Getting Rich (A Chef Landry Mystery) (9 page)

ever-changing ceilings flashing by

I was whisked onto a stretcher and rushed, sirens blaring, to St. Timothy’s Hospital, the same hospital where my ex-boyfriend Rob used to work. I had been there countless times during the two years he and I were together. I wondered if I might run into a nurse or a doctor I knew. I would have given anything for a familiar and sympathetic face right now.

The ambulance came to a stop and the doors flew open. I was in the grips of pain, vaguely aware of a series of ever-changing ceilings flashing by as I was wheeled from one area to another. At last a nice doctor—I would have nominated him for sainthood—gave me an injection, and the pain dulled. I became drowsily aware of people shouting orders, someone bending over me, a light being shined in my eyes, being asked dozens of questions and pronounced free from concussion. And then yet another ceiling whizzed by.

Suddenly a pleasant-looking woman was leaning over me. She had kind eyes. “Got into a bit of an accident, didn’t you? Don’t worry. We’ll have you fixed in no time.” She covered me with a heavy blanket—an X-ray shield, I realized. She swung a large machine hanging from a mechanical arm and adjusted it over me. “Try not to move your leg.”

I wouldn’t have moved it for anything in the world, not even cherry pie and ice cream, for which I would normally have jumped through hoops. She disappeared behind a door, and there was a loud clang accompanied by a flash of light. She repeated the process a number of times with the machine at various angles over my leg.

She reappeared and relieved me of the blanket. “All done,” she said in a chirpy voice. “I’ll have the pictures ready for your doctor in a few minutes.” I was rolled back to the emergency room and into a cubicle surrounded by a faded blue privacy curtain.

The pain had given way to a pleasant buzz when a young man in a scrub suit looked down at me.

I met his eyes and smiled. “Hey, doc, it doesn’t hurt nearly so much anymore. When can I go home?” The corner of his mouth twitched the way Toni’s did when she suppressed a smile. He looked young. He couldn’t have been more than a teenager. “Are you sure you’re a doctor?”

This time the smile reached his eyes. “I promise you I am.” He picked up my chart and rattled off a long explanation of my injuries, ending with, “In other words what you have is a pilon fracture in the distal tibia.” The only words I understood were
fracture
and
tibia
, which I knew was a leg bone.

“The knee bone’s connected to the leg bone. The leg bone’s connected to—” I recited. “Can you say that again, but this time in English?” I knew I was being silly, but I didn’t care.

“You have a broken ankle. We’ve secured your leg in a splint for now, where it won’t move until we get you a cast.”

“Can’t you just put me in a cast now and send me home? I have to get back to work.”

He glanced from the chart in his hands, to me, his eyebrows shifting upwards. “I’m afraid you won’t be going home today. As a matter of fact you won’t be going back to work for a while. Your shinbone is broken at the ankle joint. That kind of break can be challenging to manage, especially when associated with significant soft-tissue injury. That’s why we’ll have Dr. Goodall take a look at you. He’s an orthopedic surgeon.”

I swallowed hard, my warm fuzzy feeling of a minute ago quickly evaporating. “A-a surgeon? Does that mean I’ll need an operation?”

Rather than answer directly he went into another long explanation, concluding with, “All those options are available to treat these fractures, but the condition of the soft tissues is crucial.”

“Oh, er...so when is this surgeon going to look at my ankle?”

“He’s been notified. He should be here within the next couple of hours.” And before I could ask any more questions, he flipped my chart closed and clipped it back to the front of my bed. “Do you want the curtain open or closed?”

“Open, please.”

He pulled it open and left. I was lying there, still reeling from the news that my leg might be cut open, when Toni peeked in.

She waved, crossing the room. Her stiletto heels clickety-clicked on the linoleum floor. Her open coat swung elegantly. “You poor thing, I can’t believe what happened. The nurse told me your ankle is broken. Is the pain terrible?”

“It was, but some angel of a doctor gave me a shot of something.”

She chuckled. “If you wanted drugs, there are easier ways to get them, you know. You didn’t have to risk your life.”

I wasn’t amused. “Just my luck—when the restaurant is crazy busy. Oh, I have a favor to ask. Until I can get out of here, would you mind making sure Jackie and the puppies are all right?”

“Don’t worry about the restaurant. We’ll manage fine without you.”

I wasn’t sure whether I was happy to hear this or not.

“As for the dogs, I’ll move into your place until you get out of here.”

“You don’t have to do that. Just stop in four or five times a day, let Jackie out, change the wee-wee pads every few hours and maybe spend a bit of time with them. As long as they have food and plenty of water, they’ll be all right. I’ll probably get out of here tomorrow.”

“I think you’re being a bit optimistic.” She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Don’t worry. I don’t mind staying over a few days. I want those doggies to be well taken care of.” She grinned. “After all, that cute little Trouble is mine.”

“Thanks, Toni. I really appreciate it.”

She looked down at my wrapped ankle. “I know you probably don’t feel lucky at the moment, but it could have been so much worse. From what I heard, that car was going pretty fast.”

My stomach did a strange little lurch the way it did whenever I pictured the car racing toward me. “The doctor says I won’t be able to go into work for a few days. And when I do go back, I might not be all that efficient for a while. You and Charles will have to take over.” I laughed weakly. “I think you’re about to do your share of the work for a change.”

She shrugged. “Don’t worry about me. I can always hire one more employee until you’re back on your feet.”

Trust Toni to come up with a way to bow out of hard work. Truth be told, I’d known going into this business that I’d be doing most of the work. Without Toni’s money financing our business, there would have been no restaurant. If we’d gone under a few months ago—as we very nearly did—
she
would have lost all the money, not me. So it was fair. She put up the cash. I put up most of the grunt work. And if she wanted to hire temporary help, that was fine too. In all honesty, I preferred it that way. I wasn’t sure how confident I’d feel leaving Toni to take over my duties all by herself—not that my partner didn’t know as much as I did about running a restaurant. It was just that she wouldn’t do anything that put her manicure at risk, which meant there was an awful lot of jobs she wouldn’t touch in the kitchen. Even washing lettuce she would only do donning a pair of opera-length marabou-trimmed rubber gloves.

I sought her eyes. “I think somebody tried to kill me.” It was more a question than a statement.

Her gaze held mine. “I know, sweetie. There were half a dozen witnesses. They all said the same thing.”

I thought about the implication. “But why would anybody want me dead?”

“Did you steal anybody’s boyfriend lately?”

I gave her a dirty look. “Ha-ha, not funny.”

She grinned. “Sorry.” And then she grew serious. “What about the car? Did you get a good look at it? Or at the driver?”

“Sure. I got a flash of something big, with a lot of chrome, and from real close.” I huffed. “Are you kidding? It happened so fast, I couldn’t even tell you what color it was, let alone what the driver looked like.”

Before I had a chance to ask her if anyone had taken down the license plate, she glanced at the door and her mouth tightened. “Uh-oh. Will you look at who’s here?”

My eyes followed hers.
Oh shit.

Police officer Crawford and his sidekick Sanders, the two cops who had turned my life into a nightmare after Rob’s death, were striding toward me.

“Well, that proves it,” I said. “Things can always get worse.”

Crawford was wearing his characteristic expression of gleeful self-satisfaction, his beady eyes bright with anticipation. I had no idea how he would turn me into a suspect, but I figured he would find a way. As a boy, he’d probably pulled wings off of flies, and had grown up to love seeing people squirm.

“God must love stupid people,” Toni said, staring at them. “He made so many of them.”

Crawford smirked. “Nice to see you too.” His eyes took a brief assessment of my injuries and he said, “She’ll live.”

In the months since I’d last seen him, the man had only grown fatter and uglier. The rosacea on his nose now extended over most of his cheeks, and his hair had receded another inch. Next to him, beanstalk Sanders looked almost handsome. On second thought, scratch that. He was just as ugly.

Crawford did not bother to pretend sympathy. “I hear somebody is out to get you.” He said this as if it was good news.

Toni gave him a sardonic smile. “But with you two aces on the job, Nicky has nothing to worry about, right?”

Straight-faced, Sanders said, “We’ll do our best to catch the culprit.”

“Gee, that makes me feel a whole lot better,” she said, wide-eyed. “Did you hear that, Nicky? They’re going to do their best. Isn’t that wonderful?” She punctuated this by batting her lashes a few times.

Unamused, Crawford pointed a fat index finger at her. “Why don’t you get lost while we interrogate her?”

“Interrogate! You say that as if
she
was behind the wheel of that car.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time somebody faked an accident.”

Toni’s eyebrows shot up, and then she gave a resigned sigh. “Like I always say, if you argue with a fool, you become one too. I’ll be back later, after these two clowns have left.” She planted a kiss on my cheek, stuffed her purse under her arm and marched off, muttering something under her breath. Whatever it was, Crawford didn’t like it. His eyes narrowed and followed her until she disappeared out the door. He turned to me and for the next twenty minutes I had the pleasure of being grilled by two of Toronto’s finest.

Crawford’s first question took me by surprise. “Do you have disability insurance?” He said this with a slight leer.

“What? I don’t understand the relevance.”

“How’s the restaurant business these days? Are you getting a regular paycheck?”

All at once it came to me. “You think I staged this for insurance money?” I shook my head in disbelief. “For your information, the restaurant is doing very well, and, furthermore, I don’t have disability insurance. And I resent the implication.”

“You wouldn’t be the first person to fake an injury for the insurance.”

“You can’t accuse me of faking this. My ankle is broken.”

“Not part of the plan?”

I was feeling vulnerable, lying on a gurney in a hospital gown, and to my embarrassment my eyes welled up. “I don’t need this bullshit.” I looked around for a guard, a doctor, a nurse—anybody with the authority to make them leave.

Sanford moved a step closer, taking over from Crawford. “Did you see who was driving the car?”

“So you believe me.”

He nodded imperceptibly and my anger dissipated.

I always did like him more—or rather, disliked him less. “It happened too fast for me to notice anything. I was crossing the street when I saw the car. It was coming toward me. I tried to get out of its way, but it sped up just as I was about to reach the sidewalk. That driver—whoever he was—he hit me on purpose.”

“Do you know of anyone who might benefit from your death?”

That might have been funny if my situation wasn’t so pathetic. “You’ve got to be kidding. All I own is a mortgaged house, a lot of credit-card debt, and half a stake in a new restaurant. So you might as well forget that theory.”

“Does somebody have an ax to grind with you?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m nice. People like me.”

Crawford smirked, his silence insulting.

I bit back on a nasty retort. “Actually I do know of somebody. The day before yesterday some crazy woman came by the restaurant, ranting and raving that I’d stolen her restaurant. She said she was going to get it back if she had to kill me for it.” I recounted the confrontation.

Crawford put on his sarcastic smile again. “Did this person happen to leave you her name? Her number? Any way she can be reached?”

I shook my head. Crawford gave Sanders a glance. The meaning was clear.

“I am not making this up. If you don’t believe me, call Skinny’s and ask for Charles or Jennifer. They were there. They’ll tell you exactly what I just told you.”

“You say you never met this woman before?”

“I never saw her before in my life. She was somewhere in her late thirties to early forties. She had brown hair. She was about my height and looked like she hadn’t bathed in a long time.”

Sanders took notes, flipped his notebook closed and rolled his eyes. “She needed a bath—great description. That should make her real easy to spot.”