Fair Warning Read online

  “I’m sure there was an investigation, right?” Graham asked.

  “Of course. No other shooter was found. It was decided that one of the perpetrators must have gotten away. End of case. But Willow can’t accept it. Ever since Travis’s death, she hasn’t been herself.”

  Graham could tell the poor guy was miserable, but his heightened concern for Willow kept him vigilant even now, with the aftereffects of the surgery. “You’re saying she still has some major emotional issues connected to her husband’s death?”

  “To put it mildly.” Preston’s eyes closed, and he grimaced with pain. “And that’s not the only problem.”

  “We need to see about getting you some more medication,” Graham said.

  Preston sighed and nodded. “Okay, but please, please watch Willow for any signs of trouble.” He caught his breath, then moaned softly.

  “I’ll make sure she’s safe, though I don’t have to tell you how independent she can be.” Graham motioned for the surgical ICU nurse.

  Preston opened his eyes again, and this time Graham could plainly see the fear in them. “Everyone knows that when a person is having some kind of emotional problem, they try to make sure that the last thing it affects is their job. Well, Willow lost her job six months ago.”

  “She was fired?”

  “No, she quit. She hasn’t worked as a nurse since. After her husband’s death she started talking about these…bad dreams. She insists her husband’s murderer is after her, and believe me, after what just happened, she’s even got me spooked, and I should know better.”

  The nurse joined them and made note of Preston’s vitals, then looked at Graham expectantly. “You wanted to see me, Doctor?”

  “Yes. Did Dr. Glessner leave orders for pain meds? Mr. Black is having some pain.”

  “Of course. I’ll set it up immediately.”

  As soon as she left, Preston reached for more ice, then fell back against the pillow. “You probably need to know this. Willow was pregnant when Travis died.”

  “She was?” That would be doubly tragic, for a child to be on the way when the father is killed.

  “About a month after he died,” Preston continued, “Willow was leaving work one morning after a long night and walked out in front of a car. It hit her and knocked her down. She lost the baby. She was convinced someone ran her down intentionally.”

  “Did they?”

  “I don’t know. She was irrational by the time I got to her in the hospital, out of her mind with grief, so I wasn’t sure what to think. Maybe, at the time, I was so overwhelmed myself with the situation that I wasn’t willing to consider her suspicions.”

  Graham felt a surge of sympathy for the woman who had endured so much tragedy. Now it was obvious why she held everyone at arm’s length. He’d be suspicious, too, if he’d gone through that.

  “One good thing about all this,” Preston continued as the nurse returned with his medicine. “Willow happened to be awake last night, or we’d probably both be dead.”

  “Has she said anything more about what woke her?”

  “We didn’t have a chance to talk about it. She’s been too worried about me. But mark my words, she’ll be wondering about last night’s fire.”

  Graham knew that, among other things, Willow had already been interviewed by the fire captain, and no one was talking about it.

  “If it was arson,” Preston said, “Willow will be convinced it was set by her husband’s killer.”

  Graham felt a chill slither down his spine at the thought that there could be a murderer in Branson.

  Chapter Five

  Willow carried an armload of packages into the motel room that she had just rented for the week. Ginger followed close behind, also loaded down with packages.

  “You’re sure you want to do this?” Ginger released her burden onto the cheap, floral-print spread that covered the only bed in the small room. “The guest bedroom at the house where I’m staying is three times this size, the ambiance is—”

  “I’m sure it’s a paradise.” Willow suppressed a smile, surprised by the rapport she had developed with this woman with the big mouth and the bigger…uh…fanny.

  For the past three hours, after treating Willow to a generous feast at a breakfast buffet, Ginger had played tour guide between stops at the outlet malls. The woman had given a rundown of the shortcuts and backstreets that would help Willow avoid Highway 76—the Branson creep show during the busy months, when traffic crept along more slowly than the tourists on the sidewalks.

  Ginger pulled some articles of clothing from one of the bags and spread them on the bed. “Well, anyway, as I said, I don’t know that it’ll benefit you much to stay right here so close to the hospital when you already know the shortcuts through town. Graham gave the other renters condo suites. Insurance covers it.”

  “Is there a condo nearby?”

  “Here in Branson, there’s always a condo nearby. There’s a furnished duplex over on Blackner that’s always looking for renters. The manager’s a friend of your brother’s. It’d be barely a five-minute drive to the hospital from there.” Ginger quirked an unplucked, copper-bronze eyebrow. “However, the best place to stay is—”

  “I know, I know.” Willow chuckled. “Hideaway. You sound like a commercial for the place.” She had almost weakened a time or two under Ginger’s determined but sweet-natured onslaught, especially since she enjoyed this woman’s laid-back attitude and up-front sense of humor.

  But she couldn’t allow others to control her life right now, no matter how well-meaning they were. They didn’t know her situation, and she needed that control.

  Ginger held up the one purchase she’d made for herself at the Dress Barn. “Mind if I use your bathroom to try this on?” She glanced toward the tiny room. “If I can fit into that broom closet. I want to see if our all-we-could-eat breakfast has affected my dress size in the past couple of hours.”

  While Ginger changed, Willow unpacked socks, shoes, jeans, T-shirts, toiletries and a flashlight, while listening to Ginger’s comments, accompanied by an occasional grunt from the bathroom.

  “This dress is the gift Graham’s getting me for my birthday,” Ginger said through the crack in the door, which she’d left ajar. “He just doesn’t know it yet. I plan to spring it on him before he can buy me something totally inappropriate.”

  Willow unwrapped a package of socks. “When’s your birthday?”

  “Next Tuesday. I’ll be fifty-three.”

  “No way.”

  “Big way. My age is one of the reasons I was forced to come back to America.”

  Back to America? “Fifty-three isn’t old.”

  “It is to some people.”

  “Where were you living?”

  Another grunt, then a low mutter about too many buttons. “Belarus. I’m a physician’s assistant, and for ten years I worked at a mission clinic on the outskirts of Minsk.”

  “You’re a missionary?” Now that she thought about it, Willow realized that Ginger hadn’t talked much about herself today, nor had she asked any personal questions about Willow. What she had done was fill Willow in on the Branson hot spots and tell her all about the charms of Hideaway and its residents. And she’d called the hospital every hour for a progress report on Preston, who was still sleeping.

  Ginger had been the perfect hostess, putting Willow totally at ease—quite an accomplishment. Until today, Willow would have thought that would be impossible.

  “Was,” Ginger said. “Was a missionary. Big difference.”

  “Why did you have to come back?”

  “Heart problems. Mine got broken one too many times by some of the children who came through our clinic. Of course, the chest pains might’ve had something to do with it, as well.”

  “Chest pains?” Willow asked.

  “Yes, and some big mouth told Graham about it, and he insisted I come back to the States for a workup. So here I am. I had the workup, found a little problem, nothing worth menti
oning, and while I was away, some new med school grad replaced me.” She came out the door, her face flushed from exertion. “But I’m not bitter.”

  She wore a leopard-print dress that made her look like a very fluffy female stuffed animal with Grand Canyon cleavage. “Well, what do you think?”

  Willow tried to keep all expression from her face. “About what?”

  Ginger held her arms out and did an ungainly model’s pirouette. “How do I look?”

  Oh, boy.

  “Come on, give it to me straight.”

  “The color looks good,” Willow said. “Excellent color choice.”

  “You really think so?” Ginger pattered barefoot to the small dresser and did another pirouette, straining to turn her head far enough to see the back of the dress. “You know, this is the first time in years I’ve had a chance to go shopping for something nice like this. I don’t even know what’s in fashion anymore.”

  “Nose rings and tattoos,” Willow said dryly.

  “That I cannot do. I’m not a fan of pain. So you really think this dress looks good on me?” She turned to face Willow, hands on hips.

  No way was Willow going to lie to this woman. “Um. What I said was that the color is good on you.”

  Ginger blinked. “The color?” She turned back to the mirror and frowned. “Granted, I’d have to do something drastic to rein in the neckline, but don’t you think the print gives me a certain flair?”

  “Maybe a vertical tiger-print top with a slim black skirt.”

  “Oh-oh.” Ginger patted her derriere, chuckling. “Looks like my love for pig fat, borscht and potato pancakes has caught up with me. You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted kholodets.”

  “How long have you been back in the States?”

  “Going on a month,” Ginger said, turning again to check her reflection. “You don’t think a nice wide black belt would do the trick?”

  Willow made a face.

  Ginger grimaced. “Didn’t think so.”

  “What did you do before you went to Belarus ten years ago?” Willow asked.

  “Oh, the usual. Had to get married at seventeen, was a scandal in our small hometown and a disgrace to the family. I was divorced at eighteen, got married again at twenty-five, was widowed at twenty-nine.” Ginger’s gaze sought Willow’s in the reflection of the mirror. “Life does go on, even though I didn’t want it to back then.”

  Willow held the gaze. She swallowed. “Any children?”

  “Two boys. Twins. They were the reason for the first marriage, and the reason why I did keep going after the divorce and after their stepfather died. They’ve got families of their own now, teenagers and all, paying for their raising.” She winked at Willow. “You?”

  Willow closed her eyes and nodded. “I lost a little girl when I was four months along, a month after my husband’s death. Pedestrian versus car.” She didn’t know this fun-loving missionary well enough to confess that she suspected the “accident” was no accident. Saying that in the past had earned her some uncomfortable looks, and even more disconcerting comments.

  Ginger turned from the mirror and walked over to plop down onto the chair beside the bed. “Oh, honey, you’ve been through it, haven’t you?”

  Willow didn’t want to sink into grief today. She wanted to forget the nightmare for once and forget the reason she was here, doing this right now—because there had been a fire.

  She’d become so lonely and overwhelmed by her dreams and her fears that she’d finally given in to her brother’s insistence that she move in with him and forget about what was happening in K.C. He was worried about her emotional stability.

  Her own brother probably thought she was neurotic, maybe even psychotic.

  And now he needed her, and she wasn’t even sure if he would be willing to accept her help, or if he’d try to micromanage her life, even from his hospital bed.

  She realized Ginger was watching her closely.

  “You doing okay, hon?”

  Willow sighed, surveying the jumble of plastic bags and clothing strewn across the bed. “I’m just a little overwhelmed right now.”

  “You didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. I think I’ll change back into my comfy duds, repackage this wild outfit and take it back to the Dress Barn. That way I’ll be out of your hair and you can take a nap.”

  Willow looked at the clock. It was after lunchtime, but at last check, Preston had still been sleeping. Maybe a nap would be exactly what she needed. “I think I could use some rest, but I need to get the key and pick up my car.”

  “You don’t have to do any of that right now,” Ginger said, patting Willow’s arm as she rose from the bed. “I’m still full as a tick from that late breakfast, but how about an early supper in a few hours? I’m desperate for some girl talk. I love Graham, but he hasn’t had a lot of time since I’ve returned to listen to my chatter.”

  Willow looked at the clock beside the bed, then nodded. “You’ve got a date. Give me a couple of hours?”

  “I’ll give you three. Try to get some sleep.”

  Graham completed the sutures on a five-year-old child who had run through a window, reassured the little boy’s mother one last time that the wound should heal with very little scarring and handed her a sheet of printed instructions for wound care. He also made an appointment card for her, with the date for suture removal.

  The phone had rung almost constantly since he’d begun the repair, and his assistant had gone to lunch early today to run errands for the clinic. He needed more help.

  He’d thought about asking Ginger to fill in a couple of days a week. As he expanded the clinic—a necessity if he was going to keep up with the needs of so many patients—he would be able to utilize her skills. Right now, however, he needed another volunteer office assistant, someone to answer phones, make appointments, follow up on patient care.

  An additional nurse would be great, as well, and a PA such as Ginger would be a blessing from heaven, especially if Graham had to start moonlighting in the E.R. for income.

  That was a definite possibility after last night. He could lose renters over this. In fact, one of his renters, Carl Mackey, a transplant from up north, often pitched in here when he wasn’t on duty at the hospital.

  As the mother and child left the office, he finished his report on the little boy’s accident, then checked his messages. He had fifteen.

  He should never have come to the clinic today. But then, the woman who had just left the office would have incurred a major bill in the emergency department, particularly since she had no insurance. She could barely afford to keep a roof over her head as it was.

  Winters in Branson could be difficult for people in the service and entertainment industries. The downtime put a lot of people on the unemployment lines between January and March. April and May were often catch-up months for those with financial struggles. Several of the units at the lodge had only recently been occupied by newcomers to Branson.

  Graham rubbed his eyes wearily, then picked up the telephone and dialed the number of the last person to leave a message—the Hollister fire captain.

  Graham had been in close contact with the fire department all morning.

  As the phone rang, he thought again about Preston’s remark that Willow would probably take the fire personally. She seemed like a perfectly sane, capable woman who was obviously wary of strangers. If she truly had experienced attacks from the person who had killed her husband, it would be a little strange if it hadn’t affected her to some degree.

  Preston’s problem right now was his helplessness. Graham would be the one to make the decisions for him in the next few days…maybe even weeks. Those decisions might also affect Willow.

  One of the messages on the machine was from Ginger, informing him that Willow had insisted on securing her own lodging, which was a motel near the hospital.

  It disappointed him, but he wasn’t surprised.

  The phone was answered on the seventh ring. It was the f
ire captain.

  “Hello, Captain Frederick. Graham Vaughn here. Do you have any good news for me this time?”

  There was a long sigh, then the captain’s deep voice, with nasal twang, came over the line. “Sorry. We knew pretty much from the first arrival that it was arson, Dr. Vaughn.”

  “Graham. Just call me Graham.”

  There was a pause. “Don’t think so, Doc. You operated on my wife four years ago when she had that burst appendix. She was scared spitless, and you took such good care of her it was like she was your own. You’re the Doctor.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  “So that’s why I can’t figure out why anybody’d want to hurt your property.”

  Graham closed his eyes. “Neither can I. How was the fire started?”

  “Pretty simple. The perp used the old cigarette-and-matchbook trick. Attach a cigarette to an open book of matches, so the matches will ignite when the cigarette burns down, giving the arsonist time to get away. Looks like the perp took plenty of precaution—used four of these babies, after pouring a stream of lighter fluid from each matchbook to the house, which he had liberally doused with gasoline. It’s no wonder Ms. Traynor smelled the fuel.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Not much to go on right now. My men and women are good, and we’ve got a lot of help on this case, but we haven’t found a culprit yet, only the sighting of a black sedan in the neighborhood sometime before the fire began.”

  “Who saw that?” Graham asked.

  “A neighbor down the road from you, coming home from working a late party.”

  “There are a lot of people with black sedans,” Graham said. “That doesn’t tell us much.” Carl Mackey had a black sedan, as did the Jasumbacks.

  “You’re right, it doesn’t. We’ll check out your renters, of course. We’ve already started the interview process. We did receive a call later this morning about Jolene Tucker. She was run off the road and injured when driving back into town after a trip out to your place for a quick photo shoot just before first light this morning.”