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A handful of cars occupied the parking lot, with a single work truck idling at the curb near the front door. An older man was scrubbing the wall, where half of a neon-blue fleur-de-lys stained the white brick. Yep. Crafted by the same artist who’d vandalized the cars at Tiffany’s.
Why would someone start this after the murder? Why start this at all? Why target Dr. Hotchkins’s coworkers? What did anyone stand to gain from it?
Jane parked and made her way inside the building. After signing in, she claimed a seat in the back and set up camp. Minutes passed. She tapped a pen against the arm of her chair, her trusty notebook in hand. The internet had provided the top two motives for any crime: love or money. Had the handsome doctor and his nurse—and/or physician assistant—engaged in a love affair gone wrong? Maybe the doctor had promised to leave his wife and then balked?
What about money? And the other possibilities? Perhaps the doctor had argued with Emma over her role in the medical practice. A reason for the fight among the staff? Had she demanded compensation? Maybe he’d caught Caroline making a medical mistake or stealing pills.
What if Jane totally missed the mark here? Some people committed unspeakable acts just for grins and giggles. Or street cred. Street cred was still a thing, right?
A hoarse, hacking cough boomed. Two other patients waited with her. Both had glassy eyes and red noses. They sneezed again and again and again and again and again. One of them repeatedly lumbered past her to remind the receptionist that he was dying. What a baby.
“Miss Ladling?” called a nurse in bright scrubs with colorful butterflies. Emma!
Jane jolted out of the chair, her stomach twisting anew. “Present! I mean, I’m here. That’s me. I’m Miss Ladling. Jane.” Sweat glazed her palms as she haphazardly stuffed her notebook in her purse. “I mean, I know you know who I am. We’ve met before. Once. Kind of. We were in the same location, but we didn’t chat or anything. Not that it wouldn’t have been great to chat with you outside of an appointment.” Well, she’d finally found the perfect ailment for today’s visit. Diarrhea of the mouth. “Yikes. Sorry.”
Emma offered a forced smile. “It’s okay. People can get really worked up when they’re not feeling well, and they’re worried about the underlying cause.” Like Caroline, she mourned Dr. Hotchkins. Or the strain of hiding his murder was taking a toll.
Suspecting everyone I meet of the crime? This is my life now?
Well. Why stop? Jane zeroed in on the golden band around Emma’s finger. A wedding ring. The plot thickens. Would the nurse kill a man to hide an affair or maybe even spark drama with her husband?
“Come on back,” Emma said. “We’re ready for you in room two.”
“Wonderful.” As both the sickies glared at her, she kicked into motion, closing the distance and breezing past the door between the waiting room and hallway of patient rooms.
After taking Jane’s weight, Emma ushered her into the right exam room. Same sterile beige walls as usual, one of which was covered in framed certificates. A tiled floor and a ceiling with slight water stains.
“I see you have a pet,” Emma said, grabbing the blood pressure cuff. “A dog? Big? Small?”
“A cat, actually. Rolex. He’s the brightest light of my life.” Jane sat on the examination table and settled her purse at her side. “But, uh, how did you see that I had a pet?” Like with a psychic vision or something?
“The fur on your dress.”
Oh yes. That made more sense.
“Is Rolex friendly or one of those demon spawns?” Emotionless, the nurse secured the cuff on Jane’s arm.
“Oh, my Rolex is a perfect angel.” No truer statement had ever been spoken.
“I have a corgi named Cheddar, and he seems to shed an entire fur coat every day. I don’t care, though, because I love him so much.”
Heartfelt words delivered with such a deadened tone. Highly suspicious? No longer. Right? Anyone with a dog named Cheddar couldn’t be a murderer. It was practically science. Maybe Emma’s coldness showcased a woman fighting to hold herself together over the death of a friend. Or lover.
Staring at the table, she pumped a balloon and the cuff filled with air. Avoiding eye contact with a patient? Standard procedure or the action of a guilty woman?
A frown tugged at the corners of Emma’s mouth, slowly deepening. Was something wrong?
Jane followed her gaze to the open purse at her side, with a page of the notepad visible. Heat singed her cheeks. Had Emma spotted the ridiculous hearts Jane had drawn around Conrad’s name?
“Ow!” The cuff squeezed far too tight, pain shooting to her shoulder.
“Sorry, sorry,” Emma rushed out, jolting into focus. The pressure on her bicep eased.
Okay. Let’s get back on track. Emma might be the first bad guy to own a dog named Cheddar. Her (seeming) recognition of Conrad’s name—no big deal. For all Jane knew, the special agent had interviewed the clinic’s employees at length. But why react so strongly to Jane’s obvious schoolgirl crush? Unless the nurse had been lost in her thoughts? Like Jane was now?
