That made me smile. "I'm Grace," I said.

"I remember, from John's introduction yesterday. I'm Mark, but you probably already knew that." He sent a quizzical glance directed toward the young cop, who hadn't left the immediate area. "Am I under surveillance?" he asked.

"No, sir," the uniform answered. "We're taking precautions to ensure your safety. In case this wasn't a random attack."

Mark's brows came together, forming three vertical lines between them. "That can't be . . . I'd never seen that man before." The lines between his brows deepened. "Wait. Do you mean that Lenore might have been targeted? On purpose? That someone was after her?"

The uniformed officer's cheeks flamed scarlet. "Forget I said that. I'm here to ensure your safety until the detectives arrive." He glanced at his watch. "They should be here soon." At that, he turned his back and moved far enough away to give us a semblance of privacy.

I had a lot of questions I wanted answered before freaky Flynn showed up, but as I was ready to start, Mark cleared his throat. His voice was shaky. "Lenore didn't . . . make it." He swallowed, then started again. "I . . . I have no words."

To buy myself a moment to search for an appropriate thing to say, I did as he'd originally suggested: I wheeled the doctor's stool closer and lowered myself onto it.

When I spoke I found it difficult to keep my own voice from trembling. "This was a terrible tragedy. I'm so sorry you were part of it."

Squinting, he squared his jaw. "What now? Marlene was good enough to stay with me through all this, but I can't ask John to keep the entire group in town until I'm released. Not to mention the fact that the police haven't even questioned me yet."

The young cop twisted his head toward us, then quickly fixed his attention on the emergency room's whiteboard as though he understood what all those scribbled notes meant.

Mark must have noticed it, too. "Could you give us a little privacy, Officer?" he asked without raising his voice.

"I'm here to protect you," the cop repeated, proof that he had indeed been listening. "But your visitor doesn't seem to be posing any danger. I'll step outside. Let me know if you need me."

Without his company, and with the nearest patient halfway across the capacious emergency room, we were left with only awkward silence. Around us, amid the occasional sounds of conversation, snapping plastic, and the clink of metal, hospital staff kept the area humming. A nurse hurrying by slowed her pace long enough to study the readouts on the monitor next to Mark's bed. Apparently satisfied by what she saw, she moved on again at a quick clip.

"I'm surprised Detectives Rodriguez and Flynn aren't here yet," I said in an effort to resume the conversation. "I'm sure Flynn will be plenty annoyed that I got to talk with you before they did."

"You tensed up when you said his name. Flynn, that is. Is there anything I should know about him before he shows up?"

"He's not particularly fond of me. Long story."

From the look on Mark's face, I realized that he thought Flynn and I had a sordid romantic history. As much as I would have preferred to set him straight, that wasn't why I was here.

"John wanted me to talk with you," I continued. "He thinks it may be best if the tour goes on as scheduled. I know he's working to get you a refund . . ."

"The last thing I'm worried about right now is a refund," he said, "although that's very nice of him."

"I know your group was staying at one of the hotels in town. I'd like to suggest you relocate to the Marshfield Hotel. On us. For as long as you need."

"That's incredibly generous," he said, looking concerned. "I know how beautiful your hotel is. In fact, I considered tacking on a few days before the tour on my own, but I couldn't get the extra time off."

"Where do you work?"

"I own a jewelry store in Colorado. It was my father's before me and his father's before that. My staff is covering for me while I'm gone. I felt guilty burdening them with full responsibility for this length of time, but they insisted I finally take a vacation." His eyes took on a wistful look. "It's been a while. And then . . . this."

"I'm so sorry. We'll do whatever we can to make you comfortable at our hotel. I can arrange to have your luggage brought over."

"Oh, that's above and beyond," he said.

"It's the least we can do. John said he'd release your belongings to us if you gave the okay."

He thought about that. "The vacation I'd planned is history," he said finally. "Part of me prefers to say thanks but no thanks and head home the minute they let me out of here."

I waited.

"But the truth is, I don't know that I can leave. So much has happened. I mean . . . in the blink of an eye, a woman was killed right in front of me. It happened so fast." I got the feeling he was talking to himself as much as to me. "To head home now, to pretend that this was all a bad dream seems wrong somehow. I need some sort of . . ."

"Closure?"

"Yes," he said, "precisely. I need to give this its due. Whatever that may be."

I understood what he meant. "Would you like me to arrange to have your things delivered to Marshfield, or do you prefer to wait until you're released?"

He thought about it. "I left my extra cash and some credit cards in the room's safe. It's probably better if we wait until I can clear that out."

"Makes sense," I said, pulling up my purse. "Let me give you my business card. Whenever you're ready, let me know."

"You've been very kind," he said.

"You've been through a lot."

"What do you think this was all about?" he asked. "Lenore struck me as a simple girl. I can't imagine anyone coming after her. Not like that."

"I can't either," I said. "The man who killed her . . . the one who shot you . . . did you get a good look at him?"

He pushed out a hard breath and I could tell the exertion hurt. "I've been trying my best to remember. I'm sure I'd recognize him if I saw him again, but it's like his face is a blur in my brain. I can't remember much, other than he was in uniform. Not a security uniform. More like one of your staff members. Blue blazer, tie, you know."

I nodded. People often had a hard time recalling details immediately following trauma. I held out hope that Mark would be able to come up with a better description after he'd had time to settle down. "John remembered a little bit."

Mark nodded. "I'm glad he got a look at him."

"Not much of one, I'm afraid, but it's a start." I thought about the missing golden horn. "Did you notice if the man was carrying anything?"

"I noticed the gun." Mark shook his head. "Otherwise, no. He called to Lenore."

"By name?"

"I don't think so." He struggled to remember. "Wait, no. He gestured for her to join him. He didn't say a word. I didn't know what was up, but I figured if a staff member was talking to her, she wouldn't get into trouble. But then I remembered I'd promised John, so I followed her. That's when I saw the guy in the blazer pulling her toward the stairs."

His eyes clouded with the memory. I was about to tell him he didn't need to continue, but he went on. "Whatever was happening between them wasn't right-I could see that much-so I went into the stairwell after them. By the time I got there, he'd . . . he'd . . ." Mark widened his eyes and bit his lips tight. He held up a finger as he looked away. Composing himself, he said, "This is so wrong. I didn't even really know Lenore, but I can't help feeling responsible."

"It's not your fault."

"Then why do I feel like it is?" His voice cracked again but he calmed himself by breathing deeply through his nose. "I went after them, catching the door as it was about to close. That's when I saw her go over. And then the guy turned on me."

He swallowed. I knew there was more.

"I froze. I was stupid and froze. That's all the guy needed-that second or two. He pulled out a gun and shot me. Right there. Ran off down the stairs."

I didn't know what to say.

Mark broke the silence. "Wait," he said, staring at some middle distance. "He dropped something and then picked it up." Looking at me, he added, "I don't have any idea what it was."

"Thanks," I said, "that's very helpful. You'll want to mention that to the detectives when they talk to you."

"You know, if the killer had picked anybody else to call over," Mark said, "he might have gotten away without being noticed at all. We were all so high-strung about Lenore after that problem yesterday." He ran a hand along his bandaged arm. "Maybe my getting shot is a good thing after all. Maybe I'll be able to help identify the guy and put him away."

"Let's hope so. In the meantime, you're starting to look a little tired and I don't want to-"

"What are you doing here?"

I spun to see Flynn advancing on me. Rodriguez trailed behind, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth as he walked and scrawled notes at the same time. He glanced up and acknowledged my presence, but I caught a sense of weariness in the older detective's eyes. "Let's not jump to conclusions," he said in a loud enough voice for me to hear. "I knew she'd be here, partner. Cut her a little slack."

Flynn's eyes blazed. He ignored Rodriguez's suggestion and took a position across Mark's bed. "You're interfering with a police investigation."

"No, I'm not," I said. "I know you'll want to keep him close for the next few days. You wouldn't want me to leave the poor man without a place to stay while you interrogate . . . er, I mean . . . question him."

Okay, so I threw out that word interrogate on purpose. Flynn grated on every nerve I possessed. Ever since we'd first met after Abe's murder, I'd taken pains to avoid him. Harsh, abrasive, and quick to judgment, Flynn was-apologies to Sherlock Holmes-as tenacious as a lobster.

Fire practically shot out of his eyes. "You think this is funny, don't you?"

Rodriguez took an easy step forward, smacking his lips as though he'd just finished a giant plate of barbecue. "Ms. Wheaton has business with Mr. Ellroy, same as we do. Let's not get ahead of ourselves here."

Rodriguez, at least, took time to listen. What would happen to the Emberstowne homicide division when their cool-headed lead detective took his retirement and ambled home? I didn't want to know.

"Ms. Wheaton," Rodriguez continued calmly, now addressing only me, "my partner does have a point. I hope you won't mind if we take over now?"

"I was about to leave."

"Thank you for stopping by," Mark said to me. "I'll call you the minute I'm released."

Flynn fixed me with a strange look. "Gave up on the gardener, did you?"

"What?" I asked.

To Mark, he said, "Watch out for that one."

I didn't realize what he meant until I was outside in the sweltering heat again and the infamous lightbulb went on in my head. Or maybe it was the sun. Either way, I spun in a rush of belated anger, facing the doors that whooshed shut behind me. "You jerk," I said it aloud, meaning it for Flynn. He'd believed I'd been there to flirt with Mark. And Mark, who probably a.s.sumed I had a history with Flynn, was likely convinced he was facing a jealous ex-boyfriend.

I gave a grumble of sheer frustration. It was time to go home.

Chapter 10.

"I SWEAR, GRACE, NO ONE COMES HOME AS OFTEN as you do saying, 'There's been a murder at work.'" Bruce finished seasoning the pasta, tasted it one last time, and p.r.o.nounced it done, even as he shook his head. "I'm starting to get a little paranoid."

He placed the turquoise earthenware bowl in the center of the yellow checkered tablecloth and directed me to start serving the salad. Scott poured wine, a white this time, and we all took our places around the cheery kitchen table.

I'd grabbed a quick sandwich when I'd first gotten home, but there was no way I was pa.s.sing up Bruce's homemade frutti di mare. My roommates usually waited to have dinner until after they closed Amethyst Cellars for the night. Because I enjoyed their company-not to mention Bruce's cooking-I often joined them, even though that meant I had to keep from overindulging earlier.

Scott pa.s.sed me a plate loaded with bruschetta slices. "I'd say it's better than Grace going in to work saying that there's been a murder at home."

I shuddered. "Don't even say that. Marshfield has just had a run of bad luck."

Bruce dug in. "I'll say." A moment later he closed his eyes. "Mmm," he said, "I think I may have outdone myself this time."

Scott and I enthusiastically concurred. Bootsie wound her way between the kitchen chair legs to stare up at me and yowl with polite indignation. "I fed you," I said. She yowled again and the boys laughed. Bootsie's pupils were huge and soulful, which I'd come to learn meant a leap into my lap was imminent. "Can you wait until I'm finished eating?" I asked.

She seemed to understand. Winding her way between the table and chair legs again, she took up a position near the door to the dining room and sprawled, watching us.

"You seem to have gotten over your allergies," Scott said.

I was about to answer but instead I put down my fork. They both looked up.

"What's wrong?" Bruce asked.

"Do you realize that we went from talking about the murder of a young woman to my allergies-which yes, you're right, have abated-in the s.p.a.ce of one minute? Doesn't the fact that we were able to shift subjects so quickly seem wrong?"

"You're right." Scott put his fork down, too. "But that doesn't make us callous, or uncaring, does it?"

Bruce looked a little alarmed, as though we were all about to stop eating after the first two bites. "I think it's a coping mechanism."

Scott agreed. "Think about it. We don't have any idea how to handle the fallout from a murder, yet we've scrambled to do our best ever since the first time you brought one home."

"Wow, doesn't that make me feel good?" I said.

Bruce chimed in again. "That's not quite accurate. Makes it sound as though it's your fault, and it isn't. I think what Scott means is that there are no rule books to follow, no guidelines. Unless we strive for normal, we risk getting sucked into depression. I can't believe that would serve anyone. Not even the memory of the recently deceased."

"You're probably right," I said. "The crime is too horrible to deal with. We aren't cops, we aren't psychologists. We don't have the skills or tools to deal with this kind of trauma."

"Scott and I have the luxury of distance. We can separate ourselves from all that's happening at the manor. You, on the other hand," Bruce pointed to me with his filled fork, "have been able to use your emotion as fuel to help solve the crimes."

"Not intentionally."

"Maybe not. But don't beat yourself up about how you handle all this. I think you're more than living up to your name. You've shown grace in situations that would cause anyone else to wring their hands and run away."

"I had to bring Bennett up to date on all that's happened. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to explain that we've suffered yet another murder?"

"Does he feel responsible?" Scott asked.

"Of course he does. As do I."