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“It was one of the best days of my life,” she said when he left her at her door under the carport, leaving his car there as well.
“One of mine, too,” he replied. He hesitated. It was uncharacteristic. “I have to go back and talk to Billy Turner tomorrow. But what are you doing after lunch?”
“Not much,” she began.
“Do you like to walk?”
She nodded.
“Me, too. Is there a park?”
She laughed. “A nice one, with footpaths. Lots of people walk there, even in snowy weather. And it will have lighted decorations everywhere, for Christmas. I’m going to put my tree up tomorrow night.”
“Do you cut one?” he asked.
She grimaced. “I’m allergic to fir. I have an artificial one. It’s too big, really, but I get one of the orderlies to come help me set it up . . .”
“I’ll do that.”
She smiled. “Okay.” She searched his eyes. “Going to help me decorate it? You’re tall enough to put the star on top.”
“I guess it won’t kill me,” he said. He smiled back. “Okay. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Have a good night,” she said.
“You, too.”
She turned to go in.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
She turned back. “Inside . . . ?”
“I took you all the way to Denver, took you skating, bought you sushi, and you’re just going to walk away and close the door, shutting me out all by myself alone in the dark? I could get eaten by a bear or something.”
She laughed delightedly. She walked back to him. “What would you like, then?”
“Funny, you should ask . . .”
He pulled her close and kissed her. It wasn’t like the hungry, passionate kisses that had come before. It was slow and sweet and tender. The sort of kiss you’d give someone you really cared about. He moved back, and he didn’t smile. He looked down at her quietly. He touched her cheek, then smiled briefly, and walked away.
She watched him all the way to the motel before she turned and went inside.
* * *
He had a list of questions to ask Billy Turner when he stopped by the hospital early the next morning. But he didn’t get to ask a single one.
“He died in the early hours of the morning,” one of the doctors told him.
“Died? But he didn’t have internal injuries, did he?” Tom asked, stunned.
“Not at all. We’re not sure what caused it. Maybe there was something that the surgeon missed.”
“Did he have any visitors after I was here?” Tom persisted.
“Just one. A girlfriend. She brought him some food and tea she said he liked. He seemed really happy to see her, according to the nurse on duty,” the doctor added.
Tea. Tea. He reached back into his mind for a reference and found it. May Strickland had taken Mrs. Downing a cup of ginger tea just before she died, unexpectedly according to Alice. “Do something for me,” Tom replied. “Run a drug panel for poison.”
