Free Murder Walks the Plank by Carolyn Hart Page A

captain of the QEII felt nearly as empowered. What a car, the engine a low throaty purr, the massive body rolling noiseless and unstoppable. No wonder Emma had such presence. Of course, Emma would see it the other way about, supremely confident that the magnificent driving machine merely reflected her persona.
    At any other time, Annie would have been thrilled to drive the Rolls. She’d once bested Emma in a contest, winning the right to drive the Rolls as a prize, but at the last minute Emma had held tight to the keys.
    Annie turned the car smoothly into the hospital parking lot, the occasional golden pool of light from the lampposts emphasizing the black shadows of the hedges, throwing long streaks of darkness from the tall pines. She wished the jaunt in the car was the reason for her outing, not the frightening prospect of a helpless Pamela at risk from an unknown attacker. The thought seemed absurd. Who would attack Pamela? Why Pamela?
    She parked at the far end of the lot, leaving a free space on either side. Far be it from her to leave Emma’s Rolls vulnerable to scratches. Walking fast, she headed for the emergency room, carrying with her, an odd accompaniment on a journey into fear, the ripe banana smell of a huge pittosporum bush. When she stepped inside, the sweet scent was overwhelmed by hospital odors, medicines and food and disinfectants and sickness.
    Emma Clyde lounged, sandaled feet crossed, on a green vinyl sofa right next to the automatic door that led to the cubicles for emergency room patients. She held a cell phone pressed to one ear.
    As Annie’s shoes clicked on the faux marble floor, Emma looked up, lifted a stubby hand in greeting. Her silver nails matched the silver streaks in her georgette caftan. “We’ll change shifts at two A.M …. No word yet…. I’ll let you know.” She clicked off the phone, patted the cushion next to her.
    Annie didn’t sit down. She laced her fingers together and stared at the closed door. “How is she?”
    â€œSo far as I know, there’s been no change.” Emma was reassuring. “The outlook is positive. She was breathing very well en route. Dr. Burford’s with her now.”
    Annie flung out her hands, talked fast. “What if there’s another entrance to the ER?” Annie thought there was. Maybe she ought to scout out the hospital right now, find out. “Somebody tried to kill her and now she’s unconscious. We need a guard. The doctor will be in and out. If she’s all by herself, she’s helpless—”
    Emma reached out, grabbed Annie’s hand, pulled her down to the sofa. “Take a deep breath. I didn’t forget what you said in the saloon. You think she was pushed.” She raised an eyebrow. “Maybe she was. Maybe she wasn’t. I’m not taking any chances.” One silver-tipped finger pointed down the hall, empty except for a custodian pushing a mop. “There’s one other entrance to the cubicles. You go through those swinging doors”—she pointed at doors to the left of the ER reception counter—“and go down a hall—the one that leads to the hospital proper—then turn right into a short hall. There’s an unmarked door across from the women’s rest room. It’s for doctors and staff. I called Henny, told her everything. She came immediately and she’s on duty there.”
    â€œHenny?” Annie began to relax. Henny was much more than simply an actress and a mystery devotee, she was capable and savvy, had been a World War II pilot, a teacher, and, after her retirement, a two-time Peace Corps volunteer. Henny could be counted on.
    Emma held up her cell phone. “We’ve got it worked out. Henny’s been on the phone to the members of the Altar Guild. They’ll be here in relays. Two will be on duty through the night when she’s moved to a room. Now, Annie, I want to know all about