“She’s fine.” The nurse closed the patterned curtain around them, giving them some privacy. “She’s had something to drink, but she’s sleepy. We gave her something for nausea, and you can expect her to have a dry throat from the intubation. She’ll be in and out of sleep for the next hour or two, until she’s up for good.”
Judy took her aunt’s hand, which felt chilly. “Aunt Barb, we’re here. We love you.”
Her mother frowned. “Don’t wake her. She needs to sleep.”
The nurse walked to the bed and picked up a white cylinder with a bright green light on one end, which was attached to a covered dispenser on a stalk. “Ladies, this is her pain medication. All she has to do is press this green light. It will dispense morphine every fifteen minutes, but not more frequently than that.” She crossed back to an opening in the privacy curtain. “I’m here if you need anything. I’ll be back to check on her.”
“Thank you,” Judy and her mother said in unison, then when they were alone, silence descended again, for a moment.
“Judy,” her mother said, her tone weary. She sank into an institutional chair on the other side of the bed. Her makeup had worn off and her features finally relaxed, as if she had kicked out the emotional jambs. “Let go of her hand and sit down. It’s going to be a while.”
“I guess you’re right.” Judy was hoping to make peace, so she released her aunt’s hand, rolled over a stool on wheels, and perched on it uncomfortably.
“She doesn’t look that good, does she?” Her mother gazed down at Aunt Barb, with a slight frown. “She is pale, but it’s probably the stress of the procedure. The trauma of it.”
“I’m sure but they got all the cancer, so that’s wonderful.” Judy felt her heart lift, but her mother seemed not to hear her.
“I watched a video of it on YouTube. It’s not a pretty operation.”
Judy recoiled. “I’m just glad it was a success.”
“They have everything on the Internet nowadays.” Her mother’s gaze remained on Aunt Barb. “You can see medical videos of a breast reconstruction, of mastectomies with the flap or without one, same with expanders. Everything you can imagine. Women make their own video blogs, too. Survivors, that is. I found it very helpful. You should take a look.”
Judy couldn’t imagine taking a look.
“It’s a wealth of information.”
Judy didn’t reply, realizing that when she and her mother were talking, it was never real conversation, wherein one person replied to the other. It was more like they both took turns filling up the air with words, in a series of familial non sequiturs.
“We should be quiet so she can sleep,” her mother added, though she was the only one talking, so Judy conceded the obvious, that she might as well work while her aunt was asleep. She leaned over, grabbed her bag, unpacked her laptop, and lost herself in her email for another hour.
“Iris?” her aunt whispered, out of the blue.
“Huh?” Judy placed the laptop on the floor and rolled her stool over to the bed and clutched the bed rail, and her mother did the same thing on the other side of the bed.
“It’s Delia. Barb? Are you awake?”
“Iris?” her aunt whispered again, her eyelids fluttering.
“Not Iris, Delia,” her mother answered, pursing her lips.
“Aunt Barb, it’s Judy and Mom.” Judy reached for her aunt’s hand, which felt warmer. “We’re here, and you’re fine. Your operation was fine.”
“Iris,” her aunt said, more distinctly, and opened her eyes. Her gaze was an unfocused blue, shifting from Judy to her mother, taking them in only vaguely. “Oh, hello … I was thinking of … Iris.”
Judy squeezed her hand. “We love you, Aunt Barb. We’re here for you.”
“Iris was with me … she helped me…” Her aunt’s voice trailed off. “She was there with me … in the beginning, before they put the mask on … I could feel her presence…”
“Really?” Judy asked, surprised, but her mother shot her a look.
“Judy, please don’t encourage this. You’ll have her seeing ghosts, for God’s sake.” Her mother picked up a small bottle of water from the bed table and twisted off the cap. “Barb, are you thirsty? Does your throat hurt?”
“Judy?” Aunt Barb turned her head toward Judy and squeezed her hand, though her grip was weak. “Do you … hear me … about Iris? I mean, I know she’s … gone … but she was there … she told me everything was going to be okay … I felt so comforted…”
“Aw,” Judy said, touched. “I bet that was very comforting.”
“It was and I … I … want to know what happened to her … I want to know … what time is it … today is Monday, right? Is it?”
“Yes, it’s Monday.” Judy checked her watch. “It’s about five thirty.”
“Today was the day … you were going to find out … you’re going to call somebody … about Iris…”
Judy’s mother interjected, “Barb, have some water, will you? The nurse told us your throat would be dry. Are you in any pain?”
Aunt Barb shook her head, agitated. “It hurts, my chest…”
Judy’s mother reached for the white morphine dispenser. “Here. You have pain meds, dear.”
Aunt Barb ignored her, turning to Judy. “Judy, did you … call? What did they … say?”
Judy patted her aunt’s hand. “You mean about Iris’s autopsy? I called earlier today, but they said to call back later and I didn’t get a chance.”
“Call them … I want you to call them … I want to know … I want to know what happened to Iris … I owe that to her…”
“Now?” Judy asked, off-balance. “You really want to know that now?”
“Barb, I can’t stand to see you in pain.” Her mother thrust the morphine cylinder toward Aunt Barb. “Please press the button. You’ll feel better. This isn’t the time to be worrying about Iris. This is the time to be worrying about yourself.”
Judy added, “Aunt Barb, I wonder if they’re even there. It’s after business hours.”
Judy’s mother pressed the green button for the morphine. “Here, let me help. This will make you feel better. Calmer.”
Judy looked over, as the clear morphine ran down the tube. “Mom, she should do that, not you. Don’t you think?”
Her mother raised an eyebrow. “Why? I want her to be comfortable.”
“Call them … Call them … they have to be there…” Her aunt shook her head in confusion, and whether it was the effect of the drugs or she was really concerned, Judy wanted to placate her.
“Okay, Aunt Barb. I’ll go call them and be right back.” Judy released her aunt’s hand, dug in her blazer pocket for her phone, and passed through the opening in the privacy curtain. Signs were posted prohibiting the use of cell phones, so she hurried from the recovery room, through a swinging door past the reception desk, and into the waiting area. Most of the seats were filled with people on phones and e-readers, plus reading some actual books, so she scrolled through her recent phone calls, located the number, and pressed CALL.
“Chester County Coroner’s Office,” answered a young woman’s voice.
“I’m Judy Carrier, and I spoke earlier to the assistant deputy coroner. I’m wondering about the results on the autopsy of Iris Juarez. Would you happen to know if those results are in?”
“I’ll try to find out, bear with me,” the woman answered, and in the background came the clacking of computer keystrokes. “This isn’t usually my job. I’m filling in because we’re shorthanded.”
“I understand.”
“I see a notation that you called earlier and that you’re an attorney with Rosato and DiNunzio, representing the family.”
“Yes, that’s me.” Judy wasn’t about to bother with technicalities. “Do you have the results?”
“No, sorry, I don’t know how to open the file from the pathologist. I don’t have the password. Like I say, this isn’t my job.”
“When can I get the results?”
“It will have to wait till tomorrow. Call or come by. Are you local?”
“Kind of.”
“Sorry about the inconvenience. Everybody’s out at a job tonight, a high-profile case. It’s very sad, you’ll probably see it on the news. One of our local priests, Father Keegan, was killed tonight in a hit-and-run.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Judy walked down the glistening hallway, her mind reeling. Hospital staff and families with get-well flowers and Mylar balloons passed her, but she avoided eye contact. Father Keegan had been killed, when she had just talked to him this morning. She didn’t know how to react, or what to do, or whether to tell her aunt. She spotted a restroom down the hall and hustled there.
She pressed open the door, crossed to the sink, and splashed cold water on her face, trying to recover. The ladies’ room was empty and small, only three sinks and stalls. The chill of the water woke her up, but she couldn’t deny the growing realization that something was really wrong. She reached for a paper towel and dried her face, but her thoughts kept churning. Father Keegan’s death struck her as too coincidental. The coroner’s office had said it was a hit-and-run, but maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe it was connected to Iris’s death. And Daniella’s disappearance.
Judy tossed the paper towel in the bin and tried to gather her thoughts. She knew she was speculating, but she couldn’t help herself. She replayed her conversation with Father Keegan in her mind and couldn’t fight an increasing sense of guilt for what happened to him. She leaned against the white tile wall, closing her eyes in pain. She had told the priest that Iris was involved in wrongdoing. He hadn’t believed her; he’d found it inconceivable. What if he had started to dig and one of the conspirators had found out? Would they kill him to stop him from digging further? Was it the same people who had attacked her last night? What was going on?
Judy slid her phone from her pocket and pressed FAVORITES. The call rang twice, and she said, “Mary, do you have a minute?”
“What’s the matter?” Mary asked, alarmed. “Is Aunt Barb okay?”
“She’s fine, but I just found out that Father Keegan is dead, in a hit-and-run.”
“The priest? Oh no.” Mary moaned.
“I feel so terrible.” Tears came to Judy’s eyes. “It’s my fault. I didn’t know, I didn’t think—”
“What are you talking about? How can it be your fault?”
“I told him about the money today and that I thought Iris was dealing drugs. He didn’t think it was true. What if he started digging and they killed him?”
“That’s possible, but that doesn’t mean it’s your fault.”
“Why not?” Judy asked miserably. “I told him about it. If he wanted to get to the bottom of it, it was because of our conversation.”
“No, you’re not responsible for that. Whoever hit him was responsible for that, whether it was an accident or not. Why do you think it’s not an accident? Have you spoken to the police?”
“No, the coroner, but it just seems too coincidental. Think of the chain of events. Iris’s death, finding the money, my getting attacked, and Iris’s apartment was ransacked last night, too.”
“It was?”
“Yes, right before we were attacked. That’s what Father Keegan called to tell me about. Somebody is looking for that money.”
“You think?”
“Yes, I think that Father Keegan started asking around after he spoke to me, and somehow at the end of the day, he ended up…” Judy couldn’t bring herself to say the words. “Oh my God. This is terrible. It could’ve been murder.”
“You don’t know that yet. You don’t have any real evidence or facts.”
“Agree, it’s circumstantial, but it’s compelling.”
“I have to admit, it is, and we know that every hit-and-run isn’t necessarily an accident.” Mary’s tone turned grave, and Judy remembered that Mary’s first husband was murdered almost the same way, struck by a car years ago, while he was riding his bicycle on West River Drive.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring that up.”
“No, honey, it’s okay,” Mary added quickly. “So where are you now? What are you going to do?”
“I’m at the hospital. Should I tell my aunt? I didn’t tell her about Iris’s apartment being broken into. My mother didn’t want me to.”
“I get that, and I’d hold off for now. Is she okay? She has to be going through hell.”
“The surgery went fine, and she’s coming around.” Judy made a gut decision. “I don’t think I’ll tell her, yet. But she’s going to want to know the autopsy results on Iris and I don’t have those yet.”
“So tell her that, but not about the priest.”
“Agree.” Judy felt reassured that she and Mary were on the same page.
“She’ll be stronger tomorrow, and you’ll know more.”
“I hope so.” Judy straightened up, with a final sniffle. “I better go back now.”
“You need anything? I can come down there. I’m home, ordering takeout.”
Judy hadn’t eaten but didn’t feel hungry. “No thanks, I’m fine, and by the way, the money’s safe in a bank.”
“Good. Keep me posted. Love you.”
“Love you too, bye.” Judy pressed END to hang up, slipped the phone back into her jacket, and checked her reflection on the way out. The strain showed on her face, and her blue dressed-up-for-deposition suit was rumpled, but she tried to get it together as she left the bathroom. She hit the hallway and hurried back to the recovery room, where she pushed the privacy curtain aside to find her mother helping her aunt sip some water from a bottle.
“What did you find out?” her aunt asked, after her mother moved the bottle.
“So far, not much.” Judy managed a smile, crossing to her aunt’s bedside. “I … couldn’t find the right person to talk to. How do you feel?”
“Better,” her aunt answered, though the corners of her mouth turned down. “There’s pain, but I’m thinking more clearly. What do you mean, you couldn’t find the right person?”
“I mean, the deputy assistant coroner wasn’t there and the young woman I spoke with didn’t know how to open the report.” Judy went with a half-truth, since she was the worst liar in the Bar Association.
“So there’s a report, but they couldn’t open it?”
“Evidently. I’ll try again tomorrow.”
“Isn’t there someone else you can call? I won’t sleep until I know what happened to her.”
Judy’s mother snorted, easing back into her chair. “After that morphine, you’ll be asleep in ten minutes.”
Judy started to get another idea. “I suppose I could make a few more calls, but it would be easier to do from the office. They’re not big fans of cell phones here. The sign says it interferes with the machines.”
Aunt Barb blinked. “So go to the office. I’d love it if you can find out those results and I know you have work to do. Feel free to go, really.”
Judy’s mother nodded. “Honestly, honey, I can handle everything here. The nurse was just in and said they’re going to move her to a room. I’ll stay and get her situated, and by then visiting hours will be over. They end at eight o’clock.”
Judy looked from her aunt to her mother, her heart beginning to beat with anticipation. “You sure you don’t need me here to help?”
Aunt Barb smiled wanly. “You can help me the most by getting the coroner’s report.”
Her mother flashed a smile that looked oddly relieved. “You can help me the most by getting out of my hair.”
“Very funny,” Judy said, faking a smile. She had better things to do than fight with her mother.
An hour and a half later, Judy was getting out of her car, having found a parking space in the municipal lot across from the Kennett Square Police Station. She felt bad about lying to her mother and aunt, but she’d had no intention of going into the office. She was burning to find out what happened to Father Keegan, having
driven here with her brain on fire, convincing herself of a connection between Iris’s and the priest’s deaths. She hoped that she could convince the police that she was right, or at least to consider the possibility and investigate her theory. Detective Boone had given her his business card, and she’d tried to call him on the way over, but there had been no answer and the message had gone to voicemail.
Judy walked through the parking lot, heading for the police station, which was completely unassuming. It bore no sign except for a small navy-blue keystone, which was unlighted and therefore unreadable in the darkness. Only a single light over its paneled front door illuminated the small, red brick building that could have passed for a modest single-story house, situated between a low-rise Tudor apartment building and a stop-time laundromat, with a misspelled sign that read LAUNDERMAT. A small parking lot around the right side of the station house held five police cruisers, white with a black stripe, and one all-black car, unmarked.
Judy approached the paved entrance in front of the station, which buzzed with activity. Men in suits and brown-uniformed police stood outside, talking or smoking in groups, and neighbors filled the sidewalk, gawking at TV reporters who were positioning themselves in calcium-white circles of klieglights. Boxy newsvans with local TV logos lined the curb, their black rubbery wires making tripping hazards on the sidewalk and their mobile microwave towers dwarfing the colonial rowhouses on the quaint side streets.
Judy made her way through the crowd to the front door, then opened it onto a small, square waiting room full of personnel, reporters, and men in suits. To her left was a closed door with a sign that read MAYOR’S OFFICE, and to her right were blue-padded chairs where reporters and cameramen sat drinking covered cups of coffee, cameras on their lap.
She walked past them, doing a double-take when she spotted on the wall a signed lithograph from one of the Wyeths, the famed painting family who lived in nearby Brandywine. The art alone qualified Kennett Square’s as one of the nicest station houses she’d ever seen, but it also had a thick lapis-blue rug, eggshell-white walls, and one of exposed brick, in which was embedded a rectangular window of glass.