Someone to Watch Over Me

Leigh’s credit cards, wallet, and electronic phone book had all been in her purse in her car, but she knew her telephone credit card number by heart because she used it often. “Yes, I have one.”

“Then all you have to do is dial nine for an outside line and use your card in the usual way.” Despite what the detectives had said, Leigh tried to call Logan on his cell phone. When he didn’t answer, she called Hilda to see if she’d heard anything, but the worried housekeeper could only repeat what she’d told the detectives.

Leigh was in the process of calling Jason when a hospital staff nurse bustled into her room and interrupted her. “How are you feeling this morning, Mrs. Manning?”

“Fine,” Leigh lied as the nurse checked the tubes and containers attached to Leigh’s body.

“Haven’t you been using your morphine drip?” she asked, her expression puzzled and accusing.

“I don’t need it. I feel fine.” In truth, every inch of her body, from her toes to her hair, either ached or throbbed, and the nurse undoubtedly knew that. She stared at Leigh in frowning disbelief until Leigh finally relented and added, “I don’t want the morphine because I need to be alert and sensible this morning.”

“You need to be free of pain and resting comfortably so that your body can heal,” the nurse argued.

“I’ll use it later,” Leigh promised.

“You also need to eat,” she commanded, pushing the table with Leigh’s breakfast tray up close to the bed.

As soon as she left, Leigh moved the breakfast tray out of the way and reached for the telephone. She woke Jason up.

“Leigh?” he mumbled sleepily. “Leigh! Jesus Christ!” he sputtered coming awake. “What the hell is going on? How are you? Have you heard from Logan? Is he all right?”

“There’s been no word from Logan,” Leigh said. “I’m okay. A little sore and banged up, that’s all.” She could feel Jason’s conscience warring with his self-interest as he fought against his urge to demand to know when she could return to the play. “I need a favor,” she said.

“Anything.”

“I may want to hire my own people to help search for Logan. Who should I call to arrange it? Private detectives? Do you know anyone like that?”

“Darling, I can’t believe you have the slightest doubt. How do you think I caught Jeremy cheating on me? How do you think I avoided paying off that charlatan who claimed—”

“Could you give me the name of the firm and the phone number?” Leigh interrupted.

By the time Leigh got a pen out of the drawer beside her bed and wrote down the phone number on the back of a telegram, she was hurting so badly she could scarcely think. She hung up and lay back against the pillows, concentrating on breathing without intensifying the pain in her ribs. She was still doing that when the nurse who’d been in the last time returned to her bedside and saw the untouched breakfast tray. “You really must eat, Mrs. Manning. You haven’t eaten anything in days.”

Leigh’s private duty nurse had been much easier to ignore, but she’d gone home to sleep and wasn’t due to return until evening. “I will, but not now—”

“I insist,” the nurse countered as she moved the portable table over Leigh’s lap. She whisked the plastic covers off the dishes. “What would you like first?” she inquired pleasantly. “The applesauce, the wheat germ with skim milk, or the poached egg?”

“I don’t think I could swallow any of those things.”

Frowning, the nurse glanced at the little list beside the tray. “This is what you ordered last night.”

“I must have been delirious.”

Evidently the nurse agreed, but she would not be deterred from achieving her goal. “I can send someone down to the cafeteria. What do you normally like to eat for breakfast?”

The simple question filled Leigh with such longing for her old life, her safe, lovely routine, that she felt the sting of tears. “I usually have fruit. A pear—and coffee.”

“I can handle that,” the nurse said cheerfully, “and I won’t have to send someone down to the cafeteria, either.”

She’d barely left the room when Detectives Shrader and Littleton walked into it. Leigh shoved herself upright. “Did you find the cabin?”

“No, ma’am. I’m sorry. We have no news to report, just some more questions to ask you.” He nodded toward the breakfast tray. “If you were about to eat, go ahead. We can wait.”

“The nurse is getting me something else,” Leigh said.

As if on cue, the nurse arrived, pushing a cart that bore a gigantic basket of pears nestled in gold satin and entwined with gold ribbon. “This basket was out at the nurses’ station. A volunteer brought it up and said it was for you. These aren’t just pears, they’re works of art!” she enthused, removing a huge, glossy pear from its golden nest and holding it up to admire. She peered at the basket from all sides. “There doesn’t seem to be a card. It must have fallen off. I’ll look around for it,” she said as she gave the pear to Leigh. “I’ll leave you alone with your visitors now.”

The pear in her hand reminded Leigh of her last conversation about breakfast with Logan, and her eyes filled with sentimental tears. She cupped it in her hands, brushing her fingertips over its smooth skin while she thought of Logan’s skin, his smile; then she held it to her heart, where all her other memories of Logan were stored, safe and alive. Two tears slipped between her lashes.

“Mrs. Manning?”

Embarrassed, Leigh brushed the tears away. “I’m sorry—It’s just that my husband always teases me about being addicted to pears. I’ve had one for breakfast almost every day for years.”

“I imagine a lot of people know about that?” Detective Littleton asked casually.

“It’s not a secret,” Leigh said, laying the pear aside. “He’s joked about it from time to time in front of people. These pears were probably sent by my housekeeper, or my secretary, or even more likely, by the market that gets them for me when I’m home.” She nodded toward two brown vinyl chairs. “Please—sit down.”

Littleton pulled the chairs over to Leigh’s bed while Shrader explained the situation. “Your map wasn’t as helpful as we’d hoped it would be. The directions were a little contradictory, the landmarks missing or obscured by snowbanks. We’re checking with all the realtors in the area, but so far, none of them know anything about the house and property you’ve described.”

A thought suddenly occurred to Leigh—a solution so obvious that she was dumbfounded they hadn’t thought of it themselves. “I know I was close to the cabin when I had the accident. Whoever found me on the road will know exactly where that was! Have you spoken to him?”

“No, we haven’t spoken to him yet—” Shrader admitted.

“Why not?” Leigh burst out. “Why are you wandering all over the mountains, trying to follow my map, when all you have to do is talk to whoever rescued me?”

“We can’t talk to him, because we don’t know who he is.”

Leigh’s head was beginning to pound with angry frustration. “He can’t be very hard to locate. Please ask the ambulance drivers who brought me here. They must have seen him and talked to him.”

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“Try to be calm,” Shrader said. “I understand why you’re upset. Just let me bring you up to date on the situation with your rescuer.”

Sensing that the situation was more complex than she’d thought a few moments before, Leigh tried to do as he asked. “All right, I’m calm. Please bring me up to date.”

“The man who found you Sunday night brought you down the mountain to a little motel on the outskirts of Hapsburg called the Venture Inn. He woke up the motel’s night manager and told him to call nine-one-one. Then he convinced the manager that you’d be better off in a room with a heater and blankets until help arrived. After the two men carried you into a room, your rescuer told the manager that he was going back to his vehicle for your belongings. He never returned. When the night manager went looking for him a few minutes later, his vehicle was gone.”

Leigh’s anger drained out of her body, leaving her limp and despondent. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the pillows. “That’s crazy. Why would anyone do something like that?”

“There are several possible explanations. The most likely one is that he was the same guy who ran you off the road. Afterward, he felt guilty, so he went back to see if he could find you. Once he found you, he started worrying about being blamed for the accident, so he made sure you were in good hands at the motel, then split before the police and ambulance arrived. Whether he was actually the guy who ran you off the road or not, he definitely had some reason for not wanting to talk to the police.

“The motel manager told us the guy was driving a black or dark brown four-door sedan—a Lincoln, he thought—an old one, and pretty battered up. The manager is in his seventies, and he didn’t notice much else, because he had his hands full trying to help get you out of the vehicle. His recollection of the driver is a little better, and he’s agreed to work with one of our sketch artists in the city tomorrow. Hopefully, they’ll come up with a decent likeness that we can use if your husband still hasn’t turned up.”

“I see,” Leigh whispered, turning her face away. But all she could really see was Logan’s happy expression as he kissed her good-bye Sunday morning. He was out there somewhere—hurt or snowbound, or both. Those were the only alternatives Leigh was willing to consider. The possibility that Logan might already be beyond help or rescue was too shattering to contemplate.