The Facepainter Murders Page 6

  "I'll leave an officer outside the door. I don't believe whoever did this will try again, but report strangers to him, will you?"

  "Yes, I will."

  A bell rang as the elevator door opened. Adam looked over to see Thomas Beauchamp striding towards him, red-faced and curling his hands into tight fists.

  "Davidson, what do you think you are doing, using innocent women to do your police work? This is the third time she's been hurt working for you, and I won't stand for it."

  "Come in here," Adam said, pointing to a room to the side the doctors used for talking to families. Thomas followed him in.

  "Look, you're worried about her. So am I, but I have a murder to solve, and Anne has the knowledge to help me. She knows the risks, and she accepts them. Unfortunately, she decided to go out to Trevelyan's without talking to me."

  "You didn't send her out there?"

  "No, I didn't, and I wouldn't have."

  Thomas sat down abruptly and put his head in his hands. "How is she?"

  "She'll be okay. Do you want to go in to see her? I'll tell them it's okay."

  "In a few minutes."

  Pete called in his younger brother Dave, who was on the door when Adam left.

  "Check all the name tags, Dave. Make sure the faces match."

  "Most of the doctors don't wear them."

  "Check them with the nurses."

  "Will do."

  Thomas paced outside of Anne's room, waiting for the nurse to finish her 'neuro-vitals', whatever they were. The young policeman stood at the door, eyeing the traffic in the hallway. When the nurse left the room, the policeman motioned him in.

  Anne drifted back to sleep. Thomas sat beside her bed, resisting the temptation to take her hand. A few minutes later her body jerked, and her terrified eyes opened, staring at him without recognition for a moment.

  "Thomas, I was dreaming."

  "Go back to sleep. You're safe now, dear heart," he said.

  "I keep dreaming about footsteps behind me and a smell that is pleasant and frightening all at the same time."

  What seemed like moments later, she awoke to find her room dark and Thomas sitting at her bedside.

  "Thomas, how long have you been here? How long have I been asleep?" she croaked, her voice thick with sleep.

  Thomas took her hand.

  "An hour. How are you?"

  "Better. Was Adam here? I dreamed I heard him fighting with you."

  "We had a few words."

  "Why?"

  "Why? Because this is the third time you have been almost killed working for that guy, and I won't stand for it."

  Thomas voice and temper rose again.

  "Thomas, it's my business, my risk, not yours."

  "I made it my business. For God's sake, you're a pediatrician, not some kind of private detective."

  "It was my fault. I went out there without telling anyone because I had promised the old man I would give him my findings first. But I don't owe you an explanation or need your permission to get on with my life."

  At that moment, the nurse came in, apparently oblivious to the tension in the room.

  "I have to take your vitals again, Anne," she said. "I wonder if your visitor could leave for a few minutes."

  "Of course."

  Thomas said a perfunctory good-bye to Anne and left.

  "Are you feeling all right? You're flushed, and your heart rate is much higher."

  "It's not my concussion. Just men."

  "I thought there was some tension in here."

  "I'm too tired to worry right now," Anne said as she closed her eyes again.

  As Adam drove away from the hospital a phone call from Bill Perkins told him they were towing Anne's car to the Culver's Mills impound lot. Bill had a question.

  "How valuable are those paintings?"

  "Hundred thousand, maybe. Give or take. Maybe much less."

  "Sounds like more than a hundred grand worth of trouble."

  "Yes, it does."

  An orange and violet sunset stained the window at Lil's as Adam parked in front. The solitary customer was having a quiet meal at a window table.

  "Hi, Adam," said Peg. "Usual?"

  "Evening, Peg. Yes, but make it two sandwiches. I haven't eaten all day."

  "Sure."

  Adam sat at the counter and tucked into his favorite chicken salad and fries. Peg had added a side salad in an attempt to improve his nutrition. When he finished, he saw that the other customer hadn't left.

  "Who's the lady in the corner? She looks familiar."

  "Madeline Fox."

  "Oh, yes."

  Adam recalled that Madeline Fox was the curator or director of the art gallery. She had been out of town when the paintings went missing. When he finished his dinner, he went over to her table.

  "Ms. Fox, I'm Lieutenant Davidson, Culver police. Could I have a word with you?"

  "Of course," she said, folding her newspaper. "I've wanted to talk to you. Have you made any progress in finding the painting and sampler?"

  "Not so far. I wonder if you could describe them to me." Mrs. Fox’s round face crumpled into a charming smile. "Oh, yes. I studied them quite carefully as I'm going to write a small paper on the show."

  Adam smiled at her enthusiastic voice as she went on.

  "The painting was a three-quarter length study of a gentleman. Quite attractive and well dressed. He had rings on two fingers—a small signet ring on the fifth finger of his right hand, and a ring with a large red stone, likely a garnet, on his left hand, on the fourth finger. He was standing at a mantelpiece with his hand and arm outstretched along it with the index finger pointing at some silver pieces on the mantle. These were a tankard and a candlestick. Goldsmith tools, something that looked like an ingot of gold, and a bar of silver lay on the table beside him. A paper was propped on an easel. All in all, it is the portrait of a wealthy and successful man. Quite elaborate for Belknap, I might add.

  "And the sampler?"

  "It was not precisely a sampler, although the owner called it that. The artist used many stitch patterns on it but was not done as a showpiece for the stitching craft but rather as a memorial or genealogical record. It was quite lovely in silks and gold thread as well as many other colors. A tree stood in the center with names and dates of family members embroidered on the branches. One man stood beside one of the trunks of the tree—it had three—with one hand pointing down as if to say This is our land. We are planted here. The house behind looks like the one Evan's is in."

  She paused for breath and was about to go on when Adam interrupted.

  "What family was it?"

  "Oh, the Leclercs and the Halls. Mildred Hall Leclerc made it in 1875. It is signed and dated."

  "It was a record; no one would need actual genealogical records?"

  "I think it isn't enough. People who do genealogical research want more sources. Do ask Anne McPhail. I hear she's in town."

  "I will. Thank you, Ms. Fox. Do you know anything about the show and the packing up?"

  "Only what should have happened."

  "I have that. Thanks again."

  As Adam left, he thought about the interview. No nervousness, steady, and keen on her subject. He didn't think it likely she was involved.

  Sam, his feline companion, complained loudly as soon as he turned the key in the lock. He was going to have to get her a friend soon. She was a cat that liked company.

  Chapter Nine

  Hospitals in small towns are quiet at night. Only the emergency room was active with nurses, patients, and one or two doctors. Throughout the rest, the hall lights were dimmed. A bright light marked the room of an extremely ill patient. Nurses murmured at the nursing station.

  Anne woke, heard the familiar sound of the nurses, and comforted, went back to sleep.

  In a remote sub-basement, a figure emerged from a closet behind the boilers. Nothing but a computer attended the three boilers that replaced a monster of a machine and its human minders. The
person paused and listened before running up the metal stairs to a panel near the exit doors. Inserting two clips, he bypassed a connection. A hospital cap on his head and a name tag clipped to his anonymous greens transformed him into a hospital worker. Close enough to fool a casual observer, he hoped.

  Most of the staff used the front, unalarmed stairwells but opening the back doors triggered a buzzer to warn nurses if a confused patient tried to leave. No one was likely to question another hospital worker at that time of night.

  The back stairs opened near the nursing station outside the intensive care unit. Push buzzer for entrance read the sign on the unlocked door of the ICU. The front entrance was in full view of the nursing station of the adjoining floor. Another door opened into the hallway of an adjoining unit. A hospital security guard nodded in the chair outside the ICU's main door, and two nurses worked at the nearby nursing station.

  To reach the back door, he had to walk past the nurses and the security guard. With luck, they wouldn't give him a second glance. Maybe the nurses would be tired, less vigilant at this time of night.

  Luck had been with him in the stairwells, but the security guard looked at him and his badge as he walked past. Was he suspicious? He listened for a yell or following footsteps as he continued down the hallway and around the corner but nothing. He grabbed a stack of towels off a linen cart. They should be good enough to explain his presence in the ICU.

  Now he was through the door. Dim under-counter lighting and the greenish glow from the cardiac monitors lit the unit. He expected more activity. He pulled up his mask.

  The man in the first bed slept, unassisted by a ventilator. Not Trevelyan. The next held an elderly woman. He would have to go further into the unit and closer to the desk. A middle-aged guy, pale but still awake, stared at him.

  He could feel his own heart pounding. If he didn't find Trevelyan soon, he would need a bed here himself. Three spots left. The far one was empty. A curtain obscured the one beside him. A nurse might be in there.

  He could see Trevelyan next. The nurses would know if something happened to him. He would have to use the heroin and get out. He slipped into the cubicle, took a syringe out of his pocket, and started injecting.

  "Hey," a nurse yelled. "Get away from that patient."

  He sprinted past her, pushing her back into a cart and reached the door. He hadn't injected all the heroin. Had it been enough? Trevelyan had seen his face. He had to die. Halfway down the stairs, the code blue sounded. Enough.

  Footsteps pounded down the stairs behind him, but he ran through the door on the ground level and across the hall to the basement stairwell before the guard caught up with him. He stopped running and panted in the stairwell until his breathing returned to normal. He left some clothes in the boiler room. Why would they look down there? There was no one in the ground floor corridor. He sauntered along to the door and out and over to his car.

  He was putting coins in the exit slot when the first police car turned in. Safe.

  Chapter Ten

  Pete's voice on the phone.

  "We need you at the hospital. Someone tried to kill Trevelyan. He may not live."

  Adam shook himself awake and grabbed his clothes.

  The cardiac arrest team was packing up when Adam arrived. A steady rhythm pulsed across the monitor.

  "Hold it a minute," he said. "Is everyone here who knows what happened?"

  The charge nurse looked over at him and nodded.

  "Okay. I want you to keep the outcome to yourselves. If anyone asks, shake your head. We need to let the guy think he succeeded. I'll want to talk to everyone who was here when the attempt was made. Everyone else, give your names to the officer at the desk. Do you all understand?"

  Three people were from off the unit—doctors from the emergency room and a respiratory technologist. He spoke to them and satisfied himself no word would come from them.

  "What will we tell admitting?"

  This came from the charge nurse as she filled out the cardiac arrest record.

  "Can you tell them he died?"

  "Not without triggering a huge amount of paperwork."

  "I'll speak to them."

  Adam knew the chances of keeping Trevelyan's survival quiet were slim, but even a day of silence might be helpful.

  "Who saw this guy?"

  A tiny blond nurse with a noticeable bruise forming on her forehead raised her hand.

  "I did before he slammed me into the cart over there."

  "What did he look like? Did you recognize him?"

  "No. He wore greens and a cap and mask. He had surgical gloves on too. About five nine, thin. What hair I could see was brown. His eyes were brown and scared."

  "Anything else. Anything unusual?"

  "He had big ears."

  "What about the patients?"

  The nurses looked at one another. They didn't want the patients disturbed.

  "Come on, ladies. One question won't hurt."

  The charge nurse said, "Mr. Babcock could have seen him."

  "Let's ask. Where is he?"

  The nurse took Adam into the cubicle. God, he looks bad, thought Adam.

  "Dave. A policeman wants to talk to you."

  Dave opened his eyes and focussed on Adam's face. "Dave, did you see a man in greens pass your door before all the noise and confusion started?"

  "Yeah. Was that a man? Slight, big ears."

  "Would you know him again?"

  "No. He wore a mask."

  He closed his eyes and drifted away.

  "That's all," the nurse said.

  Adam, Brad and Pete held a hurried conference in the hallway outside the ICU.

  "Adam, that alarm must have been bypassed," Brad said.

  "Okay. Find out where the box is and check it out."

  A female deputy stood a few feet away and approached Adam when he had finished talking.

  "Lieutenant, when I turned into the hospital, a car was leaving the other gate. A beige Mazda, older. I didn't catch the plates. The guy driving wore greens, but I couldn't see his face."

  "Good. Thanks, Arlene."

  He turned to Pete.

  "He left in a hurry. He may have walked into the hospital before it locked up, in his own clothes. We need to find them. Go over the area around the alarm panel. I'm going down to check on Anne."

  The nurses on Anne's ward looked up at Adam, surprised to see anyone from outside at that time of night.

  "What can I do for you, Adam?" asked Jocelyn.

  "Hey, Jocelyn. I'd like to look in on Dr. McPhail. We had an incident upstairs, and I need to be sure she's all right."

  Jocelyn Beens was one of those unusual people who never asked more than she needed to know. She nodded and walked across the hall. Anne's quiet snoring filled the room and the nurse's flashlight illuminated her peaceful face. Jocelyn backed out through the door, closing it behind her.

  "She's okay."

  "Thanks. I'll be back in the morning."

  Adam opened the door to his house at about the same time as a boy on the outskirts of town was waking up to go fishing.

  Chapter Eleven

  Eleven-year-old Jamie Corrigan was a passionate fisherman. Since he was seven years old, his parents had given up trying to make him go to school on opening and closing day. Early dawn found him sitting quietly in his tin boat, trailing a line, waiting for the last strike of the season, convinced as always it would be the biggest. Tapper's Lake, at the end of McCord Lane, was his favorite spot. No one bothered him. No noise to disturb the fish, at least not usually.

  Jamie kept his little boat docked in a bay that bordered his grandfather's farm. Grass Lake, part of Tapper's but separated by the causeway around the point. Jamie's spot lay close to the bank, in Grass Lake, but hidden from most of it by overhanging willow branches.

  Further along the shore, a short stretch of beach allowed access to the water. A car backed down the grassy slope. A man got out and stood, watching the road. Jamie wondered if th
e man was going to fish from the shore or the bridge.

  But the man didn't seem to be planning to fish. A bigger guy walked in from the road. They talked for a minute, and then the first one got in the car. No, not in. Jamie squinted. The man leaned into the car and turned on the engine, shattering the silence, sending a pair of angry geese straight up, honking their disapproval. Both men heaved on the back of the car.

  It was going straight into the lake. An avid watcher of television, he knew this meant Crime. He'd better be still. Now the car hit the water. They opened all the windows, so the car slid fast under the water, with a final burst of bubbles. The two men had disappeared. An engine roared on McCord Lane. At that moment a trout struck, and all thoughts of crime and police left in the joy of the fish. It was going to be a great day.

  Adam thought there wasn't much point in going to bed as he fed Sam and set out into the pale light. He ran into a mist that hung over the town at the bridge, where he stood for a moment in the cool gray haze, watching the river frothing over the weir. Scaffolding covered the face of the old mill. Renovation plans included a theatre, an art gallery, a restaurant and a meeting hall. Which gallery? Competition for the one at the library or would it be moving to the new space.

  As he ran on, a car overtook him. A beige Mazda. He caught the last three numbers of the Vermont plate. 752. A break? Not so many Japanese cars in town. One dealer sold Chevies and an occasional Caddy, the other Fords, mainly trucks. If you wanted anything else, you had to travel—for some models, as far as Burlington.

  Adam changed his route to take him behind Erin's building. There was a soft glow behind the windows of the second floor. They decided that if she turned the lights, on he would come up. If not, not. Erin liked her sleep.

  Erin's husky, early-morning voice answered his buzz. "Come on up."

  "Early run?"

  She let him in, declining his sweaty offer of a hug with a laugh.

  "Yeah, I was called out to the hospital."

  "Is Anne all right?"

  "Yes, but someone tried to kill Trevelyan. He may not make it."