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For Keeps (Monroe Mysteries #3) by Aaron LazarPublished: July, 25th of 2012
Publisher: Twilight Times Books
|When retired family doctor Sam Moore gets a call from the coroner to come to The Twin Sisters Inn to consult on a murder victim, he’s puzzled. Why would Lou call him? He’s retired now, and just wants to spend time with his beloved Rachel, his grandsons, and to work in his gardens.|
Within days, the body count increases and Sam is a prime suspect, so he calls on a peculiar
talisman—his brother Billy’s glowing green marble—to whisk him back in time in search of clues before the killer strikes again.
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"Murdered?" Sam juggled four pots of yellow daylilies in his arms, squeezing the cell phone between his shoulder and ear. "Where? And why in the world do you need me?"
Lou sighed. "I told you. The Twin Sisters Inn. And I can't say over the phone, I just need your…expertise."
My expertise? Sam had practiced family medicine in East Goodland, New York for over thirty years, but couldn't imagine how treating runny noses and chicken pox qualified him to help with a murder. And why was Lou being so damned secretive about the whole thing?
"Hold on a sec, Lou." He dropped the flowerpots on the counter and barely caught them before they toppled. Flashing the clerk an apologetic smile, he swept the spilled dirt into a pile and mumbled into the phone. "I'm at Palmiter's. Just checking out."
Lou groaned. "Why am I not surprised? Since you retired, that's all you've done. Flowers and more flowers. Holy Mother Mary. Don't you get sick of it? Or are you trying to get your place on the Home and Garden network?"
Sam slid the plants toward the clerk. "You're just jealous."
"Damn right I am. I can't retire for another coupla years. Remember, I was two years behind you in med school."
"Just because I'm retired doesn't mean I've lost my marbles. Of course I remember." Sam thought back to the coroner when she was a student at the University of Rochester. Short strawberry blond hair, willowy figure, high cheekbones, and a ready smile. Aside from her gray hair, Louise Reardon hadn't changed much after forty years and five kids. Except she was a hell of a lot pushier.
The freckled teen behind the counter looked bored. "That'll be fourteen ninety-two."
Sam dug out fifteen bucks and paid her. "Thanks. Keep the change."
She raised her eyebrows as if she couldn't believe he'd actually try to tip her with eight lousy cents. "Gee. Thanks, mister."
He shrugged, loaded his plants into a green wagon, and pulled it toward the Highlander. He'd bought enough plants here to put all their kids through college. Anyway, who tipped sales clerks? "Lou? You still there? I'm almost at the car."
"I'm here." She let loose another frustrated sigh. "How long ‘til you get here?"
Sam loaded his plants in the back, got in, and turned the key. The SUV purred to life. "Not long. I'm putting you on speaker. Just a sec." He slid the phone into his breast pocket and backed out of the parking spot. None of those new-fangled blue tooth gadgets for him. It was hard enough to keep up with cell phones, laptops, iPods, and every new device that came out each year. "On my way."
"Geez. Finally. Watch out for the news vultures when you get here, though. They're everywhere."
"Will do. Be there in a few."
He hung up and pushed his silver forelock back from his forehead. Shouldering his way through a pack of hungry journalists to view a dead body had not been in today's plans. Today was supposed to be devoted to gardening, to feeding his insatiable need to dig in rich loam while the sun warmed his back. If Lou weren't such a good friend, he'd have blown her off.
Turning south on Route 39, he imagined the ribbing he'd get if she knew about his aversion to cadavers. A doctor? Afraid of bodies?
He'd dealt with dead people before, but not a great deal. Med school, of course. He'd barfed his way through that ordeal. And when Mrs. Tupple had died in her bed ten years ago, he'd gone to the house at Mr. Tupple's request. Reluctantly. But he'd gone. The most recent experience had been last fall, at his brother's funeral.
Well, it hadn't really been a body…it was Billy's bones, bones pinned underwater for fifty years. Submerged with heavy stones deposited by Sam's three best friends. Billy's disappearance had remained a mystery, until it was finally revealed last year. When things happened. Things he couldn't explain to anyone, except Rachel. He couldn't even tell her the whole story. But Billy connecting with him from beyond and helped him get to the truth.
A familiar sadness took hold, and as if in response, Billy's green marble hummed and warmed in his pocket. His brother's face floated across his mind's eye. Freckles. Clear hazel eyes. Sandy hair. Impish smile.
Billy wanted to talk.
Not now. I can't. Later, buddy. He thought the words in his head, knowing Billy could hear him if he said them out loud or imagined them.
Sam turned left at the Mobil Station on the corner of Main Street and Route 20A and headed for the historic brick building housing The Twin Sisters Inn. Willing the marble to be quiet, he forced himself to think of what lay ahead.
A murder victim? Why the heck did Lou need his help? It didn't make any sense, but in spite of his reservations, a trickle of excitement ran down his spine.
News vans and squad cars jammed the lot. He parked on the side of the road and headed toward the building. The marble pulsed twice, then grew cold.
Was it a warning?
The green glass talisman had linked Sam to Billy since he unearthed it in his garden last year. He'd learned to respect it, and through it, Billy's interventions had helped with a number of sticky situations. He'd saved the life of his friend, Senator Bruce McDonald, after the sudden collapse of Healey's Cave. And more important, he'd found his daughter, Beth, after she'd been kidnapped.
He locked his car and headed toward the building, skirting around vehicles and people. He brushed against the back of a policeman when several news reporters pushed past him. The officer swung his head around and stared.
"Er. Sorry." He smiled at the patrolman and kept going.
If they had any idea. If they knew I talked to Billy, traveled back in time with him… A lace dragged from his shoe, threatening to trip him. He stopped to tie it. If they knew, they'd put me back in the asylum, just like they did when I was twelve.
A chill stole over him. Memories of the day Billy disappeared assaulted him. Billy, on his brand new bicycle, driving down the road, never to return. Guilt coiled in his stomach. He'd answered a phone call from a damned girl, instead of following his brother on the bike ride like he'd promised. He'd never forgive himself for that.
That moment had been the end of life as he knew it, and the beginning of his tortured life to come. The insane asylum had been the worst, though. He hated to remember the way they talked to him, the stupid pills they'd made him take that doped him up, and the disgusting smell of antiseptic that had followed him everywhere, even seeped onto his pillowcase at night. He shuddered and tried to put it out of his mind. Best to forget it and see what the hell Lou wanted.
She said it loud enough to discourage the eager journalists who craned their heads to see if he was anyone they cared about. When they realized he wasn't a detective, they lost interest and swarmed toward the police chief's car that just pulled in behind Sam's SUV.
Lou took his arm and steered him inside. The inn boasted antiques and wide plank floorboards. Inside the door, a pine bench with a stenciled backboard lined the wall; an old-fashioned pie cabinet anchored the opposite wall beside a mahogany sideboard, on which an essential oils diffuser sat, filling the air with the scent of balsam. Sam breathed it in, relieved it wasn't one of those chemical smelling, fake candles. It bolstered his spirits and reminded him of the deep woods in the Adirondacks. He was damned sure it smelled a hell of a lot better than what he'd find upstairs in the crime scene.
Mary and Alice Peterson, the inn owners and former patients of his, had been encouraging him to investigate the oils for years, and he'd meant to, but had been too swamped with patients to check them out. He'd always regretted that, and had resolved to do some research in his retirement that might help merge traditional approaches with those steeped in Eastern medicine. Time would tell if he could fit it in between the gardening, babysitting, and spending time with Rachel. She needed more care now that her MS had worsened, but he was up to the challenge. It was one of the reasons he'd retired a little early.
He shuffled after Lou. Tin chandeliers hung over a long trestle table, decorated with dried crabapples and fresh flowers. The twins reportedly served scrumptious breakfasts to guests at that table, and he'd been invited more than a few times to partake of their homemade breads, jams, and other goodies. Again, he'd had to decline his patients' generous invitations. There just hadn't been enough hours in the day to socialize and run his practice. But now that he was retired, he wanted to find time for more of that kind of thing.
A policeman sat in the corner, interviewing the hotel owners. Alice's hands shook when she took a pen from the officer to sign a statement, and her complexion seemed unusually pale. Sam wondered if her blood sugar was low. She'd been his patient forever. He started toward her with concern, but Lou grabbed his sleeve.
"Come on, it's this way."
"For crying out loud, you're retired now. She's not your patient anymore, Sam. It's not your job. Come on."
Sam dug in his heels. He shook his arm loose and spun around. "Alice. Are you feeling okay?"
Alice's face lit up. "Oh, Doc! I'm so glad you're here. It's awful. Just awful. A woman was killed in the Maple Nut room!"
Mary put an arm around her sister's shoulders. "She's shook up, Doc."
Sam felt her pulse. "I think she's more than shook up. Let's get her some orange juice. She needs something to get her sugar back up."
"I'm fine, Doc. Just a little light-headed."
When Mary brought the juice, he sat while she drank it, sputtering the whole time about not needing such a fuss made over her. He waited another ten minutes, making small talk, while Lou fumed. When he was sure she seemed stable, he turned to Lou. "Okay. I'm ready."
Lou blew up a lock of her gray bangs and made a face. "Geez, Sam. You'll never be able to leave it alone, will you?"
"It's not like I died when I retired. Alice has been my patient since I started my practice. I couldn't just walk past her, for God's sake. I'm not a monster." He followed Lou up the stairs to the second floor, ticked off now. Did being a coroner make you callous toward the living? He shook his head, mulling it over while they threaded around police, through a carpeted hallway, and into a room already marked with yellow tape. The room crawled with technicians.
Lou spoke through tight lips. "Just be careful not to touch anything."
Sam nodded and followed her across the suite, around a coffee table, past a fireplace, and into a bedroom.
"She's in the bathroom," Lou said. "You'll have to stand in the doorway to see. They're still taking photos of the blood spatter."
Sam's insides churned. There was a reason he didn't become an emergency room doctor. And blood spatter had a lot to do with it. He took a deep breath and forced himself to focus.
Inside the black and pink bathroom, a woman lay on her side, facing away. A three-foot long gray braid curled behind her on the floor, fastened at the top and bottom with elastic bands and fake daisies. She had been slim, and wore a silky Japanese dressing gown, covered with pink and black dragons that matched the floor tiles. Three technicians crowded around the body. Camera flashes blinded Sam as he tried to absorb the scene.
Lou whispered in his ear. "She was hit from behind with that phone."
An old-fashioned beige rotary phone perched on the edge of the tub. Red smudges stained its edges. Blood soiled the back of the woman's head and neck and splashed about the room on the walls and floor. A particularly large spot smeared the pink shower curtain. He felt sick and hoped he wouldn't lose it in front of all these professionals.
Lou leaned on his shoulder to look past him at the body. "Looks like it happened last night, sometime between midnight and four. We think she let him in, recognized him, since there was no sign of forced entry. The sisters didn't see anything. Lights are out at ten, but guests are free to admit family or friends whenever they like."
One well-toned leg extended back from her body, with toes pointed toward the sink. An anklet glistened in the light of the camera flashes. Four silver stars marched around her slim ankle, separated by black pearls.
A technician lifted the hem of the dead woman's gown to reveal a vivid pentagram tattoo, circled with black roses. The photographer shot it from all angles.
Sam caught a glimpse of painted pink toenails. One hand, nails unpolished, rested on the cold tile, as if the victim was ready to push herself into a sitting position. A bottle of nail polish had spilled on the floor by the tub.
"She never saw it coming," Lou said. The skinny, bald technician looked up and nodded as if he agreed, then went back to work dusting the edges of the phone and tub.
"Maybe we should let these gentlemen finish their jobs," Sam said. He backed up into the bedroom. "And I still don't get—"
Lou shushed him with steely eyes. "Wait. Just wait a minute, for God's sake."
She'd been testy with him since she called, and he was starting to get sick of it. He'd come here to help her. He'd much rather be in his garden, or better yet, having lunch with Rachel.
In ten minutes, the room cleared. One of the techs nodded to Lou on the way out. "She's all yours, Doc. Let us know if you need anything."
"Thanks." Lou shot him a grim smile and motioned for Sam to follow her to the nightstand.
"Look at this." She flipped through the white pages using the eraser end of a yellow pencil. "There. There it is. The book was opened to this page when they found her."
Sam stared at the circled entry. "Are you sure she did this?"
Lou shook her head. "No. But it's pretty damned likely."
The name and address circled shouted at him. Dr. Samuel J. and Rachel S. Moore. 5125 Maple Beach Road. East Goodland, New York.
Sam stared at the phone book, then glanced around the room. It was tidy, as if the occupant had just arrived. The suitcase lay unpacked and opened on a stand near the television. "Am I a suspect?"
"Hell, no. I just want to see if you knew her. I didn't exactly broadcast the information to the police." She gestured to the phone book. "I wanted to show you first. I'm not sure if they picked up on it."
"Thanks, Lou." The last thing he needed was to be part of a murder investigation. He thought back to last night. He didn't even have a good alibi—Rachel had fallen asleep early, and he'd read until he'd drifted off.
He leaned over and looked at the books on the nightstand. Standard fare. The newest Dean Koontz novel and a women's magazine.
"According to the detective, the ID she gave at the front desk comes up bogus in the system, and her purse is missing. If she carried one, that is. No wallet, no identifying papers." Lou's voice softened. "You ready to see if you recognize her?"
Sam squared his shoulders and nodded, feeling less confident than he sounded. "Sure. But what makes you think I'll know her? Maybe she was just looking for a local doctor."
They walked toward the bathroom. "Maybe." Lou led the way. She crouched beside the victim and carefully rolled her onto her back. "But take a look anyway."
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