He’d also instructed the dispatcher to call the hotel and send their own security people to her suite. That’s who’d reached her first, Paige remembered now. Two armed security guards had bypassed the lock with a passkey and used some sort of tool to release the U-shaped swing bar that prevented the door from fully opening.
During all that time, McCall had stayed on the phone, assuring her help was on the way. His voice had been a calm, soothing lifeline holding her steady, pushing back the ragged black edges of panic.
“I’ll write you a prescription for a refill of your epi-pen,” the doctor said, drawing Paige back.
“Does that mean you’re releasing me?”
“Yes.” He pulled a pad from a pocket. “If you were going to have further symptoms, they would have shown up by now.”
Relieved, she pressed her fingertips against her eyelids. It wasn’t just the fatiguing aftereffects of the allergic reaction that fueled her impatience to get out of the E.R. The cloying, antiseptic air, spotless white enamel walls and squeak of rubber soles against the tiled floor flashed her back three years to an almost identical E.R. in Dallas. The current pitching in her stomach was due to a desperate need to escape the sterile surroundings and all the memories.
She eased off the gurney and slid her shoes on. When she retrieved her suede purse, she saw it had an overstuffed look. Opening it, she instantly realized why. After the EMTs arrived at her suite, she’d asked one of the security guards to shove the belongings she’d dumped out back into her purse so she could take it with her. The guard apparently crammed everything off the floor into her purse, including the workshop assignments.
“Everything okay?” the doctor asked.
“Yes.” She turned to face him. “I need to call a cab. Where can I find a phone book?”
“The nurses’ station.” He handed her the prescription. “If the cop made it back by now you won’t need a cab.”
“What cop?”
“I didn’t catch his name, but he said he was on the phone with you when you had the reaction. He was very insistent on finding out what had happened to you.”
“Oh.” McCall was looking less like the jerk she’d pegged him to be. She was starting to feel guilt. “You said he had to leave?”
“He had to interview a witness in a homicide. I told him you were going to be fine, but it would be a while before I knew if I’d have to keep you overnight for observation. He said he would try to make it back.”
“Thanks,” Paige said, then slipped through the opening in the privacy curtain that circled the gurney.
She passed a waiting room and glanced inside. The majority of the plastic chairs lining the room were occupied. McCall was nowhere in sight.
Not a surprise, she thought. She understood why he came by after she’d been admitted—he’d listened to her fighting to stay alive. When she worked patrol in Dallas, she’d spent her share of time trying to calm and soothe victims of crime and people injured in accidents. Despite the wall cops put around their emotions, a personal bond often formed during those adrenaline-pumping moments. When that happened, she’d always made a point to stop by the hospital to check on a victim. Still, there wasn’t any real reason for McCall to make a return visit to the E.R., especially when he was working a homicide.
And since he hadn’t shown up again, her only hope of contacting him about the fruit bowl tonight was to leave a message for him with police dispatch. She would make the call when she got back to her hotel. And she intended to find out exactly who from the manager’s office had sent the fruit bowl, and the name of the person who’d delivered it to her suite.
At the nurses’ station, Paige got the phone number for a cab company. Half an hour later, she pushed through Waterford Hotel’s revolving door and stepped into the lobby’s gilded silence. Her low flats tapped against the gleaming marble floor as she made a beeline for the reception counter. She identified herself to a twentysomething male clerk dressed in a red blazer with a white carnation in the buttonhole of its lapel.
Upon hearing her name, he looked duly concerned. “Are you okay, Ms. Carmichael? I was on duty when you got sick.”
“I’m fine now, thanks.” She checked the brass name tag on his blazer. “Robert, I’d like to send a note of appreciation to the person who arranged to have the fruit bowl sent to me from the hotel’s manager. Can you tell me who that is?”
“Of course.” He entered data on a keyboard, then frowned. “We show you received a fruit bowl, but it was delivered here from an outside vendor, and left at the bell captain’s stand.”
A chill threaded through her. “The fruit bowl didn’t come from your boss?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Is there a record of which company delivered it?”
He tapped more keys. “The Epicurean. They deal in flowers and gift baskets. Would you like their phone number?”
“And their address. Also the person at the bell captain’s stand who logged in the bowl.”
“Certainly.”
Damn, Paige thought while an elevator whisked her to the top floor. Damn, damn, damn. Could she have been wrong about the message on the card that came with the fruit bowl? She’d given it only a cursory glimpse when she got back to her suite after the mugging. Both her head and body had ached; all she’d wanted was a couple of aspirin, a glass of wine and a long soak in the tub. She had received obligatory fruit bowls from the management of a dozen other upscale hotels where she’d stayed—maybe she had looked at the message on the card that had been with this bowl and her distracted mind had failed to input the right data.
She stepped off the elevator. As she’d done since learning about Isaac’s escape, she paused to check in both directions along the otherwise deserted-looking hallway while straining to listen for any sound of another presence. Nothing.
She locked the door of her suite behind her, tossed her purse on the bed, then crossed to the sitting area. The card was where she’d left it on the table beside the silver bowl of fruit.
Compliments of the Waterford. Feel free to contact me if we can be of any assistance.
John W. Greenhaw, Manager
Paige pursed her mouth. The only thing suspicious about the card was that Mr. Greenhaw made it sound like he was urging a guest to contact him personally for assistance. However, his switch from using “me” to “we” in his second sentence told Paige the man’s subconscious had been at work. In truth, a guest would have to work his or her way through several layers of assistants before ever getting to talk to the hotel’s head honcho.
She shifted her gaze to the fruit bowl. She supposed it was possible cards could have been accidentally switched if a number of baskets and bowls wound up on the bell captain’s stand at the same time. If that was the case, Mr. Greenhaw’s card could have been meant for someone else. Who, then, had sent her the fruit bowl from The Epicurean?
Knowing she couldn’t get that question
