Killer Wedding by Jerrilyn Farmer

Author:Jerrilyn Farmer [Farmer, Jerrilyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: cozy, mystery, recipes, women sleuths
ISBN: 9780062013965
Google: rfmPm7ohe5YC
Amazon: 0786247568
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2003-04-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

The robber barons who run the parking structure at Cedars-Sinai Hospital engage in legalized extortion. Seriously. They charge an arm and a leg for every twenty minutes, and you’re crazy to pay it. Better to park at the Beverly Center and walk. That way, either coming or going, you get to cruise the mall if you want. I usually want. But this morning, I was in a hurry.

I checked in at the visitors’ desk and was directed to the proper bank of elevators. Up to the South Tower, fifth floor. Walking along the linoleum, smelling hospital smells, I began to feel some compassion for Whisper Pettibone. While maybe I had not formed the best impression of him, and maybe his manner was decidedly waspish, he certainly didn’t deserve to end up in a hospital bed. I resolved to tread gently in our interview, to be my most nurturing self. Nurse Cherry Bean—kind, caring, sweet-tempered. A goddamn angel of mercy.

At the door to room 599 I stopped. What to do? For some reason—and really, I blame the HMOs—the hospital fails to provide doormen to announce you. And yet, what an intimate space is a sickroom—a bedroom, really—in which to have a casual stranger, such as myself, barge. I faltered, standing in the hallway. I would hardly have looked forward to visiting the acidic Mr. Pettibone when he was full of his usual vinegar, dressed to the teeth. To approach him while he was in bed, loosely wrapped in some hospital-issue gown complete with breezeway bottom, was a thrill I could have happily lived without.

Just then, a middle-aged nurse opened the door, startling me. She gave an exasperated “tsk-tsk-tsk” and walked off. Apparently, Whisper Pettibone was a charming patient this morning. Wonderful.

I stepped forward and looked into the room. Whisper was sitting with his bed half-inclined, staring at the wall opposite.

I knocked softly on the open door, hoping to get his attention.

“Excuse me. Mr. Pettibone? It’s Madeline Bean. Do you feel up to a visitor?”

“I feel like bloody HELL,” he said, turning to look me over. “I think I may die, but whether from the brilliance of my hospital treatment or of boredom I would hate to wager a bet.” Whisper took a few labored breaths and said, “But why are you still standing out in the hall? Enter. Come in. I can’t very well carry on a conversation with you if you insist on standing a mile away.”

I entered the room. Whisper was hooked up to an IV line that led to a stand on wheels parked next to his bed. His head was bandaged and one arm was set in a cast. Several fabulous flower arrangements were in evidence, set side by side on the window seat. His skin, always a suspiciously deep tan, looked sunken on his prominent cheekbones, dark against the white linens. He kept his eyes closed when I approached, but now opened them and stared at me.

“Madeline Bean. Would you believe you are my first

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