Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [88]
“You know,” he said, driving back down the winding country road toward the interstate, “there’s a good possibility that all of this is a ruse to distract us from who the real killer is. Did you ever think about that?”
“Okay,” I finally conceded. “You could be right. So where does that leave us?”
“Not much of anywhere, but it’s something to consider. Do you happen to be carrying your cell phone?”
I dug through my purse and handed him the phone. While trying to ignore his exaggerated excuses to Heidi, I thought about what he said. If it didn’t have to do with the babies, then why was Giles killed? His determination to take over the winery was still a possibility, so maybe it was Etta who shot him in a passionate moment, and her sisters helped cover it up. I thought about the Seven Sisters quilt pattern I’d looked up the other day—how it was a pattern of six stars revolving around one in the center, much like the constellation Bliss and I had searched for. Like the pattern and the constellation, there was a center to this, a something or someone all the other events circled around. Was it the grandmother, Rose Brown, and her four dead children? Or was it simpler than that—a moment of anger, a handy loaded gun, a family adept at covering up, showing a good face to the world? After he was finished with his excuses to Heidi, I tried calling Gabe at the office and got his voice mail. Then I called home and got the answering machine, a practice that had been happening a little too frequently this week.
The detective dropped me off at the folk art museum at seven o’clock, and we said a quick good-bye without any more discussion about what we should do next. He was anxious to get to his date, and I was eager to go home and tell Gabe about what had happened, come truly clean about how much I was involved. Then what? Those tiny graves kept reappearing in my head. I wanted to know more about the four babies even if they didn’t have anything to do with finding out who killed Giles. I knew someone who worked in the county records department—a girl I went to college with. Tomorrow I’d go downtown and see if she could find their death certificates for me.
The house was dark when I got home. I immediately went into the kitchen and fed Scout, who was two hours past his regular dinner time and was giving me a soulful look telling me so. As I watched him gobble his dinner, I went in and checked the answering machine. There were only two messages—mine and an old one that told me Gabe had most likely been home and gone out again after listening to the message. It better not be Lydia’s voice, I thought as I hit replay.
“Chief!” Miguel’s voice croaked over the phone. “I’m down at General Hospital. I couldn’t find your cell phone number so I hope you get this soon. Bliss took one in the shoulder. I thought you’d want to know.” The message time was 5:02 p.m.
I ran for the car, yelling at Scout to stay. On the drive down there, all I could consciously pray over and over was, Oh, Lord. Make her okay, please, please make her okay.
12
INSIDE THE EMERGENCY room, there were a few families with sick, cranky children and the requisite medical personnel milling about. There was no sign of Gabe, Sam, or Bliss’s family. I asked at the desk, and while the nurse was checking the computer, I spotted Miguel down the hall putting money in a coffee machine.
“Never mind,” I told the nurse. “That’s her partner over there.” I rushed over to him. “Miguel, what happened? Is Bliss all right? What about the baby?”
He watched the liquid splash into the paper cup, not answering me for a moment. His hand shook slightly as he picked up the steaming cup.
“Miguel,” I said softly. “Are you okay?”
He looked down at me, his eyes rimmed red, fighting tears with all his Latin-bred masculine resolve. I wanted to put my arms around his broad shoulders and hug him the way I used to when he was three and was startled awake from his nap by a bad dream.
He took a gulp of the hot