Free In a Heartbeat by Elizabeth Adler Page A

with the Charleston police and the hospital. The police accident report said I’d skidded into a tree that had then toppled onto the truck, completely wrecking it. The hospital report confirmed that I’d suffered a hairline fracture to the skull and a severe concussion that had caused memory difficulties and confusion. Plus a cracked cheekbone. So far, I had checked out.
    “But then the P.I. went over the beach house with a special laser that made ‘invisible’ or ‘hidden’ traces of blood—he said it was what was left when blood has been cleaned up—show up as fluorescent white marks. It showed bloodstains on the rug in the library. There were more leading out to the garage.
    “Ed knew then that I was speaking the truth about the dead man. And he also found there was money missing from the wall safe.
    “The P.I. deduced that it was a simple robbery gone wrong—one robber shot the other and took off with all the money—and that there was no murder conspiracy against Ed. Ed wouldn’t tell the cops about it because he didn’t want to involve me. He told me he was worried because I could identify the killer. He thought it was
me
who might be in danger, not him.”
    Despite his better judgment, Camelia thought she was speaking the truth.
    “Now will you let me see Ed?” she begged.

20
    Mel was perched on the edge of the chair by Ed’s bed. Camelia had given her ten minutes with him, that’s all.
Ten minutes for the rest of his
life.
She was recalling what happened after the P.I. had completed his investigation. Private stuff she hadn’t told Detective Camelia. About Ed— and her. About the next time she had seen him. It seemed light-years away now, with Ed dying in a hospital bed right in front of her eyes, and the end so near. But then it had seemed like just the beginning. . . .
    She and Harriet were sitting on the front porch of her tiny Santa Monica cottage, drinking Miller Lite from icy bottles, relaxing after a tough couple of days. They had just gotten home and were still in their work “uniforms”—black shorts, sweaty white T-shirts, crumpled black socks, and work boots. A brand-new forty-eight-foot silver truck with MOVING ON in lipstick-red script on its sides had replaced the crashed one and was parked across the street.
    Mel loved that truck like her own baby—well, not quite, but she knew what she meant. It was the product of her own brains and body and hard labor. And of the insurance company that had reluctantly forked over the money after she had wrecked the first one. “Isn’t that just the greatest truck, Harriet, honey?” Mel eyed it with a pleased smile.
    Today, using that truck, they had moved an eccentric old woman from one expensive condo to another on the same block. The woman had complained all the while about the cost and why she needed such a big van and so many crew, she was sure she could have gotten everything cheaper elsewhere. Nerves frazzled, they had done their job and left her, still grumbling, with her bed made up, fresh towels and soap in the bathroom, her refrigerator stocked, coffee brewing, and flowers in a vase on the hall table. Their signature.
    “The old bitch never even said thanks.” Harriet sighed wearily. “Oh, ’scuse me, Riley, I forgot you were there.”
    Mel’s seven-year-old daughter, Riley, laughed, a hearty rollicking sound that infected those around her with laughter. She was lying in a hammock strung between two beams. Lola, a feisty little tan-and-white terrier mutt, lay on her chest, eyes blissfully closed as Riley swung gently. “ ’S okay. I’ve heard worse,” she replied calmly.
    “No you have not.”
Mel was indignant. “There is no cursing in this house.”
    “Only when you think I’m not listening.” Riley grinned at them, showing the double empty space where her front teeth used to be. “Visitors,” she added, staring at the black BMW that had just pulled into the parking spot in front of the house.
    “I’m not