Season Of Glory. Ron/Janet Benrey

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СКАЧАТЬ “You seem to have forgotten that I cared for Andrew most of last night. If I wanted to kill him, I had plenty of good opportunities when he was unconscious in the emergency room.”

      “Not necessarily. You knew by then that you’d be considered a suspect in his poisoning. Killing him in the E.R. would have involved too much risk. No—we can be confident that Mr. Ballantine was safe in your hands last night.”

      “And he’ll be safe in my hands today,” she murmured.

      “Did you say something?” He stood up and pointed at the clock over the door. “Look at that—we finished a full minute ahead of time.”

      “I said that you aren’t very bright if you seriously think that I poisoned Andrew Ballantine.”

      He shrugged. “At this point in my investigation, everyone who attended the tea party is a person of interest. But I’ll admit that you’re pretty low on my list of suspects. What’s more, I’m rooting that you didn’t do it. Good E.R. nurses are in short supply these days and Rafe Neilson told me that you are considered one of the best in the Carolinas.”

      He pulled open the heavy metal door that led to the hospital’s main corridor. He waited until he stood on the threshold to continue. “However, the fact remains that someone tried to kill Mr. Ballantine—someone with a motive we don’t understand. I’d like to close the case before the perpetrator strikes again.”

      Sharon smothered a gasp. The notion of a repeat attack hadn’t occurred to her. Was someone in Glory determined to kill Andrew Ballantine? And would that person try again?

      TWO

      How do I get them to tell me the whole truth?

      Andrew Ballantine mulled over his situation and cataloged the six forlorn facts he knew for certain:

      1. According to the embroidered label on his blanket, he was a “guest” of Glory Regional Hospital.

      2. He’d spent an entire night in a hospital for the first time in his life.

      3. He’d been asleep much of that night—drifting in and out of consciousness.

      4. He’d awoken at 10:00 a.m. and now felt reasonably clearheaded, although his innards still ached a bit.

      5. His illness, whatever its cause, had begun at an afternoon tea party—he dimly recollected drinking a mug of an especially fine Indian Assam.

      6. The nurse who’d visited him twice to take his temperature this morning—a rosy cheeked woman named Melanie, who looked about twelve years old—repeatedly replied “I don’t know” when he asked what was wrong with him or why he was attached to five different medical monitors.

      Andrew lifted the blanket and peered at the various wires connected to circular pads stuck on his chest, arms and legs, and contemplated yanking the clips loose.

      “That would set off the alarms and start a noisy commotion,” he mused. “Maybe then someone in this hospital will tell me what’s going on.”

      A tap on the door interrupted his scheming. “Mr. Ballantine?”

      Now what? It seemed too soon for another visit from Melanie. Besides, she didn’t knock; she simply stormed in.

      “Come in,” he said.

      The door opened, revealing a strikingly attractive woman wearing sky-blue scrubs. It took him a few seconds to recognize her as the woman he’d talked with for more than an hour at the tea party. Sharon…

      Rats! I’ve forgotten her last name.

      She smiled at him from the doorway. “How do you feel?”

      “Confused. No one will tell me what put me in a hospital. I woke up an hour ago, and I’ve received a full-blown runaround since then.”

      “That’s my fault, I’m afraid.” She moved into the room. “None of the staff who came on duty after seven o’clock this morning knows the whole story of why you’re here. I haven’t had a chance to bring the nurses up to speed.”

      Andrew struggled to think of Sharon’s last name. She’d looked different in The Scottish Captain’s back garden. Her complexion had seemed more golden in the late afternoon sun, especially in contrast to the deep green of her outfit. But her blue scrubs this morning and the cool fluorescent overhead lighting in his room conspired to made her skin look pale, almost porcelainlike.

      Yesterday, her ash blond hair had brushed her shoulders; now, it was tightly pinned back. One feature hadn’t changed, however. Despite her metal-rimmed glasses, her amber eyes appeared as luminous as when he’d stood next to her on the gazebo steps—and even more lively.

      A vision flashed in Andrew’s mind. “I remember a stocky man,” he said. “In his forties. Mostly bald with a friendly face and a small goatee. He kept shining a light in my eyes.”

      “Ken Lehman is our lead emergency room physician. He spent most of the night working on you.”

      “I want to talk to Dr. Lehman. How can I get hold of him?”

      “You can’t right now. He went home to get some sleep.”

      “He’s home sleeping? That’s just wonderful!”

      “Actually, it is wonderful,” she said. “I had to fight with Ken to make him leave the E.R. He came on duty at two o’clock. yesterday afternoon, and it wasn’t until five this morning that he agreed you’d made sufficient enough progress for him to get some rest. I promised to monitor you and call him if your condition gets worse.”

      “Will I get worse?”

      “No. You’re on the mend.”

      Another memory jogged his mind. He’d woken up briefly during the night and seen a patchwork of images: a tress of blond hair, a woman praying silently and the glint of a needle attached to a green plastic tube.

      “You were my nurse last night, right? You stuck something in my arm.”

      Her amber eyes flashed mischievously. “Several somethings.”

      Concentrate! What’s her last name?

      Andrew tried to dredge up their conversation in the gazebo. Had she told him that she was an emergency room nurse? Probably, and many other things about herself, too—but most of the tea party was still a blank in his mind.

      You’re not as clearheaded as you thought you were.

      He peered at her nametag, but her last name was too small to decipher from across the room.

      “On the mend from what?” he asked.

      She took a step toward him. “You were poisoned.”

      “Tainted food! I thought it must be something like that.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “That’s what happens when Americans attempt to cook Scottish vittles without proper training. No doubt a fusty scone I ate at afternoon tea laid me loo—as my Scottish grandmother would say.”

      He СКАЧАТЬ