lovers share with their wives.” I wondered if she was speaking from experience.
“Okay,” I said. “But that still doesn’t explain why someone posed as her to hire me to photograph it.” I thought about it for a moment, then said, “What if …?”
“What if what?” Mabel asked.
I thought about it some more, then said, “What if Bobbi’s attack had nothing to do with the real Anna Waverley? What if it we were hired to do a legitimate job, but for, well, ultimately nefarious purposes? What if the faux Anna really wanted photographs of the Wonderlust and someone saw Bobbi go aboard, followed her, and assaulted her? Maybe someone who wanted to steal the photographic gear or hijack the van.”
“Okay,” Mabel said. “But it doesn’t explain faux Anna’s ‘ultimately nefarious purposes,’ as you put it. Why did she want photos of the boat?”
“I dunno. Maybe she’s a nautical designer and the Wonderlust has a particularly innovative or unique design she wants to steal.” Mabel made a face and Baz Tucker sniffed. I tried again. “Maybe she was planning to steal the boat, but didn’t want to be seen hanging around the marina casing the job, so she hired us to do it for her with photos.”
Mabel shook her head, but said, “All right, let’s say you’re right, in theory, anyway. Why pose as Anna Waverley?”
“Maybe she called herself Anna Waverley in case we checked in at the marina office for permission to go onto the docks. Normally, the gate is supposed to be locked. Boat owners can get touchy about unauthorized people wandering around on the docks.” I was struggling; it was starting to get too complicated.
Mabel scribbled in her notebook while Baz Tucker looked over her shoulder. She looked at him. He shrugged. She looked at me.
“Not bad,” she said. “I’m not sure Kovacs will buy it, though, even at a discount. He’s convinced you’re holding out on him, that Bobbi was attacked by someone out to get you and/or her and that you probably know who. Your visit to Anna Waverley’s house didn’t help. He’s going to turn over a load of rocks to see if you’ve had any prior contact with her. Have you?”
“No. I never laid eyes on her before last night.”
“What about her husband?”
“Him, either.”
“Okay. I’ll run it past him, see what he thinks. He’s going to want to talk to you about Anna Waverley. Don’t expect him to be happy about you sticking your nose in his case.”
Mabel and Baz left and I went back to work. I tried to ignore the nagging sense of guilt at telling Mabel and Baz about my conversation with Anna Waverley, but as much as I liked her — or thought I liked her — it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that she may have been manipulating me. As Mabel had pointed out, manipulating me wasn’t a terribly difficult task for an even moderately attractive woman, let alone one as lovely and apparently vulnerable as Anna Waverley. I didn’t like the idea that I could be that easily played, and it made me a little angry, although I wasn’t sure who I was angry with, Anna Waverley or myself. Nevertheless, I felt as though I’d betrayed her and I did not feel good about myself for it.
Mary-Alice arrived, and shortly thereafter, D. Wayne Fowler, bearing lunch: fish and chips for himself, a veggie wrap for Mary-Alice, and a bacon cheeseburger for me. After lunch, we set up the portrait studio, the digital studio camera, and started work on the darkroom. At four o’clock the phone rang.
chapter twelve
“Tom,” Greg Matthias said when I answered. “I’m at the hospital. I —”
“Is she awake?”
“No, not yet.” He paused for a couple of beats, then just as I was about to ask him what was up, said, “This afternoon someone posing as a florist delivery man tried to get into her room.”
My guts clenched.
“She’s okay,” he added hastily. “The nurses wouldn’t let him in. They have orders not to let anyone in to see her but attending physicians, nurses, cops, or immediate family, unless they’ve been specifically cleared. From the description, it sounds like it might be the same guy who came to see you at your studio the other day.”
“So much for this sort of thing happening only on television.”
“It usually doesn’t,” he said, an edge on his voice. “Nor is he likely to try again. But just to be on the safe side we’re moving her to another room, under a different name.”
“Not Jane Doe, I hope.”
“Give us some credit,” he said, the edge sharpening. “I’m going to tell you the name, but I’m going to ask you not to reveal it to anyone else. Not even your sister or Wayne Fowler. Okay?”
“Okay.” Wayne wouldn’t like it, but he’d understand.
“The name is Edward Winston. I can’t tell you the room number because I don’t know it yet, but if you ask for Edward Winston at the information desk in the main lobby, that’ll tell them you’re cleared to see her.”
“Got it,” I said.
“And we’ll also have a couple of plainclothes officers in the room with her.”
After Matthias hung up, we called it a day. I went home, showered, then drove to the hospital. At the information desk in the main lobby, I asked the woman behind the counter for Edward Winston’s room number. She consulted her computer screen, asked me to repeat the name, which I did, then gave me the floor and the ward number, but not the room number, telling me that I would have to ask for the room number at the nursing station. As I thanked her and turned toward the elevators, she picked up her phone and dialled, no doubt calling ahead to warn them that someone was on his way up. If anyone was expecting me when I got off the elevator, it didn’t show, but when I asked for Edward Winston’s room number at the nursing station, the nurse behind the desk asked me for my name and consulted a screen before telling me the room number.
As Matthias had said, there were two plainclothes cops in the room, Mabel Firth and Baz Tucker. They were sitting on the empty bed, playing cards on the rolling table.
“We’ll wait outside if you like,” Mabel said, standing up.
“No,” I said. “Sit. Stay.”
“Woof,” Mabel said, as she sat down again.
Bobbi was on her side, still connected to the monitors, oxygen, IV, and catheter, a clear bag of vivid yellow liquid hanging on the side of the bed. She appeared to be sleeping and I’d unconsciously lowered my voice so as not to wake her, but she muttered and moaned, twitching and rolling onto her back.
“She’s been very restless,” Mabel said. “The docs say that’s a good sign.”
I put my hand on Bobbi’s shoulder, shook her gently. “Bobbi. Wake up. It’s time to go to school.” Bobbi muttered querulously, rolling her head from side to side.
Mabel chuckled. “That’s exactly what one of the doctors did.”
Then Bobbi’s eyes opened.
“Hey,” I said. “She’s awake.” I leaned over her. “Bobbi. Hi.”
But she didn’t answer, just stared at me for a second, no recognition in her eyes. Then her eyes closed.
“She’s been doing that, too,” Mabel said. “The doctor says it’s nothing to worry about.”
Easy for them to say, I thought.
Baz Tucker put away the cards and stood up. “I’m for coffee. Either of you want any?”
“No, thanks,” I said. Mabel shook her head. He left the room.
“He’s mad at me,” Mabel said.