Part 32 (1/2)

He wouldn't come with me. He had legal standards to uphold; I had blood in my eye. It was a testament to the bonds of friends.h.i.+p that Tinkie, Cece, Coleman, and Doc made no effort to halt me.

Graf pushed me down the hallway until we came to an open door. Oscar shuffled forward. He looked like h.e.l.l, but he was on his own feet.

”Thank you, Sarah Booth.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. ”I've thought all morning what to say to you. The only thing I've come up with is 'thank you.' ”

”Not necessary, Oscar.” Seeing him standing was enough for me. ”Thank Doc. He's the one who figured it out.”

He motioned down the hallway. ”Regina and Luann went home and Gordon is next door. You should say h.e.l.lo to him. Looks like the worst is over. Fidellas and Kessler are under arrest . . .” His voice drifted into silence.

”Tinkie loves you more than you'll ever know,” I told him.

”And the same applies to you.” He s.h.i.+fted from foot to foot before he stepped forward and patted Graf's shoulder. ”Take good care of her, Graf, she's a rare breed.”

”I plan to do just that.” Graf set the chair in motion but I waved him to a halt at Gordon's room. Now that Gordon was able to speak, he might be able to resolve one tiny part of the mystery. Graf tapped at the door and we entered.

The deputy was propped up on pillows in the bed. He looked like warmed over h.e.l.l, but he greeted me with a wave.

”Gordon, do you remember when Lana Carlisle died?” I asked.

”It's funny. I can count on my hands the number of times I ever saw my father commit an act of kindness. That was one. I was out of the house by then, but I remember one night he was talking about it on the front porch.”

”How do you mean an act of kindness?”

”Lana Carlisle had cancer. Ovarian. She was facing a long, difficult death. She got her ducks in order and killed herself. She fell down the stairs so it would look like an accident. She didn't want her kids to have to live with a suicide.”

Of all the explanations, I'd never have guessed. But it made sense, in a strange way. Her visits back to West Point, the purchase of a cemetery plot. For years she'd yearned for her home, and once she knew she was dying, she made the arrangements to see that she would rest there for eternity.

”And Gregory?”

”The way he cheated on Lana, no one would've believed his love for her. In his own way, though, he did. That was one screwed-up family, no doubt about it. I remember the talk that Gregory had killed Lana or that Luther had killed them both, but I think in the end, Gregory took his own life.”

If Gordon hadn't been comatose, he could have resolved at least this element, and perhaps I wouldn't have been so willing to believe that Luther was one of the primary criminals. As it stood, both Luther and Erin were p.a.w.ns in a dangerous game.

Luther's greed had been his undoing and had nearly cost him his sister's life.

”Thank you, Gordon.”

”I'm the one who owes you thanks, Sarah Booth. Especially you, but Tinkie, too. I'm glad you're home. Zinnia isn't the same without you.”

His words moved me, but before I let my softer side take over, there was something I needed to finish. Graf maneuvered me out of the room and we traveled in silence down to Room 312. He halted the chair at the door. ”Sarah Booth, I'll take care of this.”

”I have to do this myself.” I awkwardly pushed myself out of the chair. My arm throbbed, a ba.s.s note complimented by the tremolo of my other injuries. I didn't have a gun or a bat, but I'd work with what I could find.

”I'll be right outside the door.”

”Keep everyone else out.” I pushed open the door and stepped into the room where Peyton lay in bed, both arms conveniently handcuffed to the bed railing. I closed the door.

”I don't have anything to say to you.” His tone was so cheerful, I fought the rage that washed over me. Three people were dead. Oscar, Gordon and two realtors had almost died. I'd suffered a personal loss he'd never understand.

”Talking isn't what I had in mind.” I kept my voice as dead calm as a cotton field in August. I moved up beside the bed. ”I want you to clearly understand how much I want to hurt you. I have this fantasy of you screaming.”

The first doubt flickered across his face. ”Where's the sheriff?”

”In another wing of the hospital. He's detained. Like Doc and the nursing staff and everyone else. For all practical purposes, it's just the two of us, Peyton.”

He looked out the window and I walked around the bed and closed the blinds. The hospital wasn't totally modernized, and an old air-conditioning unit cranked out cool air. I flipped it to high so the fan rattled loudly.

When I faced him again, he wasn't so self-a.s.sured.

”What are you going to do?” he asked.

I accepted then that I didn't know. I'd followed my gut need to come here and hurt him, but my taste for blood had waned. Hurting Peyton wouldn't undo anything. It wouldn't even give me satisfaction. What really mattered was that my friends and fiance stood behind me if that's what it took to help me heal. That was the important thing to remember. I started toward the door.

”Defeated so easily?” he asked.

I gave him one last look. ”No, actually, victorious. I'm not capable of the things I ought to do. And in the long run, that's the real victory.”

I left the door open as I settled into the wheelchair that Graf held. His arms came around me and the stubble of his beard tickled my cheek. ”For what it's worth, I'm glad you couldn't hurt him.”

”Yeah, me too.” But I felt as if I'd fallen deep into a hole with no ladder to climb out.

Graf spoke softly in my ear. ”He'll spend the rest of his life in prison. He'll suffer more there than with any physical harm you could deal him.”

Graf's confidence was the sunlight at the top of the hole. I turned my face up to it and closed my eyes, hoping that it would be enough.

Dahlia House settled around me. I crept out of bed and with Sweetie Pie as my companion walked across the dew-soaked gra.s.s to the pasture where Reveler and Miss Sc.r.a.piron grazed.

The night was soft and drenched in the sadness of wisteria. Inside, Graf slept. We'd talked until the early morning hours, and he'd held me while I cried. Now, I was alone with the past and the sense of loss that was as familiar as my own reflection.

A clear soprano cut the night sky. ”Ah, sweet mystery of life, at last I've found thee; ah, I know at last the secret of it all.” Jitty came across the yard in a beautiful gown.

I leaned against the fence railing and enjoyed the spectacle. I'd never known that Jitty had an operatic voice, but then she was quite the chameleon.

When she finished the Victor Herbert lyrics, I applauded gently. ”The version I remember is Madeline Kahn in Young Frankenstein.”

”That would be the thing you remembered,” she sniffed. ”Try Jeanette MacDonald in a little movie called Sweethearts.”

Jitty did resemble the chestnut-haired songbird. Still, I wasn't certain how opera had become part of my evening.

I waved a hand toward Dahlia House. ”Graf is exhausted.”