Dolled Up for Murder - By Deb Baker Page 0,50
and occasionally huddling with the officers on duty in the hall. At some point, he thrust a tuna sandwich into Gretchen’s hand and forced her to take small bites.
Three eternal hours after they had arrived at the hospital, the doctor appeared.
“She’s in recovery,” he said. “The surgery went well. She’s not out of danger yet, though. The next twenty-four hours are critical.”
Gretchen and Nina fell into each other’s arms and let the emotions that had been boiling under the surface escape. Damp-eyed, Gretchen asked to see her mother.
“She’ll be in recovery for a while. Go home, and we’ll call you when she wakes up. That won’t be any time soon.”
Gretchen glanced at Matt. At least he had the good sense to refrain from requesting an interrogation. She wondered how soon the attending physician would allow police officials to question his patient. When Matt sat down next to the coffeepot and crossed one leg over his knee, Gretchen knew he was in for the long haul. So was she.
“I’m staying,” she said to the doctor, with a piercing glance at Matt. She sat down hard in a chair and crossed her arms. “And I expect to be the first one notified when she is able to have a visitor.”
The doctor approached the detective. “It’ll be some time before you will be able to interview her. Her family will be the only ones allowed in initally.”
Matt looked over at Gretchen. “I understand. I’m staying anyway. After all, I’m almost like family.”
How quickly he went from family friend to family member. A charlatan, our craggy detective.
“I’m staying, too,” Larry said.
Another round of waiting began. Gretchen watched the sun go down from a chair next to the window. The officers standing guard resorted to playing cards. Nina left to monitor her pets with Larry in tow, and Gretchen found herself alone with Matt. He glanced up from a magazine.
“What did she say?” Gretchen asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You said she was in shock at the scene of the accident.”
“Schmidt,” he said, calling to one of the officers. “You talked to Caroline Birch?”
The taller of the two officers looked up from his card hand. “Yah, but she talked gibberish.”
“What did she say?” Gretchen said.
Officer Schmidt lowered his cards and folded them into his beefy palm and frowned in concentration. “Let’s see. She musta thought she was auditioning for a part in a movie or something. She said she was waiting forever to be discovered, and this was her big break.” He fanned the cards and threw one down. “What do you expect? She was in shock.”
Gretchen sat up straight in her chair. She felt a wave of dizziness and clutched the side of the chair. “How did you identify her?” she asked slowly. The answer was important, more important than they knew. “How did you know she was Caroline Birch?” she demanded, rephrasing the question.
The officer continued to scowl. “We ran the plates.”
Matt leaned forward and abruptly dropped the magazine on a side table. “What?”
“She wasn’t carrying identification,” the officer said defensively, sensing he’d said something wrong.
“No purse?” Matt asked.
Officer Schmidt shook his head. “Not a scrap of paper anywhere. No purse. No wallet. Just a paper bag with a few dirty clothes wadded up inside.”
Gretchen jumped up. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs. Instead she shouted to no one in particular, “That isn’t my mother in recovery. She didn’t have a car accident.”
“What are you saying?” Matt said.
“The car accident. It wasn’t my mother in the car. It was Daisy, the homeless woman.”
Gretchen and Matt stood beside her bed. The nurse in charge of the recovery room watched to make sure they obeyed the rules. Their instructions had been clear. No speaking to the patient. One minute, no more, to make the identification.
This was highly irregular. Frowned on by administration. But under the circumstances . . .
She seemed small and helpless wrapped in hospital linens and gown, and her eyes were closed. Her head was wrapped in white bandages, and tubes snaked from beneath the bedding and traveled up into a maze of equipment and monitors.
The woman who was her mother. But wasn’t.
If Daisy were conscious, she would be pleased at the attention, the part she unwittingly played. She had finally received top billing to a sold-out audience.
Gretchen struggled between feelings of intense relief that she wasn’t viewing her injured mother and overwhelming guilt because of that relief. A woman lay before her, struggling for life. Whatever distance Gretchen had felt from Daisy