Chapter Nineteen

“Kate! Are you okay?”

The world slowly came back into focus. I was lying on our living room floor, my fingers gripping the carpet. Dad crossed the room to me, wriggling on his belly. He collapsed next to me, clutching my arm so hard it hurt. Outside, a car engine revved and tires squealed on the pavement, the sound almost hidden by Dad’s raspy breathing.

I swallowed a few times. “I’m all right. You?”

I rolled onto my side and scanned Dad’s face and body. I didn’t see any blood.

“I’m okay. What was that? Was it . . . a gunshot?”

I twisted to look at the window. Fragmented glass sparkled like a spider web around two holes piercing the window.

The night had settled into silence. I didn’t trust silence. “We need to get out of this room. Stay low.”

We crawled into a back room and called the police.

When officers arrived, they took pictures and discussed trajectory and bullet type. I told them I suspected Steven Hicks, because I had interviewed him, and he seemed to think I was causing trouble. I described how someone in a truck had harassed me, and they said they’d check if he had one, but I couldn’t give a description beyond “big white truck.” Fortunately, when they heard I was a journalist, the officers assumed the interview was for an article and didn’t ask for details. Not that I was as concerned about secrecy anymore, but after the initial adrenaline wore off, I was so tired I could barely speak.

When the police left, Dad and I hugged each other for a long time before we stumbled to our beds.

Painkillers and exhaustion knocked me out. I slept until my alarm went off in the morning. After ibuprofen and twenty minutes in a hot shower, I felt almost human. I had pangs of guilt over using that much water in a desert, but I couldn’t resist the luxury. How often had I ducked under a lukewarm trickle for five minutes and been satisfied? Living in the US definitely had advantages.

Apparently “not getting shot at” wasn’t one of them, but still.

By the time I was dressed, my various pains had faded enough that I could hobble downstairs, only swearing silently instead of out loud. The aroma of coffee and spices drew me to the kitchen, where Dad heated up the leftover cinnamon rolls.

I put my hand on his shoulder. He covered my hand with his own and squeezed. We held on for half a minute before he loosened his grip and I dropped into a chair.

“What did I miss?” I asked.

“The police seem to think Mr. Hicks—or whoever shot through the window—tried to scare us rather than kill us.” He shrugged. “I guess because the bullets went right between the two of us and were pretty high. I’d say they’re taking it seriously, but they doubt anyone will go to jail for it.”

I eased into a chair. “I noticed the blinds are still closed.”

Dad handed me a mug of coffee. “They’ll stay that way until this is over. No use taking any more chances. I’ll put a sheet of cardboard over the glass after breakfast. It won’t offer much security, but I don’t want a bird bumping into the glass when it’s already weakened.”

“I hope things weren’t this exciting at Sunshine Haven last night.”

“I talked to Joe a few minutes ago. Nothing to report.”

I sipped the coffee and imagined the elixir rushing through my veins, awakening every cell of my body. Unfortunately, I was one of those people with biology that never reacted to caffeine, but I was hoping for the placebo effect. “You didn’t go back?”

His eyebrows rose. “And leave my baby here alone? No way. After what happened, the others agreed to cover the night shift. When Mackenzie relieved Joe this morning, they checked each room. Everyone is fine.”

I sighed and a little of the stress left my aching body. “We made it through the danger zone. Either Steven Hicks is the killer, and he’s done because Brit Egland was his target, or if it was someone else, our presence must have discouraged them from their Sunday night pattern.”

Or we were missing some other person or factor, but I didn’t want to think about that. My stomach growled enthusiastically, and I started on a cinnamon roll.

“We still have to prove it was this Hicks guy and get him put away. We can’t watch the place forever.”

I nodded and finished chewing my bite. “I asked Heather to clear her schedule today after 9 a.m., when I get out of PT. One way or another, we’ll get the police involved today.”

Dad had to put up the cardboard and do some chores he’d been putting off, such as paying bills. I drove to Sunshine Haven and parked by the physical therapy office a few minutes before it opened. The boxy, pale-blue car I’d seen near Kellie Armstrong’s house pulled into the lot after me. I dawdled until I could see the driver: the young man who’d been working in the PT clinic during my first visit.

Might as well clear up that mystery.

I waved to him as he approached the building. “Nice car.”

He looked at me warily. “Thanks.”

“It’s fairly noticeable. In fact, I noticed it outside Kellie Armstrong’s house a few days ago. But you didn’t stick around to say hello.”

He hurried closer. “She told me you’re working on an article about Sunshine Haven.”

“Did you tell everyone else about it?”

“What? No! I don’t want . . .” He checked our surroundings again.

Someone was going into Sunshine Haven, but they were too far away to overhear.

“I need to keep it quiet about Kellie and me. Please.”

“You don’t want people to learn about your affair? Would it cost you your job?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “No, not that. I never treated Kellie, only her mother. That’s how we met. The rules say you can’t date a patient, but they don’t say anything about a patient’s daughter.”

“So why is it a secret?”

He frowned. “Off the record?”

I nodded. “I don’t write for gossip columns.”

“Kellie is still married. They’re separated but not divorced.”

“I thought her husband still lived in that house.”

“He does. They moved to separate bedrooms five years ago. Said his snoring was keeping Kellie awake. They wanted to stay together until the kids were all out of the house.”

“That’s a long time to pretend to be a happy couple.”

“Yeah.” He scanned the empty parking lot. “It’s been hard on Kellie. Her kids are all grown now, but then her mother moved into the home, and that was tough for everybody, so they didn’t want to add to the stress by announcing a divorce. Now that her mom has passed on, they’ll give it a couple of months and then make it official.”

I studied the young man. He was about thirty, lean and muscular, with healthy good looks if you liked the jock type. Regardless of the age difference, he and Kellie would make a pretty couple. “So Penelope Valentine’s death was to your advantage.”

“What? No. She was a nice old lady. I liked treating her.”

“But if she hadn’t died, you’d have to wait longer to be with Kellie.”

He tipped his head and squinted as if I’d turned purple and spouted gibberish. “I don’t know what you’re getting at. We weren’t planning to wait until her mother died, only until everyone was used to her being in the home. Kellie didn’t want to tell her mom about the divorce, but Mrs. Valentine wouldn’t have remembered it anyway, what with her Alzheimer’s. Kellie was only worried about the kids.”

He might be fooling himself. If things had been dragging out, Kellie might find another excuse not to initiate the divorce. But it didn’t seem likely that this young man had killed his girlfriend’s mother. He certainly wouldn’t have any reason to kill Brit Egland.

“All right, I’ll keep quiet about it.”

“Thanks. I need to get to work.” He headed to the door.

Someone behind me called, “Kate, good morning.”

I glanced back at Berta Lopez as she hurried toward us. She squeezed a key fob and the sleek sports car behind her gave a beep and flash of lights as it locked. The male PT—I still didn’t know his name—lingered long enough to hold the door for us, so I didn’t comment on Berta’s fancy car. I’d need to find a fresh opening line to probe the issue of why she had so much extra money to spend. Maybe I’d wait until after our therapy session, so she couldn’t take revenge by torturing me with “deep tissue massage” or something.

Inside, the man took off toward the back room. Berta waited while I checked in at the reception desk and then escorted me to one of the small rooms. We went over my health history, focusing on the damage from the explosion. I mentioned “a recent fall” to explain the additional bruises and scrapes. Berta was cheerful and professional as we discussed my concerns and goals. For an hour, I concentrated on my body.

Berta checked my range of motion—poor—and leg strength—worse.

“You’re doing pretty well for an injury this recent,” she said.

I grunted. Why couldn’t I heal faster? Why couldn’t I be back to normal? One measly bomb explosion and I was out for months.

Berta did some amazing pressure point releases that worked out my muscle knots. As I reclined on a padded table toward the end of our session, Berta led me through some “assisted stretches,” which meant I relaxed while she moved my limbs. We’d mostly talked about what she was doing and my pain level, but we could chat casually through this. I asked how long she’d been a physical therapist—five years—and then she asked about the places I’d lived overseas.

When she finished, I sat up on the padded table. I had a whole new set of aches, but they were the elusive “good pain” that came from the right amount of exercise fatigue, stretching, and bodywork.

“I love to travel,” Berta said. “Last year, I went to Australia and it was amazing. I’m thinking about Machu Picchu next year. I wish I had someone to go with, though.”

I silently thanked her for the lead-in.

“Those are expensive trips,” I said. “I don’t imagine many people your age would be able to afford them.”

“Yeah, none of my friends can. They’re satisfied with California or Mexico. I’ll probably do a tour of Machu Picchu. Most people on those tours are a lot older, but at least I’ll have company and someone else to take care of the details.”

“I’m surprised you can afford that kind of travel. I didn’t think physical therapists made all that much.”

“We sure don’t. I’d have to save up for years to pay for it out of my own salary.” She washed her hands at a small sink. “My mom died in the hospital a few years back. The doctor . . . it was malpractice. We got a big settlement.”

“Wow. I’m sorry about your mother. I don’t imagine the settlement made up for losing her.”

She dried her hands and dabbed at an eye with the towel. “Not even close. In a way, I hate the money. It’s a constant reminder of her. I want to spend it and be rid of it, but I don’t want to waste it, you know?”

“Ah. The vacations are expensive but not a waste.”

“Right. Mom always wanted to travel. I imagine she’s with me and talk to her about what we see.” She gave me a crooked grin. “Not out loud, to myself. Don’t want people knowing how crazy I am.”

“No crazier than the rest of us. I hope your mother can hear you and enjoys traveling with you.”

“I know she does.”

One more minor mystery solved with a tragic but plausible answer. And I’d found an excellent physical therapist. I walked the short distance to Sunshine Haven without obvious limping. She gave me hope that someday I might walk comfortably without the cane. Maybe I’d even be able to return to normal—or at least my own personal brand of crazy.

I felt mellow as I entered Sunshine Haven. Maybe too mellow for the tasks ahead. Well, that feeling probably wouldn’t last.

I stopped at the coffee station. As long as I didn’t fill the cup too full, I could carry it without sloshing. I kept my eyes on the mug and my attention on walking smoothly as I crossed to the reception desk where June Songpole, the young weekday receptionist, sat. Since pressuring her had only made her anxious, I took advantage of my relaxed mood and smiled. “Good morning, June.”

“Ms. Garcia is ready for you.”

“Thank you, but could you do something for me first?”

“Uh, sure.”

I took a sip of coffee. “I’d appreciate it if you would please tell me whether you informed Norman Mendelson of my first visit to Heather last week.”

Her eyes widened and she swallowed. “I didn’t mean any harm! He likes to know what’s happening.” She dropped her gaze and her chin jutted out slightly. “I didn’t think it was a secret.”

“I understand. You were trying to help.”

She glanced at me, away, and back again. “I knew you were a journalist. Your dad mentioned it once when I asked him why he looked worried. It was when you’d been hurt.”

“People confide in you because you’re sympathetic. And you thought I might be trying to hurt Sunshine Haven with a negative story?”

“Not exactly,” she mumbled.

“What then?”

June sighed. “Mr. Mendelson has been really upset lately. His mother is in a care facility, but not as nice as this one because he couldn’t afford it. I know people think he’s, well, uptight, but I think he’s mostly sad.”

“I’m not sure I follow. What does this have to do with me?”

She gazed up at me. “Promise you won’t tell Ms. Garcia?”

“If it has to do with anything illegal, or against the interests of this place, I’ll have to tell. I won’t share gossip or feelings.”

She glanced at the open door behind her and then leaned forward and whispered, “Mr. Mendelson doesn’t like Ms. Garcia. He thinks she cares too much about money and not enough about the patients. She’s the one who made the final decision about his mother. He thought they should make an exception because he’s worked here so long.”

“I can see why he might think so.”

She nodded. “His mother’s really sick now, and it’s breaking his heart. I thought he might be pleased that someone was investigating Sunshine Haven.”

I took another sip of coffee while I processed that. “You thought he might get revenge if I found out something bad about this place.”

“I guess I wasn’t thinking clearly. It’s not like I actually want you to find anything bad and shut the place down. I’d lose my job. Anyway, Mr. Mendelson didn’t take it like I thought he would. It only upset him more.” She gave me a big-eyed, innocent look, like a puppy that knew it had been bad but hoped to be forgiven due to cuteness. “I’m sorry?” She made it sound more like a question than a statement.

“All right. Thank you for telling me. I don’t think we’ll need to talk about this again.”

“Thanks.” She beamed. “Are you ready to see Ms. Garcia now? Would you like me to carry your coffee?”

“That would be nice. Thank you.”

So Norman Mendelson knew, or thought he knew, that I was investigating something at Sunshine Haven almost from the start. Even before the car that caused me to fall in the street. Ironically, if June hadn’t gossiped to the man who hated gossip, we all might have had an easier few days.

I sat across from Heather, who told June to close the door on her way out. Heather and I looked at each other. Her hands clenched on her desk.

“What kind of car does Norman Mendelson drive?” I asked.

She blinked a couple of times. “Um, I don’t know. Something kind of bland and practical, like him. A silver compact of some type.”

That could be the car that tried to run me down. An innocent person wouldn’t be so upset about the thought of me investigating Sunshine Haven that he’d try to hurt me. Mendelson had to be hiding something or protecting someone.

“Does it matter?” she asked.

“Not really. Not at the moment. We’ll get back to him. First, let’s talk about you and Henry Wilson.”