A Midsummer Night's Scream

kind of you. He looked so awful with all those tubes and beeping machines. But he sat with me in this same hospital when I lost my lower legs. He must have been as worried then about me as I am about him now.“
    Officer Jones got her settled and went to fetch flavored but unsweetened tea for Miss Turner and coffee for himself and Mel.
    Hilda Turner was getting a better grip on herself and confided in Mel, “I can hardly believe that I forgot something important. There’s a corridor between this hospital and some small apartments for the families of seriously ill patients.
    That’s where Sven stayed when I was in here. Do you think I could stay there and save Officer Jones the trouble of hauling me here and back home every day?“
    Mel said, “I’ll find out.“
    “It’s not that I can’t afford it,“ she said with a faint smile.
    Mel thought this was a good time to ask what they intended to do with all their money, but couldn’t bring himself to do so when she was so worried.
    Instead he asked, “What do you think ‘rabbit’ means to him? He said it so clearly.“
    “I have no idea. There’s something tickling the back of my mind, but I can’t quite grasp it.“
    “You’ll let me know when you do, won’t you?“
    “It’s probably something really trivial. I will tell you, if I can figure out why he’d say it. And, Detective, when you contact the manager of those apartments, would you explain I need one with bars to hold on to in the bathroom?“
    When Officer Jones returned, carefully carrying their drinks on a flimsy tray, Mel explained what they’d been talking about while he was gone.
    “Apartments for families? Who would have guessed? But I don’t mind driving you every day, Miss Turner, if Detective VanDyne approves it. And my aunt, as I told you, never wants to drive it again.“
    “I can’t put you to all that trouble,“ she said, once more becoming the big sister and bossy. “But I will have to be taken home and ask my neighbor to pack my clothing and medicines—if Detective VanDyne can get me an apartment.“

    “I’ll use whatever clout it takes to see that you have one,“ Mel said.
    “I could do your packing,“ Officer Jones said. She said, almost sounding girlish, “You? Packing up my underwear? I don’t think so.“ Officer Jones turned slightly pink. “Oh.“
    After Mel had reserved an apartment adjoining the hospital that met Miss Turner’s needs and Officer Jones had her on her way home to be helped to pack by her neighbor, Mel returned to his office to start over with his stacks of paperwork that both the death of Denny and the attack on Sven had generated. He’d already put what he’d gone through in three piles on the counter behind his desk.
    The first pile was papers that were entirely irrelevant. This was the smallest pile. The second consisted of documents and copies of interviews that he suspected might not be worthwhile, but which he’d go through again. Papers that he believed might contain the key to either or both of the crimes made up the largest pile. And he still had a big mass of folders and loose papers remaining that would end up in one of the piles.
    When he’d made significant headway, he went around the corner and bought a sandwich, chips, and a soda to eat a late lunch at his desk. Then he called Jane.
    “Did you learn any more about anything useful at your needlepoint class this morning?“
    “Tazz didn’t show up, thank goodness. I think I really scared her away.“
    “She deserved being scared away.“
“I just wish I could scare Elizabeth away.“
    “Who is Elizabeth?“
    “One of the other people in the needlepointing class. She’s such a snoop. She mentioned to Ms. Bunting that she’s seen Ms. Bunting’s husband drop her off and wanted to know what he did while she was in class. As if it were any of her business. Ms. Bunting said he was going to the country club where he’d played golf earlier. He’d lost his driver.“
    “What driver? He has somebody who drives him around?“
    “No, it’s an old-fashioned name for a golf club, Ms. Bunting said. Like mashies, wedgies, spoons, lofters, niblicks, and something called deck, that might have been a club or a brand of club. Ms. Bunting wasn’t sure which,“ Jane said.
    “Elizabeth tried to correct her,“ Jane went on, “and tell her that golf clubs had numbers, not names. Ms. Bunting did a royal ‘putting down,’ saying that the clubs were her husband’s