Kate Collins - Sleeping with Anemone

I stepped inside a foyer and glanced around as I set my purse on the floor. The small front hall had been professionally decorated in shades of beige and brown, with a gorgeous, antique-style hall tree in one corner, a beautiful rosewood console table with a matching mirror on a short wall, and a thick oriental carpet underfoot. Morgan’s cashmere winter coat hung on the tree, his briefcase beside it.

“Nice place, Greg,” I said as he shut the front door. “Love these wood floors.” I hung my peacoat on a hook, saw a kitchen through a doorway across the hall, and headed toward it. “Granite counters. Awesome.”

“Thanks,” Morgan said, shuffling after me.

The kitchen was airy and modern, with lots of cabinets and counter space, and even a window, something I wished our apartment had. He had room for a table, too. How could he afford a place like this on a deputy prosecutor’s salary?

“How are you feeling?” I asked as I stashed the container of soup in his fridge.

“Not so good.”

I glanced up as he braced himself on the doorframe, swaying as though he was woozy. “Greg, are you about to pass out?”

He shook his head, then hiccuped. “I just feel fuzzy-brained.”

Not an unusual condition for Morgan. Then I spotted a medicine bottle on the counter and picked it up. “Did you take this cold remedy, by any chance?”

He nodded and hiccuped again.

“This stuff is sixty percent alcohol, Greg. How much did you take?”

Morgan held up two fingers, but said, “Three tablespoon fulls-tablespoons full.”

I read the directions on the back. “You’re supposed to take one tablespoon, Greg. One every six hours.”

“It didn’t seem to be working, so I kept taking it.”

Great. Now I had to get information from a drunk.

“You know what you need?” I asked. “Something in your stomach to absorb all that alcohol. How about if I heat the soup for you? It wouldn’t be any trouble.”

Morgan swayed unsteadily. “I think that would be a- hic! -good idea. I haven’t eaten yet. Couldn’t stand the thought of food.”

I found a cooking pot and lid, and poured in a third of the container of soup, now partially thawed. I put it on the range and turned up the flame as high as it would go. “It’ll be ready in a few minutes, Greg. You’d better sit down at the table before you fall over.”

“Good thinking.” He shuffled to the table, pulled out a chair, and carefully parked himself on the seat. He propped his elbows on the table and used his palms to keep his head up.

“Did you catch Nils Raand’s news conference earlier today?” I asked, hunting for a bowl.

He nodded, then fished a tissue out of a pocket in his robe and made honking sounds as he blew his nose.

“Did you hear Raand threaten me at the end?”

Morgan stopped honking. “He threatened to harm you?”

“Yes! Well, not in those words, but Raand’s intent was clear. And now my mom is joining the PAR protest, so I’m afraid he’ll go after her, too.”

“I wanted to keep him in jail,” Morgan said, “but there’s no murder charge against him, so he was able to post bond.”

I stirred the soup, decided it was warm enough, and ladled it into a bowl. I found a soup spoon in a utensil drawer, a napkin in a holder, and placed everything in front of him. Morgan immediately picked up the spoon and dipped it in the soup. I glanced at my watch. I’d been there thirteen minutes. No way would I make my fifteen-minute goal.

“This tastes good,” he said, liquid dribbling down his chin.

“I’m glad you like it. So, Greg, has there been any word on who murdered Hudge?”

He shook his head.

“What about the weapon? Do you know what it was?”

“Wasn’t a metal blade,” he said between mouthfuls. “Something smooth, though.”

“Like wood?”

“No wood fibers in the wound. Wound was clean.”

“Any of the inmates talking about who might have done it?”

He stopped eating to gaze at me through bleary eyes. “I’ve already told you more than I should have, Abby.”

I pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. “But look at it from my standpoint, Greg. Three attempts were made to kidnap me, and both kidnappers are now dead, one murdered right under your nose, probably to keep him from talking. Can you blame me for wanting some information?”

He blinked a few times. “No, I suppose not.”

“Then help me put some of the pieces together, okay?”

Morgan shook his dripping spoon at me. “You can’t take no for an answer.”

“But I already know what two of the key items of evidence are. I just need a little more information about them. It’s like someone sketching a tree with bare branches and someone else painting on the leaves. See what I’m getting at? I’ve sketched the tree; now it’s your turn.”

He kept eating the soup, so I decided to keep sketching. “Okay, Raand sent a note to one of the kidnappers. Was it to Hudge?”

“Abby, please stop.”

“Won’t you answer just that one question, Greg? Please?”

He stopped to wipe his chin. “If I do, will you stop badgering me?”

I was about to say, Define ‘badgering,’ when all of a sudden, the napkin dropped from Morgan’s hand and a sickly expression came over his face. Then his cheeks puffed out and he began making gagging noises. He clapped a hand over his mouth, shoved back his chair, and stumbled out of the kitchen. Moments later, I heard a door slam and then the sound of retching.

So much for the chicken soup cure. I picked up his bowl and spoon, left the icky napkin, and headed toward the kitchen sink to rinse them. “Are you okay, Greg?” I called.

No answer.

I scrubbed my hands with soap and hot water, stashed the rest of the soup in the refrigerator, then went to investigate. Just beyond the kitchen was a family room, and up the hallway from the family room I found a closed door.

“Greg? Are you in there?”

Silence.

I called his name again, rapped twice, then opened the door and peered cautiously inside. I saw a handsome bathroom with tan and green striped wallpaper, an ivory marble pedestal sink, a glass-fronted tile shower, brown towels, and a shaggy brown throw rug-onto which Morgan had curled into fetal position.

“Greg?” I whispered.

His mouth sagged open and he began to snore.

I watched him for a moment and thought about nudging him awake with my shoe. But I couldn’t do that to a sick man. Then I thought about his briefcase resting against the hall tree, right there where anyone could open it up and have a look inside.

I could do that to a sick man.

I called Morgan’s name again, and when he didn’t respond, I quietly eased the door closed, then tiptoed through the family room and into the small front hall. I knelt beside his briefcase-an expensive leather number stamped with the Bally brand name-set it flat on the floor, pushed the brass locks, and winced when they popped open with loud clicks.

I listened for a moment, but heard no noise from the bathroom, so I lifted the lid and peered inside. He had three accordion file folders in it. I didn’t recognize the name on the first one. The second one, however, was labeled Knight, Tara.

Bingo!

The first page was the charging information on Dwayne Hudge. Beneath it were pages of statements made by the investigating officers on their initial findings, then lists of witnesses, and witness statements. I flipped through the file quickly, hunting for anything about the note or the flowers. I found the coroner’s report on Charlotte, but gave it only a cursory glance. Beneath the report were more witness statements.