Charlaine Harris: Three Bedrooms, One Corpse

I heard a light knock, and my mother called, “Come in.”

“Oh,” she said rather stiffly. “All finished at the police station?”

Martin.

He murmured something to her.

“I’ll just leave for a minute to get a cup of coffee, since you’re here,” she said with assumed offhandedness.

The door swished again, and I heard him approach the bed. I wiggled the fingers of my left hand, and he laughed.

“Do you like it?” he asked quietly.

He came into my field of blurry vision then. I had a good right hand, and though any movement was not without its cost, I reached out and placed it on his chest. Then I patted my left hand with my right.

“You’re cocky,” I mumbled.

This was so romantic.

“I didn’t want to take any chances. For all I knew, the doctor might be a former flame who took this chance to rekindle the relationship.”

I giggled, which was quite uncomfortable.

“Roe,” he said more seriously, “why did you do it? Why did you place yourself in danger like that?”

I was amazed he didn’t know. Somehow, I’d assumed the police would tell him. Of course they wouldn’t. I beckoned him to bend over with my good hand, so I wouldn’t have to talk as loud.

“They were going to question you.”

“You-” He walked away from the bed, stared out the window for a minute, stalked back. “You did that because you thought I might be arrested?”

I nodded. “I had it from some reliable sources. I realized at the banquet that Franklin was the killer. No proof.”

“You crazy woman! He could have killed you. If I hadn’t been able to settle the problem at the plant in record time, get back and read your note, find out where the hell Franklin Farrell lived… at least I still had the map of Lawrenceton in my glove compartment that the Chamber of Commerce gave me when I moved here. You could still be lying there with him on top of you.”

I wondered hazily what would have happened. Would he have regained consciousness before I’d managed to crawl out from under him and get to a telephone? I was glad I hadn’t had to find out.

Martin was still running on. “Did it strike you that I might be able to find the damn vases? Did you think of telling me? I would have broken into his house.”

And possibly been arrested, and lost his job…

“It never occurred to me,” I enunciated with some difficulty, “to ask you.”

There was a harder, brisker knock at the door. Martin went to open it.

“It’s the police,” he told me more gently. “They need a statement about last night.”

“If you can stay,” I managed to say.

So Martin sat beside me, or stood beside me, or walked around the bed, while I mumbled my story to Lynn Liggett and Paul Allison, whom I remembered to congratulate on his marriage to Sally. He seemed a little surprised and uncomfortable. Lynn treated me like a mental case she’d given up all hope on. I edited Franklin’s remarks about Terry and Eileen; no point in dragging their relationship into the limelight because of a chance whim on the part of Franklin Farrell.

Finally the two detectives seemed satisfied, if disgusted, with me, and after telling me ominously she would be talking to me again, Lynn strode out of the room. Paul Allison followed after giving me a hard look and shaking his head.

Martin did his circuit of the room again. I waited for him to calm down.

Another knock, this time perfunctory.

“Here’s your pain medication. Need some?” asked a plump nurse with curly silver hair. I was delighted to see her, and the two pills I swallowed had an almost instant effect. Martin had to stomp around some more after she left, while I got drowsier and more comfortable. Everyone seemed quite angry with me today.

Finally he came to rest by the bed. My eyes met his. “We are going to have to do a lot of talking when you can talk a little better,” he said.

We needed a change of topic.

“Talk about the wedding,” I said clearly, and coasted off to sleep.

With memorable characters and lots of small-town southern charm, this witty and wise mystery proves that author Charlaine Harris is among the best of the new generation of crime writers.

Charlaine Harris is the author of two previous Aurora Teagarden mysteries, A Bone to Pick and Real Murders. She is also the author of two earlier novels. Sweet and Deadly and Secret Rage. She lives with her husband and family in Magnolia, Arkansas.