The Cold Light of Mourning - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,83

look pale and interesting, but altogether much better than you did the last time I saw you,” she said as she entered. “How are you feeling?”

“Not too bad, really,” said Victoria in a weak voice. “A bit weird though. Almost myself but not quite there yet.”

“I’ll bet,” said Penny. “They told me you don’t remember anything about what happened. So you don’t remember someone showing up with a lavish bouquet of flowers?”

“No, I don’t. I think I remember pouring myself a glass of wine, and after that, nothing, really until this morning. I was quite shocked when they told me where I am. They said I might remember more in time but that often with traumatic events you just block the whole thing out.”

“What was it like when you regained consciousness?” Penny asked as she settled herself on the chair beside the bed and placed a modest bunch of carnations in Victoria’s lap. Victoria smiled her thanks, sank back into her pillows, picked up the cheerful pink flowers, and gazed into them.

“It was like waking up from a deep sleep, but I was very disoriented,” she said. “It was like being beneath the surface of awareness, if you know what I mean, while I tried to figure it out. Am I awake? Am I asleep? What’s happening to me?” She paused and looked very subdued. “I even thought, ‘Am I dead? Is this what it’s like to be dead?’ I don’t know how long that part lasted, but I was glad when it was over and then I knew I was alive, just like I used to be.”

“Wow. That’s really something.”

After a few moments of silence, Penny looked at her friend.

“I was really worried about you,” she said simply. “When we found you, you said you thought you might die.”

“Did I really?”

A thoughtful look, punctuated with puzzled confusion, crossed her face.

Sensing she had caused some distress, Penny tried lightly to move the conversation on.

“Well, something like that. Anyway, you’re on the mend, and that’s what counts,” she said briskly. “Did they say how long you’ll be here?” She looked around the small, clean room. “At least you’ve got a room of your own. That’s got to be worth something.”

“Mm. The room to myself is because of the policeman who has to sit outside the door. He’s very young and very dishy, one of the nurses told me. Fancies him like mad, she does!”

Penny looked toward the door where Bethan Morgan was now occupying the chair.

“He’s not there now, but we did see him when we came in. I guess Sgt. Morgan gave him a break and he’s gone off in search of the loo.

“Anyway, they told me I wasn’t to stay too long. But don’t worry, we’ll find who did this to you. And I guess you know, it is connected to Meg Wynne’s murder. So, all things considered, we’re very lucky to still have you with us.”

She stood up, patted her friend on the shoulder, and leaned over to give her a little hug.

“I miss having you about the place,” she said. “You kind of grow on people.”

Morgan swung around in her chair to look at the two of them and then got up and entered the room.

“Sister asked me to pop in and tell you that your time’s just about up, Penny. Hello, Mrs. Hopkirk. Glad to see you’re looking a bit better.”

As they prepared to leave, Penny reached into her bag.

“Almost forgot to give you this,” she said, handing over a greeting card in a pale pink envelope. “It’s from Gwennie. She’s really taken a shine to you, and was terribly cut up about it, when she heard what had happened. You made a deep impression on her. Oh, and Gareth sends his best.”

Victoria nodded and took the envelope.

“I’ll open it later,” she said, letting it drop beside her. “I’m too tired right now. But there was one thing I wanted to tell you. They told me I’d been given a heavy mix of street drugs. Where would anyone get filthy stuff like that around here?”

“Unfortunately, everywhere,” said Morgan. “People think street drugs are just a big-city problem, but they’re in every nook, cranny, and schoolyard of this country.”

As Morgan drove Penny home, her mobile rang. She pulled over to answer it, spoke briefly, and then tuned to Penny.

“You were right,” she said. “Your fingerprints were on one of the phones we recovered from the Meg Wynne burial site. There’s yours and another set we’ve still to