Just then, the swinging doors to the autopsy suite blew wide open.
And here was Cindy, as promised. She was breathing hard as she hurried over to Claire and the woman lying on the stretcher.
“I’m Cindy Thomas,” she said to the patient. “I hope you’re feeling better. What an ordeal, right?”
Then Cindy turned to Claire and said, “What did I miss?”
“I don’t remember anything,” said Joan Murphy. “But obviously, I was murdered. Well, it was attempted murder, I suppose. That’s all I know.”
Chapter 6
The irrepressible Cindy Thomas had just breathlessly materialized in Claire Washburn’s autopsy suite, and Claire wasn’t pleased. Not in the slightest.
Claire said, “Seriously, Cindy? Didn’t I say no?”
She was planning to spin her friend around and march her straight out when the doors to the ambulance bay banged open.
Bunny shouted to the EMTs, “Hurry. She’s in there.”
The EMTs burst into the cold room with a stretcher in tow.
“What have we got, Doctor?” asked an EMT. The name W. Watson was appliqued on his shirt.
Claire said to Watson, “This is Mrs. Murphy.”
“Hello,” Joan said. “The rumors of my demise have been wildly exaggerated.”
Watson cracked a smile.
“She was brought in just after midnight,” Claire continued. “She has a gunshot wound to the shoulder and a bullet graze on her hip. She revived on her own fifteen minutes ago and needs emergency care ASAP.”
Watson said, “You’re not kidding.”
Mallory went to Mrs. Murphy and patted her hand.
“I left a message for your husband,” she said. “I told him you were on the way to Saint Francis Memorial Hospital.”
“How ya doing, Mrs. Murphy?” EMT Watson asked. “We’re going to give you a nice smooth ride. And we’ll get there faster than a speeding bullet.” Then the EMTs helped the gunshot victim onto their gurney and wheeled her out to the ambulance.
The doors closed behind them and the wail of sirens sounded down the road as Bunny entered the autopsy suite holding a brown paper bag that was sealed with red tape. “Dr. Washburn, I opened this to see what it was. I think the handbag inside belongs to Mrs. Murphy.”
Only fifteen minutes had passed since the patient formerly assumed to be a corpse had called out to Claire’s team for help.
“Leave the bag here,” Claire said. “Right now, I’m calling the cops.”
As Bunny did as she was told, Claire saw Cindy eyeing the large paper bag on the stretcher recently vacated by Mrs. Murphy.
Without any discernible hesitation, Cindy opened it up and peered inside. Then she pulled out a handsome red leather handbag, opened it, and began laying its contents on the stretcher.
Claire said, “Cindy. What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m just taking a quick peek. It’s in my nature. I’m an investigative reporter, remember?”
Claire said, “Thanks for the news flash. Listen to me. I disavow all knowledge of what you’re doing. You know full well the contents of that bag are off-limits and off the record. By tampering with them, you could mess up a case against the shooter. Do you hear me?”
But Cindy took Claire’s disavowal as a yellow light, not a red one. She listed the contents of the bag out loud as she emptied the capacious interior and the many pockets. “Here’s her wallet, Claire. The driver’s license belongs to
our not-actually-departed Joan, and the picture matches the woman we just met. She lives on El Camino Del Mar in Seacliff. She has five credit cards in here and a buncha receipts.