"You're not taking this seriously enough."

"You still haven't told me what we've done."

"You know what you've done. Do you think Dr. Raymond would still see you if he knew you were trying to ruin him?"

Timmie actually found herself spluttering. Stunned, furious, frightened all over again.

Alex.

No, no, no. It couldn't be Alex.

She tried to form a coherent answer, at least a noise of real outrage, but the caller had already hung up.

"Leary?" Murphy asked from behind her.

"Well, that tears it," she snapped, slamming the receiver down so hard the phone jumped in its little alcove. "I'm on the next stage out of town. Los Angeles was way more fun than this."

"Leary? Who was it?"

That finally got her to turn around, only to find that Murphy wasn't where she'd left him. He was, in fact, tottering toward her, his free hand leaving bloody smudges on the dingy brown couch, his arm tight around his ribs, his face the color of her front door.

"You idiot!" she snapped, truly mad. "Lie down somewhere before you fall again and knock all this crap over and I just have to clean it up right after I clean you!"

His grin was probably about sixty watts shy of what he was trying to project. "It is an... interesting room."

"Shut up." She stalked over and grabbed him by the armpit.

"Ouch."

Timmie at least got him on the couch—after she'd swept it clean of the insurance forms her grandmother had seemed to collect on a par with Christmas cookie recipes.

"Hey, Leary?" Murphy asked as she stuffed another pillow under his head.

"What?"

"Tell me that's not a tattoo on your thigh."

Timmie instinctively looked down to make sure her dress hadn't hiked up. It hadn't. But it did tend to float out a bit.

"Great view from the floor," Murphy allowed, eyes half open. "Good thing I'm an honorable man. Is it a tattoo?"

"What's it to you?" she demanded, hand instinctively covering the spot even over her dress.

Murphy groaned. "It's a rose, isn't it, Leary? I love rose tattoos. They're sexy as hell, especially there. I don't suppose you'd want to have my babies, would you?"

There he went again. How could he be this offensive and this funny at the same time? How could he make her feel so itchy with just that damn smile? Timmie grabbed a particularly vile puce afghan and plopped it over him as if she were burying not only him, but every wayward thought in her head. "I'd rather skin myself alive with a nail file than have another relationship with an unreformed drunk, Murphy."

He smiled. He smiled! "Okay, then, how about some meaningless sex?"

For just that second before her better sense kicked in, Timmie actually considered it. Thankfully, her better sense was stronger than her libido, and she remembered just what a disaster it had been when she'd followed the meaningless-sex dictates of stage three of divorce. "I only have sex after I jog, Murphy. If you can get off that couch and run six miles right now, it's a deal."

She got another groan. "You're heartless, Leary."

"No, I'm not," she said, feeling a little better. "If I were heartless, I'd tell Barb what you just said before I let her stitch you up."

And with that, finally, she went to call her friend.

* * *

"This probably isn't a good idea," Murphy managed almost an hour later.

"Shut up," both Timmie and Barb answered in unison.

"But you shouldn't be involved," Murphy insisted as the sleep-tousled giantess pulled his shirt off to check him.

He was colorful, that was for sure. The bruises were brick red and purpling, even with the Baggie-loads of ice Timmie had already supplied. Clad in bright orange sweats, Barb examined him with gentle efficiency. Murphy winced and cursed under his breath as they moved him, but he behaved. Having already seen the worst when she'd cleaned him, Timmie kept her mouth shut and her mind on the newest problems they had.

Alex.

It wasn't going to be Alex. She wouldn't let it be, no matter what.

But if not Alex, then who? If she was right about the death rate going up in Restcrest, why wouldn't he have noticed? And why the hell couldn't she just have focused on cleaning the house and teaching trauma nurse certification courses instead of always getting into trouble?

"So, you're telling me that the long and short of this evening is that you got beaten up because you're sure Vic was murdered, and it has something to do with that little dustup at the horse show," Barb said, squinting into Murphy's retina through an ophthalmoscope. "Which might lead back to Restcrest, if not—and I don't believe it for a minute—Alex."

"Shouldn't you be more surprised?" Murphy asked.

Barb just kept working. "The last time I was surprised was when my children told me that they'd walked in on Daddy handcuffing his girlfriend to the bed. If Vic had to die, I'm glad it wasn't from stupidity."

Standing beyond Murphy, Timmie could see the glitter in Barb's eyes that belied her brisk words. She offered the only consolation she could. "He was trying to be a good cop."

Barb nodded, spared Timmie a quick glance that betrayed too much, and picked up her percussion hammer and Murphy's elbow. "Then what do we do about it?" she asked.

"We do nothing," he answered, his attention on the gig-twitch of his arms in response to her deft taps. "It might just be time to take this to the state police."

"State police wear jackboots, too," Timmie quietly offered.

Murphy glared at her.

She shrugged. "In a little while. Can't we just kind of make sure we've got the right field of wheat before we bring in the harvesting equipment?" Now both of them were staring at her. She scowled. "All right, so there are some drawbacks to being raised in a literary household. I think in analogies. What I mean is that Restcrest is a wonderful place. I don't want it leveled in a panzer attack for the truth."

"It may end up leveled anyway," Murphy told her. "Even if it isn't Raymond, an investigation of any kind could cost the facility its license."

Timmie was already shaking her head. "That won't happen," she insisted. "Alex Raymond is the heart of Restcrest. As long as he isn't the culprit—which he isn't—Restcrest will be fine."

Barb leaned over to look Murphy full in the face. "Mr. Murphy," she said, gesturing to Timmie. "I'd like to introduce you to Cleopatra."

Murphy grinned. "Queen of denial, huh?"

"I am not," Timmie insisted out of habit. "I'm serious."

Besides, she thought without bothering to tell them, I'm Scarlett. No denial necessary when you can just put things off till tomorrow.

"You really think somebody's killing gomers?" Barb asked as she tapped knees and Achilles tendons. "Why?"

"Could it just be negligence?" Murphy asked.

Both women shook their heads. "That'd make Alex the culprit," Timmie told him. "Alex may be many things. He isn't negligent."

Murphy rolled his eyes again. Barb, on the other hand, looked pensive. "Then who? And why?"

"Could be a number of things," Murphy assured her. "Could be cost cutting. For some reason right now, Restcrest doesn't have very many patients in its most expensive division. Then there's the researcher, Davies. He's happy as a clam that he has lots of fresh brains to play with. Or you could have one of those mercy killers on the loose."