Live and Lime Die: A Key West Culinary Cozy - Book 8 Page 4

  “That’s just it, Mom, they don’t want to keep me here for observation, they think that I tried to commit suicide,” she burst into tears. “I didn’t do this, Mom. They said I overdosed on tranquilizers, but I don’t use tranquilizers. I don’t even know anyone who does,” she cried, covering her face in embarrassment.

  “Of course you don’t,” her mother frowned. “Tell me what happened, honey.”

  Tiara wiped her eyes with the edge of the coarse hospital sheet, sniffling, and Marilyn handed her a tissue. “I lied to you,” she began, not able to look her mother in the eye.

  “What?” was the startled reply. She’d been raised to always tell the truth, no matter what, and to Marilyn’s knowledge, she always had…until now, apparently.

  “I didn’t hang out at your house to watch Netflix. Sam stopped by the store earlier and said that he needed to talk to me about something important. I didn’t want him to know where I lived, so I told him I’d meet him at your house,” her eyes grew wide, as realization struck.

  “What is it?” her mother asked, seeing her reaction.

  “He knew where you lived. I never gave him an address or anything, and he knew exactly where to go,” she murmured. “My wretched ex-boyfriend may have been stalking you,” Tiara looked as though she might start crying again, so Marilyn changed the subject.

  “Did he come over?” she prompted.

  The weak young woman nodded. “He came over and I took him out to the back patio, because I figured if he tried anything, I could scream and Tim would hear and call the police or something. Anyway, I was having a glass of wine and he started telling me all about how he had changed and had a really good job and wanted to get back together with me,” she explained, remembering.

  “Oh dear, what did you say?” her mother asked.

  At that moment Tiara looked like herself again, giving her mother an eye roll. “Please give me a little credit, Mom. I told him no. In no uncertain terms. I learned my lesson the first time, I don’t need to repeat the class,” she sighed.

  “That’s fair,” Marilyn nodded. “So what happened after you told him no?” she probed.

  “He asked for a glass of wine so that we could toast his new start, so I went to the kitchen to get the bottle and a glass for him…”

  Marilyn dropped her head into her hands.

  “What?” Tiara asked, wondering at her mother’s reaction.

  “Did you leave your glass out there with Sam when you went in the house?” she asked.

  Light dawned, and her daughter closed her eyes. “He drugged my wine when I went in the house,” she whispered, embarrassed again. “I even made a comment that I thought it tasted funny when I came back,” she shook her head.

  “Do you remember anything after that?” Marilyn asked gently.

  “Umm…I was getting really sleepy, and then Tim came over with a pie. I went into the house again to get plates and stuff for the pie…” she trailed off.

  “What were Tim and Sam doing when you came back out?”

  “I can’t remember…I don’t even know if they were there. The next thing I knew, I was here, and there was a giant tube in my throat,” she grimaced.

  “That’s gotta hurt,” her mother frowned. “I’ll get some ice cream and soup after I drop you off in the guest room. Let me go talk to the doctors and see if I can get you sprung from here,” she kissed Tiara on the forehead. “I’ll be right back,” she promised.

  **

  Fortunately, Tiara drifted off to sleep when her mother left, her body worn out from the trauma that it had endured, and she didn’t hear the raised voices outside her door as her mother argued with the attending physician.

  “What do you mean she “has” to stay overnight? Whatever happened to patient choice?” Marilyn demanded, hands on hips. She’d had a rough evening and was in no mood to be diplomatic.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t even talk with you about the reasons why she has to stay overnight. Your daughter is an adult, and I can only share medical information with her,” the doctor explained patiently.

  “My daughter did not try to harm herself. Her wine was drugged by a psychotic ex-boyfriend. There is absolutely no reason to keep her here,” she insisted.

  The doctor considered his next words carefully. “While I’m not saying that this is the case with your daughter…whenever the human body goes through an experience that shuts it down almost entirely, there is need for further observation, just to ensure that all systems are functioning properly, before sending the patient home, where medical intervention equipment is not accessible,” he stared at the nervous mother pointedly, trying to drive his point home without being overt.

  Marilyn sighed, realizing that she wasn’t going to get anywhere with her demands, cajoling and wheedling.

  “Fine,” she groused. “But can we at least make certain that her room is in a secured area? I have no idea where the ex-boyfriend is, or if he’ll try anything else,” she confided in a low voice.

  “I assure you, she’ll be in a very secure area,” the doctor nodded.

  **

  “Seriously? The psych ward?” Tiara was irate. “I didn’t do this, and I don’t need to be on suicide watch! This is ridiculous,” she started to try to get out of bed, and a nurse gently restrained her.

  “Mom!” she pleaded, looking at her mother for support.

  The doctor intervened, speaking softly so that the agitated young woman would have to calm down enough to listen. “Miss Hayes, the reason that your room is on this floor is because it is the most secure area of the hospital. There are security guards and several locked and reinforced doors protecting you. Whoever did this to you will not be allowed access to this floor, I can assure you of that,” he soothed. Tiara quieted, but was still visibly upset.

  “Get some rest tonight,” he instructed. “We’ll do some blood work and check your vitals in the morning, and as long as everything looks good, you’ll be released, okay?”

  Tiara nodded curtly, arms folded over her chest.

  “Alright then,” the doctor pursed his lips and turned to leave.

  A nurse politely informed Marilyn that visiting hours had ended quite some time ago, and received a raised eyebrow in response.

  “Tiara, get some sleep, honey,” her mother said, squeezing her hand. “I’ll be back to get you in the morning.” Her daughter’s lower lip quivered briefly and she turned over on her side, facing away from her mother, the nurse and the door. Marilyn looked up at the nurse, whose face was more than sympathetic, patted Tiara’s arm, and headed out of the room.

  The exhausted woman took the elevator back down to the Emergency Room, where she had come in, and saw a cluster of officers in the waiting room. She approached the group timidly, intimidated by the grim faces and serious demeanors.

  “Is Cort…uh, Detective Cortland, going to be okay?” she asked.

  A tall policeman whom she’d seen before answered briefly. “We don’t know yet, he’s in surgery,” he said, dismissively.

  “Oh, okay…thank you,” she said softly, the color draining from her face. She moved numbly toward the exit, overwhelmed by the day’s events, remembering only when she got outside in the fresh air, that she had no ride. She spotted a couple of taxis near the main entrance and hailed one, ready for home and bed, desperately trying not to cry.

  Chapter 12

  Her head leaned against the cool pane of glass in the taxi window, Marilyn sat up as she neared her home. It was dark and deserted, the police had left after their search for evidence, and her back yard was cordoned off with yellow tape – not a welcome sight. She paid the driver and trudged up the steps of the front porch, weary to the bone.

  Without bothering to even snap on the lights, Marilyn went straight from the front door to the stairs, dragging herself up to bed, barely able to keep her eyes open. Fluffy, the grey striped cat that Tiara had rescued several months ago, trotted up faithfully behind her, in anticipation of curling up in her plush kit
ty bed underneath the nightstand. The contented feline seemed to sleep most of the time, but she never actually got into her bed until Marilyn was in hers. Sliding out of her shoes and slipping into the oldest, baggiest pajamas she could find, the exhausted mother sunk gratefully into bed, pulling the covers up under her chin and falling immediately asleep.

  “Thunk!” A sound had Marilyn moving her head restlessly against her pillow. “Thunk!” She sat bolt upright, heart pounding, adrenalin flooding her veins. Looking around, trying to figure out what had caused the sound that woke her up, she heard it again and her head snapped around toward the side window. Slowly pushing the covers back, she rose from the bed and made her way toward the window, making certain to stay below the bottom sash so she wouldn’t be seen.

  Standing beside the window, she moved the gauzy curtain slightly to peer out into the darkness, searching for the source of the sound. Seeing nothing, she grew bolder, and split the curtains down the middle, her eyes darting left and right across the yard, looking for any sign of what had caused the sound. She lifted the window to see if she could hear anything, being careful to not make a sound. Silence.

  Suddenly, a jarring crash downstairs, and the sound of breaking glass, drew Marilyn away from the window. Terrified, and not knowing what to do, she grabbed her phone and quietly opened her bedroom door. She crept down the stairs, heart in her throat, hands shaking with terror. She had no idea of what…or who…she might encounter when she made it to the first floor, but she refused to cower in her room, awaiting her fate. She paused about halfway down, listening. Silence. Taking two more steps, she nearly fainted when her doorbell rang. Would a killer ring the bell? There was only one way to find out. Her fear and adrenalin combining to form a rising anger, she strode to the front door with trembling determination.

  “They did it and ran. I saw them,” Tim said when Marilyn opened the door.

  “Who did it, Tim? Did you see who it was?” she asked, flipping on the living room light to discover that some kind of bundle had been thrown through her front window, shattering it.

  “No. It was too dark. He was short,” her neighbor stared at her intently, pushing his coke-bottle glasses up his nose.

  “It’s really late…were you awake?” she asked, wondering how he had seen the vandal.

  “I don’t sleep usually. I was watering my ferns,” he replied, blinking at her.

  “Oh,” she was at a loss.

  “What is that?” he asked, raising his arm slowly to point at the bundle that had flown under the coffee table after shattering her window.

  “I don’t know, but I’m not going to touch it,” Marilyn replied. “The police need to see this.”

  “They’re here,” he observed, looking over his shoulder as a patrol car pulled up.

  “But, I didn’t call them…did you?” she was glad to see the squad car, but was puzzled.

  Tim mutely shook his head. Just when they thought things couldn’t get any more surreal, the police car pulled up in front of Tim’s house instead of hers, and they went to his front door. Her neighbor headed toward his place and, barefoot, clad in her ratty fleece jammies, Marilyn trailed after him.

  “Excuse me, you’re at the wrong house. The vandalism is over here,” she called out when they were at the tree line between her house and Tim’s. The officers approached rapidly.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” Marilyn began. “About five minutes ago…”

  One of the policeman interrupted her, staring hard at Tim. “Are you Timothy Eckels?” he demanded, stepping closer.

  “Yes,” Tim blinked at the officer, confused.

  “You’re under arrest for the murder of Samuel Freed,” he said, taking the unresisting man by the wrist and snapping on handcuffs. Marilyn gasped as they read him his rights and moved him toward the police cruiser.

  Horrified, and finding herself standing alone in the cool, breezy night, Marilyn slowly headed for home. Careful not to step on any of the multiple shards of glass scattered over her hand-scraped wood floor and tufted area rug, she peered at the bundle that had been tossed through her window. It appeared to be a large rock, with something wrapped around it. Knowing better than to touch it, her curiosity killing her, she sighed and dialed 9-1-1 for the second time in 24 hours.

  Chapter 13

  “Mr. Eckels, I don’t think you grasp the gravity of this situation,” the rotund detective, Donald Ferguson, who was called upon because Cort was in the hospital, warned.

  “Forgive me for making a mortician’s reference, but I can indeed see that this is a …grave matter,” the corner of Tim’s mouth quirked, as though he were trying to stifle a smile.

  “You find the murder of a young man funny?” Ferguson’s eyes narrowed with contempt.

  “Of course not,” Tim replied mildly. “In my line of business one learns to break tension with a bit of levity. It’s a survival tactic for one involved with such grim work – you might consider cultivating the habit,” he regarded the detective innocently.

  “Tell me what happened between you and the victim last night,” he ordered, his sense of humor absent in the face of what he considered to be the worst kind of evil – crime without remorse.

  Tim sighed, realizing that there was no chance of civilized conversation with the dogged detective. “I’m not certain who the victim is,” he stated flatly.

  Ferguson slapped a picture of Sam down on the table in front of the former mortician. Any other human being might’ve flinched at the photo of a corpse, but Tim was immune to the sight of death, having dealt with it up close and personal on a daily basis.

  “Oh. Him,” he said, unaffected.

  “Yes, him,” the detective repeated, with just a tinge of disgust. “Now tell me what encounters you’ve had with this individual,” he demanded.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a more vague line of questioning,” Tim mused, tilting his head to the side. “Are we just passing the time, or are you looking for something specific?”

  Color flushed from Ferguson’s neck to the tips of his ears as the mild-mannered psycho got under his skin.

  “When did you first see Samuel Freed? Is that specific enough for you?” the detective sneered, his face so close to Tim’s that small bits of spittle sprayed the fussy man’s face.

  Calmly taking a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, the former mortician dabbed distastefully at the spots of spittle, then tucked the handkerchief back into its spot before replying.

  “A few days ago,” he answered simply.

  “A few days ago? Where did you see Mr. Freed a few days ago?” the detective asked, clearly surprised.

  “Hiding in the tree line between my house and the neighbor’s,” Tim blinked, enjoying the man’s discomfort at not having anticipated his response.

  “What did you do when you saw him allegedly hiding in the trees?”

  A slow half-smile spread across the mortician’s face. “I had a little chat with him about the inappropriate nature of trespassing, and the inherent danger in such a practice.”

  “Are you saying that you threatened Mr. Freed at that time?” Ferguson pounced.

  “I didn’t say any such thing. Those are your words.”

  The detective clenched his teeth in irritation. “Did you threaten Mr. Freed at that time?” he clarified, speaking through his teeth.

  “No, I most certainly did not,” Tim replied calmly.

  “When did you next see the victim?” the frustrated man rubbed a hand across his forehead, looking as though he had the makings of a headache coming on.

  “Last night.”

  “Around what time?” the detective relaxed a bit, thinking that he might finally be getting somewhere with this difficult perp.

  “8:07 precisely,” Tim gazed at him owlishly from behind his glasses.

  “And how do you know that it was 8:07 precisely?” he looked skeptical, but was intrigued.

  “Because I’ve learned that whenever I see something that m
ight be of interest to the authorities, it’s often pertinent to check the time. That sort of information seems to be helpful,” he shrugged, nonchalant.

  Ferguson asked his next question with a gleam in his eye, thinking he’d finally trapped his prey into saying something conclusive. “And what made you think that the encounter might be of interest to the police?” he smirked.

  Tim Eckels regarded the portly little man in front of him with utter contempt for his ignorance. “Because when one sees a young man hiding in the bushes spying on a young woman, and then a few days later sees that same young man sitting on her back patio dumping a packet of powder into her wine glass when she goes into the house, it gives one cause to think that something worthy of police attention might be happening,” he explained, as though speaking to a child.

  “If you saw a crime being committed, why didn’t you attempt to intervene, or call the police?” the detective clearly resented the patronizing tone.

  “I did intervene. I escorted the young man from the premises while the young lady was inside. The lad was so nervous at being found out, that he accidentally drank the drugged glass of wine instead of his own unaltered glass,” Tim snickered, remembering.

  “Samuel Freed’s body was found floating in the marina last night. Any idea how it got there?” Ferguson asked.

  “No idea.”

  “Did you kill Samuel Freed?”

  “No, I most certainly did not,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “There were things done to his body that only a mortician would know how to do, Mr. Eckels,” the detective growled.

  “Are you attempting to ask me another question, Detective?”

  “Mr. Eckels, did you glue Samuel Freed’s eyes shut?” he asked, tiring of the game.

  “Yes.”

  “Was he alive at the time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you do that?” Ferguson was morbidly fascinated.

  “Because he had been looking at her in an inappropriate manner.”