could still be there.”
Surely not. “Don’t they have to mop the floors sometimes? Like, from eight to ten?”
“Maybe,” Rachel said doubtfully. “Do you want me to call him?”
“Let’s give him a little more time. And anyway, if he’d discovered anything wildly exciting, he probably would have left a message.”
That reminded me of Steven’s message, so I told her about that. And then remembered to mention the ransom note that she also hadn’t heard about. And the missing gun.
“This doesn’t sound like a simple cheating-spouse case,” Rachel said.
I shook my head. “We’ll have to choose more carefully next time.” If there was a next time. “I don’t suppose anyone’s called?”
“You checked the messages,” Rachel said.
“Or emailed?”
She shook her head. “But we’ve only been in business a week, Gina. We’ll get clients once word gets around.”
I hoped so, since all the work I was doing now was pro bono, and at some point, I’d have to pay Rachel and Zachary and the electric company again.
With that in mind, I went into my office and drafted a letter which I thought we could send out to all my friends and acquaintances.
I don’t have a lot, since I’ve spent the past eighteen years as David’s spouse, and most of the women I know are married to his business associates.
But that meant that many of them, like me, were trophy wives to older, successful men, and God knows that older, successful men often take up with even younger women than their wives.
So for the purpose of marketing my services to women with husbands who might cheat, I was quite well positioned.
With the draft sounding the way I wanted, I gave it to Rachel to proofread, and then we spent the next hour coming up with a mailing list. I told Rachel the names of people I remembered.
She looked them up. I wrote down the names and addresses, and when it was all over, we had a list of twenty or so names that Rachel put together into a database.
“You should handwrite the envelopes, though,” she told me. “More likely they get opened that way. If they don’t look like a business communication.”
“And less likely their husbands will realize what the letter is about,” I added.
Rachel nodded. “You go start addressing envelopes. Then you can sign the letters, and we’ll get them in the mail.”
It sounded like a good plan, and the beginning of a mailing list. I retreated to my office and started addressing envelopes.
When Rachel brought the letters—printed on nice, heavy stationary—I signed those, and we filled the envelopes.
By then, it was past eleven-thirty. “I can take them to the post office,” I said.
“Or if you want to go to lunch first, you can.”
Rachel said she liked the noon to one lunch hour, so I sent her out early, so she could hit the post office on her way. While she drove away, Edwina tinkled on a patch of dirt in the parking lot. When I went back to my office, she followed me in, jumped up on the sofa, and curled in a circle.
It was late enough that I thought it might be time to check on Zachary.
He did not, however, answer his cell phone.
I left a message—“It’s almost noon. Are you planning to come to work today?
”—and then dialed Mendoza. Unless Araminta Tucker had had a whole lot to say—or they had bonded over something on the TV—he must be finished talking to her by now.
It was irritating how he hadn’t called to update me.
I did realize that he didn’t owe me an update. He was the police and I was an annoying civilian butting into his case.
But I was sharing what I found out with him. When I got Steven’s message, Mendoza had been my first call. It wasn’t like I was keeping anything from him. If I hadn’t told him about Araminta Tucker—
Well, if I hadn’t told him about Araminta Tucker, he would have found his way to her on his own. She owned the house next door to the crime scene, where the Russian girl had been. Mendoza would have made it his business to interview Araminta Tucker sooner or later.
But if I hadn’t told him about my visit to her immediately, he hadn’t had the girl’s name so soon. I’d been helpful, dammit. Couldn’t he be a little helpful in return?
Apparently he couldn’t. The phone rang, and rang. Finally his voicemail picked up. “This is Detective Jaime Mendoza with the Nashville PD. Please leave a message at the sound of the tone. If this is an emergency, please call 911.”
It wasn’t an emergency, and I didn’t want to be annoying—or any more annoying than I had to be—so I hung up without leaving a message. He’d see that I’d called. When he realized I hadn’t left a voicemail, he’d probably figure out that I was just curious and didn’t have anything important to say.
Maybe he’d call anyway.
I put the phone down and leaned back in my chair.
Nothing happened.
I twiddled my thumbs.
The phone still didn’t ring.
I looked over at Edwina. She was curled into a circle. When she sensed my regard, she opened one eye and looked at me. Her stub of a tail gave a tentative wag. I smiled back. “Hi, sweetheart. I didn’t want anything. Go back to sleep.”
She closed her eye again. I looked up at the ceiling.
I can’t swear to it, but I think I was partially asleep when the phone rang.
I’d been hauled out of bed early by Diana’s phone call this morning, and the office was quiet and warm.
The dog was dozing, and all the various electronics made a soft sort of humming in the air, almost like the white noise you pay a lot of money for.
Occasionally, Edwina snuffled. It was a very comforting sort of sound.
Almost like sleeping next to David, who had been known to snore.
At any rate, the phone rang. I jerked upright, and the reason I think I may have been asleep, is that there was a thin line of drool on my chin.
I wiped it off with one hand as I reached for the phone with the other. Jaime Mendoza, the display said.
I smiled. “Good afternoon, Detec—”
“Save it,” Mendoza’s voice said. “I need you to come and meet me.”
“Sure. Are you still in—” Franklin?
“No,” Mendoza said. “Southern Hills Hospital. Room 316. Hurry.”
He hung up before I could ask any more questions. I grabbed my purse and my jacket and ran.
Southern Hills Hospital sits, as you may have guessed, in the hills on the south side of town.
Off Nolensville Road and Harding Place, to be exact.
Not too far from Crieve Hall. I took the same exit I’d taken earlier, blew past the turnoff that would have taken me to Blackburn Drive, and barreled down Harding Place at a few miles above the speed limit.
I screeched into the parking lot outside the hospital less than fifteen minutes after Mendoza called.
I had spent the whole trip—when I wasn’t navigating turns and trying to avoid hitting, or being hit by, the other cars—mulling over what might be wrong.
Maybe Araminta Tucker had had a heart attack? Maybe Mendoza’s gorgeousness had been too much for her, and she’d collapsed?
Or maybe he had accused her of having had something to do with her sister-in-law’s murder, and a guilty conscience had brought on a medical issue?
She was already in an assisted living facility, though. Surely they had a doctor on staff? And anyway, there were hospitals closer to Franklin, weren’t there? It was hard to imagine that they’d drive her all the way to Southern Hills if something was wrong.
Unless she had Southern Hills written down as her hospital of choice. It was the hospital closest to where she’d been living before she went into assisted living.
Or maybe it had nothing to do with Araminta Tucker. Maybe Mendoza had found Steven. Maybe Steven really had been kidnapped, and had escaped from his kidnappers, and been hurt in the process, and now he was in the hospital. Maybe the blonde had shot him.
Or maybe it was Diana. Maybe she’d had an accident on her way to work. Or on her way to lunch. Or the bank. Or maybe the nutcase who had threatened to hurt her because he had to pay his ex-wife alimony had made good on his threat.
Or Rachel. Maybe Rachel had gotten in a car accident on her way to the post office.
Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I should have taken the damn letters to the mailbox myself…
I slammed the car door behind me and locked it on the run.
And hurried through the lobby to the elevator, where I hopped from foot to foot while I waited the hour and a half it took for it to make it down from the fourth floor.
When I’d gotten inside, the elevator took its sweet time creaking up to three, and then hung there an eternity before it deigned to open the doors.
I turned sideways and slithered through the opening while the doors were still moving.
316 was to the right. I hustled down the hallway—not quite running, since I figured someone would try to stop me if I did, and then I’d have to waste valuable time arguing about why I was running in the hospital—and arrived outside 316 out of breath.