Corpse on the Porch

A M JENNER

Copyright 2018, The Electric Scroll

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by The Electric Scroll. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the publisher. For information contact The Electric Scroll, 745 N. Gilbert Rd. Ste 124 PMB 197, Gilbert, Arizona, 85234.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental, and in the imagination of the reader.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Acknowledgments

Corpse on the Porch

About the Author

Books by A M Jenner

Connect with me online

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks and much appreciation go to Kevin Mosey and Thomas E. Thulin, Sr. for their invaluable technical advice. Thanks also to my daughter, Mischa, without whom this book would not have been written; start-ups are always good and very much appreciated.

Special thanks to my husband and soulmate, Cal, who daily lived with the challenges of wheelchairs, unfriendly 'wheelchair accessible' buildings, and other blockages to a normal life. I learned much about bus schedules, time lines, and an irrepressibly positive attitude that couldn't be dampened or restrained by pain or circumstance. You were right, Cal; when you went, you left the chair behind! You are forever my strength. I love you eternally.

~ 1 ~

FRIDAY AFTERNOON

Halfway up the steep wheelchair ramp, Candace's cell phone rang. She ignored it. The call would be from Elaine Jarvis again. Candace had lost track of how many times in the past three weeks she'd told her former client she no longer worked as a private investigator.

This April's heat index records were laughing as they soared past the high marks set three decades ago, and Candace felt every single degree of the scorching Arizona temperature. Concentrating on getting up the ramp, she tried to swipe her sweaty forehead against her shoulder. It didn't work very well, but at least she'd given the sweat a new pathway down the side of her face instead of straight into her eyes.

Her mom's neighbor had tried to be helpful when Candace moved in. He'd divided their wide front staircase in half, simply filling in one side with cement for a smooth ramp, leaving the other half to still be stairs. She was grateful for it, but the incline was so steep it was hard to get her chair to the top. Without the ramp, though, she couldn't get into the house on her own at all.

She finally reached the porch and paused, panting in the early afternoon heat. The phone quit ringing. Candace rested, caught her breath, and then pushed her chair close to the front door.

She fished her keys out of her fanny pack—another sign of the changes in her life. She hadn't used one when they were in style, but not having to worry about a purse sliding off her lap or its long straps getting tangled in the wheels of her chair was worth the internet search to find one.

Candace unlocked the front door and pushed it open, feeling the rush of the air conditioning bleeding out into the neighborhood while she maneuvered her chair inside. She turned around and secured the door behind her.

Her phone emitted the voicemail chime. Rats! She'd have to listen to the message or the stupid phone would keep her awake with its periodic chiming to remind her that the message was there, waiting for her. After today's gym workout, the long bus ride home, and the half-mile trek from the bus stop, Candace was seriously ready for some sleep.

Candace? Her mother's voice echoed down the hall from the kitchen.

Hi, Mom; it's me, Candace called back.

Her mother came halfway down the hall, wiping her hands on her apron, a smile decorating her face. She'd been baking; a good sign.

What do you want for lunch? I just took some bread out of the oven.

Candace propelled her chair toward the formal dining room, where she now slept.

Thanks, but I'm exhausted, Mom. I don't want food right now, just a nap.

Her mother nodded. Big day today! I'm so excited you made it on your own, but I'm glad you're home safe. Tell me all about your adventure when you wake up, okay?

Candace gave her mom a small smile and nodded, and her mother disappeared back into the kitchen.

Candace rolled into her room and parked in the corner by the stand-alone wardrobe she used as a closet. She flipped the footrests up, removed her shoes, and shakily stood. Her balance wasn't good at any time, but especially when she was beat from her therapy session at the gym.

She reached out and grabbed her walker. Putting most of her weight on her exhausted arms, she dragged her unwilling legs across the room to the bed and collapsed in a grateful heap on the soft mattress.

This was a landmark day. She'd made it to the gym and back all on her own, a first; but it allowed her mom some time to do the baking she so enjoyed. It had been worth the effort.

Candace took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Even the bright sun streaming through the dining room's lace curtains wasn't going to rob her of this nap. One of these days, she'd have to replace the curtains with something that would keep more of the light out and give her a little privacy. Not that anyone ever came up to the side of the house and peeked in, but still, it needed to happen.

The phone beeped the voicemail chime again. Candace groaned and pulled it from the pack still strapped to her waist. She laid the phone on her chest, then unbuckled the pack, slid it off and dropped it gently to the floor. She held the phone above her and poked at its screen. She'd been right; the missed call and message were from Mrs. Jarvis. The woman was getting to be a real nuisance.

Candace had done some work for Mrs. Jarvis last year; in fact, it was the last case she'd worked. She'd tailed Elaine's then-husband Goddard and collected evidence of his infidelity. Divorce cases weren't very interesting, but they'd provided her with a good living. Now the work was physically impossible.

Mrs. Jarvis was so focused on telling Candace that someone was trying to kill her and listing the reasons she was certain the culprit was her ex, that she didn't hear a word of Candace's explanation.

Candace listened to the recording with half an ear. Yes, this message was more of the same. She erased the voicemail, brought her phone back to the home screen and set it on the nightstand. She closed her eyes again, pulling a pillow over her head to block out the light.

The doorbell rang. Honestly, was the whole world conspiring to rob her of the sleep she so desperately needed? Her mother's footsteps clicked down the hallway, but Candace's curiosity roared into high gear. Who could it be? They never had visitors in the middle of the day, and their friends always called ahead.

The quiet, nearly private neighborhood rarely had salesmen or any street traffic apart from residents. She pulled the pillow away and lay still, listening.

The door opened, and she heard her mother's voice, and faintly, from outside, the voice of another woman, who sounded hysterical. Although she was somewhat muffled through the wall, it sounded like Mrs. Jarvis. Geez; the woman couldn't take no for an answer!

Her mother's voice was calm and firm as she tried to cut through the hysteria and inform the visitor Candace couldn't come to the door.

A car's racing engine was loud in the street, drowning out the voices. Brakes squealed and there were three loud bangs. Her mother screamed. There was a fourth gunshot and some thumps.

The sound of squealing tires was loud at first and then quit, but she heard the sound of an engine surging with power and picking up speed before it faded. Silence followed. Gunshot? Yes, those had definitely been gunshots.

Mom?

Silence.

Mom!

Silence.

Candace pushed herself up off the bed and grabbed the walker. She silently cursed her uncooperative legs and the fact it now took her minutes rather than seconds to cross a room. Candace dragged herself into the entry hall as fast as she was able.

Crumpled, her mother sprawled against the open half of the double front doors, her head tilted, resting on her shoulder. Mrs. Jarvis lay draped across the threshold, three bright spots of crimson on her back, her open brown eyes staring at Candace. The door and her mother were liberally covered in blood.

Mom! She screamed the word again, although it was plain her mother couldn't answer. Candace grabbed at her waist for her phone. Her hand encountered only empty space where her fanny pack and phone should be. Blast it! She'd left them by her bed.

Though her first desire was to go directly to her mother's side, she knew there was little she could do that would be helpful once she got on the floor. Getting back up would be a serious problem; she hadn't the strength to accomplish it without resting first.

Frustrated, she pushed the walker and dragged herself to the phone niche halfway down the hall; it was closer than her cell phone. The heat from outdoors was noticeably creeping into the house through the door before Candace finally reached the phone, snatched it from its cradle, and dialed 9-1-1.

~ 2 ~

FRIDAY AFTERNOON

Candace watched from inside the house as the ambulance attendants gently but hurriedly placed her mother in the back, closed the doors, and drove away, lights flashing. As they got further from the house, she heard the siren start. Her mom must be in very bad shape if they were using both the lights and the siren. The worry for her mom felt like a giant was squeezing her heart. Her lungs couldn't seem to move their air past the lump in her throat; she could hardly breathe.

The police had drawn a chalk outline around her mother before she had been taken away, as well as a second outline around Mrs. Jarvis, whose body still lay in the doorway, although someone had thankfully closed her eyelids.

An officer in a T-shirt with the letters CSU on his upper chest and the word POLICE across his shoulders was taking photos of Mrs. Jarvis, while a second pair of ambulance techs waited on the porch to remove the body.

A pair of men wearing dazzling white shirts and dark pants got out of a deep blue car parked at the curb. Their ties were noticeable black streaks against the white shirts, and made her think of daggers to her heart. That was appropriate; her anxiety for mom felt as if her heart was bleeding. They walked toward the house but paused halfway across the yard to speak to the uniformed police officer who had interviewed her.

She saw one of the men look up at the house and then back to the uniformed man. He asked a question, and the man looked at his notebook and then nodded.

The detectives looked around the yard then gestured to the now quiet street. The uniformed officer nodded and together with a second officer walked out of the yard; the detectives continued toward the house, nimbly taking the steps two at a time.

A small stab of jealousy bit at her as she wished she could still take the steps two at a time. Or even one at a time. But she couldn't; not now. So, Candace remained where she was, seated on the next to the bottom step of the inner staircase with a clear view of everything that happened in the hall and much of the front yard, as long as the door stayed open.

She could hear the air conditioner wheezing, working hard to cool the entire neighborhood; but she also knew they couldn't close the door until Mrs. Jarvis' body had been removed. She'd asked the uniformed cop if he'd step down the hall and flick the thermostat to off, but he'd ignored her in his zeal to interrogate her.

It was odd how the mind worked during a crisis. Worry about her mom didn't deter a lifetime's habit of awareness of the air conditioning and open doors. She silently shook her head at her silly thoughts.

The detectives paused briefly on the porch to speak to the photographer before stepping carefully over Mrs. Jarvis and entering the house.

They were silhouetted against the door, the afternoon sun bright behind them, when one began speaking.

Sweet? Is that you?

Candace knew that voice.

Hello Swift. Pull up a chair.

He still stood with his back to the light, his face impossible to see.

What are you doing here, Sweet? You on a case?

I live here.

"You live here?"

Candace nodded, tears for her mom spilling from her eyes, her throat still tight. Yeah; I live here.

Why don't we go into the living room to talk, then? It might be more comfortable for you.

Candace nodded, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand.

Jason Swift walked over and held out a hand to her. He didn't know, then.

Could you please go in my room and bring me my wheelchair? Candace gestured to the dining room door, not quite meeting his eyes.

Wheelchair?

His response tickled her sense of ridiculous. Yet this was the very thing she hated most about the change in her physical condition; having former associates see her this vulnerable. It put her in self-protection mode and her snarky tongue inevitably took over in her defense.

Yeah. Big metal thing. Over by the closet. Has four wheels; one on each corner.

Jason's partner disappeared into her room, while Jason just stood there, staring at her. Candace shivered. She knew what was coming next; the questions, then the pity. She didn't want to endure it, especially from someone she'd once been so close to, but knew she couldn't escape it. And those queries had nothing to do with the rest of the questions they'd need to ask her for their investigation of what happened today. She sighed; right now, life sucked.

Jason's partner reappeared, pushing the wheelchair. He was having a difficult time shoving it across the floor because he didn't know how to take the brakes off. Candace almost chuckled. He'd be having a harder time if the floor was carpet instead of highly polished hardwood. He set the chair as close to her as he could get it, and she directed him to the angle that would be easiest for her.

Then she held out both hands to Jason. He stood still, staring, not seeming to understand what she needed.

Could use a hand up, Swift.

He came to himself with a jolt. She watched him shake off whatever world his mind had been lost in.

How can I help?

Give me your hands and pull me up. I can get into the chair from there. I just have no leverage down here.

He extended both hands, took her by the wrists in the secure grip used by firemen and police, and on the count of three, heaved her to her feet.

Once she was up and balanced on both feet, Candace let go of his hands, pivoted slightly, and seated herself in her chair, reaching down to flip the brakes off.

Go on into the living room, she said, gesturing to the room's door, and I'll be there in a minute.

~ 3 ~

FRIDAY AFTERNOON

Candace wheeled down the hall to the thermostat, then used up a good chunk of energy to stand and shut it off. Sitting back down was more like collapsing into the chair. She wheeled into her room, retrieved her fanny pack and clipped it on, then replaced the phone in the pack and zipped it closed.

Finally, she wheeled back into the hall, and through it, averting her eyes from the body, the blood, and the chalk that recorded where her mother had lain.

The detectives were standing near the fireplace. She entered, closed the door, then gestured to the couch.

Have a seat.

They stepped around the coffee table and sat down. Candace tucked her chair into the opening her mother had left in the seating arrangement for it, and clasped her hands together, waiting for the questions to begin.

Sweet, this is my partner, Tony Langsom; Langsom, one of my old friends, Candace Sweet.

Candace waved a single salute at Tony and he nodded back.

I thought you lived downtown in that cute condo, Swift said.

I did. She pointed at her chair. Until a year ago. But the condo didn't have an elevator, plus I lost my job. So, I came home to live with my mom.

Do you mind if I ask what happened?

Candace shrugged. Why not? Everyone else does.

She took a breath to settle herself. "I was on a case, doing surveillance, when a previous client's ex-husband caught up with me. He stabbed me in the back, slicing partway through my spine. I only have 48% feeling in my right leg, 34% in my left. I can move my legs. I can stand for short periods. On a good day, I can even manage a few steps completely under my own power.

Mostly I use a walker inside the house and my chair when I go out. I do therapy at the gym three days a week, and spend most of the rest of my time resting, eating, or sleeping.

Swift's face was pale. Like her, she was sure he was remembering the night they'd decided not to become lovers. He nodded, cleared his throat, and pulled out his notebook.

So. The two women in the doorway.

The woman they took to the hospital is my mother, Eunice Sweet. The other woman – I'm guessing she's dead since they didn't rush her off to the hospital – is – was – Elaine Jarvis.

Any idea what Mrs. Jarvis was doing here?

Candace drew in a deep breath and let it out, noisily, through her nose.

Trying to get me to work for her again, I expect.

She was a former client?

Candace nodded. Yeah; I was working for her when, she gestured to her useless legs, this happened. But I'd gathered enough evidence against her husband, Goddard, and she got her divorce.

If she got her divorce, what did she want you for this time?

Candace grimaced. She's been calling me about every other day for several weeks now. She's been saying someone was trying to kill her. She claimed it was her ex. I kept telling her I don't do investigations anymore. I can't. I mean, can you see me trying to tail someone down the street in this thing? She hit the chair's arm with her fist. I'd be real inconspicuous, wouldn't I? And if they went up any stairs, I'd be screwed.

Swift laughed. Candace glared at him.

He instantly quieted, though the grin was still evident. I'm sorry. I know it isn't funny, not to you; but the mental picture you just painted tickled my funny bone.

If it isn't funny to the person it's happening to, Candace said, then it isn't funny at all. Trade me places and see if it's still funny.

Swift's face immediately became somber.

You're right; I'm really sorry.

An uncomfortable silence wrapped around the three people in the room.

After a long moment, Swift resumed his questioning.

Is there anything you can tell me about the Jarvis family?

Candace squinched her eyes shut, trying to remember.

It's been just over a year since I worked for Mrs. Jarvis. I can't be certain without looking at my case files, but I seem to recall they've got two adult children; son and daughter. Candace paused, dredging her brain for anything else. She shook her head. Sorry, I can't remember their names.

That's all right; at least we've got a place to start.

Do you have addresses for any of the Jarvises? Langsom asked her.

"Well, somewhere in my case file I'll have the home address Mr. and Mrs. Jarvis shared before the divorce. Mrs. Jarvis' cell number is in my phone, but I don't have more than that without my files. Even with them, I probably wouldn't have much for you pertaining to today. They lived over in Scottsdale when she was my client.

Her cell phone may be of some use. If it isn't on her, it may be in her car. I'm not sure what else I can give you. I hope you'll be taking her car with you; it's the one parked behind the grey Chevy. She swallowed. I'm sorry; I know I'm not being very much help. It's just… her voice trailed off.

Swift looked at his partner, who shook his head. The gesture was so small that it almost wasn't there.

Well, I think that's all we need for now. Did the uniforms get your contact information?

Candace nodded.

Then we'll be able to get it from their report. We'll keep in touch and let you know how things are going.

I have a couple of questions for you, Candace said. She pulled a small notepad and pen from her fanny pack and handed them to Swift.

I want your contact information.

Swift found a blank page and started writing.

I also want to know which hospital they've taken Mom to. I need to find out what's going on with her, and if she'll be all right.

Swift turned back several pages in his notebook, then copied what Candace assumed was the hospital's information into her book. He flipped the book closed and handed it back to Candace along with her pen.

She opened the book and looked at what Swift had written before putting it back in her fanny pack.

I wish there was some way I could get to the hospital myself, Candace said.

What's stopping you? Swift asked.

I can't drive mom's car, and I don't know any of the neighbors well enough to ask them to take me and then sit around at the hospital for hours.

A vertical crease appeared in the center of Swift's forehead.

What about the bus? I know the buses all have lifts for taking wheelchairs.

Candace snorted. It's a half mile to the bus stop. I don't have enough energy to push myself that far right now. Then, she paused, making calculations, it's two buses to the hospital. By the time I find out what's going on with my mom, the buses will have quit for the night and I'd be stranded.

Two buses? I thought buses went everywhere. It seems like no matter what street I'm driving on, I end up stuck behind a bus, Langsom said. His face was puzzled.

Welcome to the world of public transit, Candace said. Every time you need to change direction, you have to cross at least one street and wait ten to thirty minutes for the bus going the next direction you want. Just getting to my nearest Walmart, about three miles away, takes me three buses and nearly two hours and that doesn't include the shopping or coming back home. Besides limited cargo capacity in my wheelchair, it means no frozen stuff. I'm sure you can begin to appreciate some of my challenges.

Everywhere I go, I see accommodations for the…for people who have to use wheelchairs. I never realized it was so difficult to get anything done, Swift said.

Candace gave him points for rewording his sentence before he called her handicapped, although it wasn't necessary. She'd at least come that far.

Welcome to my new world. And I promise I'll not hit you if you use the words 'handicapped' or 'disabled'. After all, that's what I am now.

Even to her own ears, her voice sounded bitter. Travis, her therapist at the gym told her if she didn't change that, people would stop wanting to be around her. She tried to not let her feelings show; but it was hard, particularly when she was tired or in a lot of pain, like now.

She hated her body. No, that wasn't quite right. She hated what her body had become; hated not being able to do the things she'd always been able to do so easily. She hated having to assess how much energy she had left and how much she could afford to use on any particular action.

Swift looked at his watch.

Look, I'm supposed to be getting off in about ten minutes. I'll run you over to the hospital. Your mom's car works?

There's nothing wrong with her car. I'm just not licensed to drive anymore. She suddenly realized the first half of what he'd said; that he was willing to take her to the hospital.

You'd take me to the hospital? Seriously? Cops do this kind of thing in their off-hours?

Cops? Not really. But it's what friends do. We are still friends, aren't we?

Only since junior high, Swift. We've been friends too long to quit now. She smiled at him.

Good. Swift jerked his head in the direction of his partner. Tony can take care of today's paperwork.

You'll owe me one, Tony said.

Swift nodded.

Is there anything you need to do here before I take you to the hospital?

Candace shook her head. Not unless we have to wait for the crime scene people to be done. I don't want to leave the house unlocked.

Swift stood and walked over to the living room's door. He opened it and looked out into the hallway.

It looks like they've already gone, and they've taken Mrs. Jarvis with them.

Good. Would you turn the air conditioning back on, please? The thermostat is halfway down the hall on the left at eye level.

Swift disappeared down the hall while Langsom got up and moved around the coffee table. He held his hand out to Candace to shake hands.

It was nice to meet you, he said as he clasped her hand. His hand was a lot softer than Candace had been expecting a police officer's hand to be.

No offense, but I'd just as soon have been able to take my nap, not have my mother shot, and never have met you, she replied.

Langsom dropped her hand and she could see the hurt in his eyes, but it was the truth. Given the circumstances, she wished she'd never met him. He stalked out of the room and left the house, closing the front door behind him. He'd apparently decided to take offense anyway. Sometimes her habit of speaking the unvarnished truth was as much a social handicap to her as her legs were a physical one.

~ 4 ~

FRIDAY AFTERNOON

Candace wheeled out into the hall.

You're going to the hospital barefoot, Sweet? Swift asked.

She looked down at her feet and noticed she only had her socks on.

Just socks aren't the same as barefoot. Give me a minute to get my shoes.

Can I get them for you?

A huge mass of gratitude formed in Candace's throat and threatened to choke her. Her eyes blurred with tears, and it was suddenly hard to breathe. No one other than her mother had spontaneously offered to help her since the attack. She nodded, swallowed, and managed to speak in a husky whisper.

They should be on the floor by the closet near where my chair was parked.

Swift disappeared into her room and returned a few moments later holding her sneakers.

Did I get the right shoes? he asked, holding them up and wiggling them at her.

Yeah, give them here. Candace reached her hand out to receive the sneakers.

Nah, I got it. Swift dropped to one knee in front of her chair.

There's a lot of things I can't do anymore, Candace said, but putting on my own shoes isn't one of them.

I figured you could put them on, since you obviously took them off. I just thought maybe I could save you a little bit of time and energy.

There was a long pause while the two of them stared into each other's eyes, and that almost overwhelming feeling of gratitude returned. She sucked in some needed air.

Well, in that case, I'll let you help me.

It didn't take him long to put the shoes on her feet and tie the laces. She rolled to the desk, got her mom's purse open and retrieved the car keys. They were soon headed out the front door. She turned the chair around so she could lock the front door, and handed her mom's keys to Swift. Then, without turning, she started backing toward the ramp.

You're going to back that thing down?

It's the only way to get down it. Mom's neighbor built it when I first moved in, but he didn't really know what he was doing. Since he just filled in half the stairs with cement to make a ramp, it's way too steep. If I go down it facing forward, I almost slide out of the chair.

I can see that. My worry is if you go down backwards then you can't see where you're going, and you'll run your back tire off the edge and fall backwards down the stairs.

That's always a possibility, Candace said, but there's really no way around it. I go down backwards or not at all. Now hush; I need to concentrate.

Here, let me drive you. At least I'll be able to see where we're going.

Why are you being so nice to me, Swift?

He shrugged. It seemed like the right thing to do. What; you want me to be mean to you?

Candace shook her head. Giving up control was a difficult thing to do, but then, there wasn't much she still had control over these days. Slowly, she pulled her arms to the inside of the armrests and clasped her hands loosely in her lap, surrendering both control of her chair and the safety of her person to her friend.

Swift stepped behind her, took hold of the wheelchair's handles, and eased her and the chair down the steep ramp. He then turned her around and pushed her toward her mother's car parked in the driveway. He chirped the doors unlocked.

It took but a matter of minutes for Candace to transfer herself from the wheelchair into the car and direct Swift on how to fold it and stow it on the back seat. It was easier to roll the big wheels up into the back seat than it was to lift the chair into the trunk.

He got in and after a fifteen-minute drive, they were pulling into the hospital's parking lot. During the drive, she'd taken time to get out her notebook and transfer his cell number into her phone. He drove around to the emergency entrance, since that's where her mother would have been taken. He cruised up and down the lanes between the parked cars, looking for an empty slot, without success.

That one's open. She pointed to a space near the doors.

Yeah, but that one just happens to be a handicapped space.

Candace laughed, then reached into the glove box and extracted the blue placard with the white wheelchair symbol on it.

And I just happen to have one of these.

Swift laughed. By now they were past the handicapped space, so he took one more lap around the parking lot and neatly pulled into the reserved space.

I've never parked in one of these spots before. This will be kind of cool.

I'd give just about anything to never park in one again.

Swift's smile disappeared.

Sorry, she said. You know there's no filter on my mouth. Thanks for bringing me here. I appreciate it.

He nodded and got out of the car. He pulled the wheelchair out of the back seat, unfolded it, and wheeled it over to Candace's door. He set the brakes for her and then offered his hands to help her get out of the car.

Candace was impressed. He'd remembered everything they'd done as they'd gotten her into the car, and reversed the order, making it seem like he helped her with this as a matter of daily routine.

Once she was settled in the chair, she flipped the brakes off and let him push her into the hospital's ER area. An orderly quickly came to their side, asking what was wrong. Candace mentally shook her head. Of course, they'd immediately assume the person in the wheelchair was a patient.

I'm Candace Sweet. My mother, Eunice, was brought in just a little while ago in an ambulance. I'm here to see how she's doing.

Why was she brought in?

Swift pulled out his badge and showed it to the orderly, probably hoping his official connection would get Candace the answers she needed more quickly.

Mrs. Sweet was shot. I'm Detective Swift. I'll need to speak to Mrs. Sweet as soon as possible or at least to her doctor.

The orderly nodded. I'll go find out who needs to be notified that you're here. Why don't you wait over there? He indicated an area at the far end of the waiting room, away from the other patients, where a couple of chairs were positioned very near an electronically-secured keypad-accessed doorway.

Swift silently parked Candace's chair next to the existing chairs and sat down in one of them.

Why do you think they had us sit clear over here? Candace asked. It's almost like they're trying to keep us away from the rest of the people in the waiting room. Do they think the gunman is going to come and shoot us next?

Swift looked hard at her, probably trying to see if she was being serious or trying to make an irreverent joke. He didn't smile, but his gaze was steady. They're probably just trying to keep the healthy and sick people segregated.

I don't see why; I've never seen an emergency room try to differentiate between patients and visitors before.

Good point. On the other hand, it might be because I showed the orderly my badge. He might think I'm here because I'm working on your mother's case.

Well, you certainly tried to give him that impression. Are you here to talk to my mother? Or are you really just trying to do the friend thing?

I'm here strictly as your friend. If I were here on authorized police business, I'd have come in my official car and with my partner.

But anything you happen to learn that aids you in investigating the case is just a bonus, then.

Now Swift smiled at her. Exactly!

Candace grinned and shook her head, knowing she'd have done the same in similar circumstances had she been on a case.

As they sat there, Candace thought about Mrs. Jarvis. Why couldn't she have taken Candace's advice and found a different investigator? Mrs. Jarvis might still be dead today, but if the idiot woman had listened when Candace tried to explain about being handicapped, at least her mother wouldn't now be in the hospital.

The doors next to them opened quickly, shoving one of the empty chairs hard against the wall, the metal door missing Candace's foot rests by a margin of a few inches. A woman wearing scrubs walked through the doors and stopped in the opening. Her eyes scanned the entire waiting area and then came to rest on Swift and Candace.

Miss Sweet?

Candace nodded. As much as she needed to find out about her mother, and to know if she was all right, a sudden fear seized her that she was about to be told her mother had died.

Her lungs quit and her throat stopped working. She couldn't even swallow. If her mother died, Candace would be an orphan. What was she going to do? She loved her mom – she needed her to be here. They had planned things to do together. That was in addition to the physical help Candace required right now.

Please come with me.

Candace automatically reached for the wheels of her chair, but Swift was quicker. Before she could begin to push, he was behind her chair and reaching for the handles.

The woman in scrubs pinned him with her eyes. Are you a relative of the patient, Sir?

He's my friend and I want him with me, Candace said at the same time Swift said, I'm the police officer investigating the incident.

Scrub Wearing Woman didn't budge. Her face was impassive, but her eyes held a dubious look. Which is it?

Both, actually, Candace replied. It's simply coincidence that my friend was assigned when my mother was shot. Besides that, he also makes a really great wheelchair motor. She grinned; the woman didn't. She heard Swift's snort somewhere above her head.

Scrub Woman stepped slightly to the side, allowing them passage through the doors. As soon as they were through, she waved her ID at the doorplate, and the door began moving. The woman waited until the door was completely closed and electronically latched before she turned and led the way down the hall.

She silently conducted them through the inner hallways clear to the front lobby, and then to an elevator which they took to the second floor. They hooked around through hallways again before entering a waiting area, which Candace swore must be directly behind the bank of elevators they'd just gotten off. She'd have never made it pushing her own chair, especially at the pace Scrub Woman set.

Your mother's still in surgery. Sign in over there, she pointed at an empty desk with a clipboard on its surface, and someone will be with you as soon as the doctor's finished.

Swift pushed Candace over to the desk where she retrieved the clipboard and signed in. The waiting room was full of chairs, and there was a television on one wall which appeared to be tuned into the news. There was plenty of room between the rows of chairs for the people sitting and waiting, but the path wasn't wide enough to accommodate a wheelchair.

Swift grabbed an end chair from one of the rows, hefted it a good couple of feet in the air and carried it out into the hallway. Then he parked Candace in the space he'd cleared.

I'm beginning to understand the difference between theoretically accessible and actually accessible. This is a hospital where wheelchairs are in use daily. They ought to know better.

To be fair, they have designated parking places for wheelchairs, and they don't generally leave patients sitting around unattended. They use their chairs to transport patients from one place to another, and then return the chair to the designated parking spot. They haven't really planned for what to do when a patient or a visitor arrives in their own chair.

Got it, Swift said and then sat in the chair next to her, awaiting the doctor.

~ 5 ~

FRIDAY AFTERNOON

For the first half hour, Candace simply sat in her wheelchair. She didn't know how long her mother had been in surgery before they'd arrived. She was vaguely aware, probably from watching too much crime television, that surgery could take several hours, particularly if it was a complicated one. She knew her mother had been shot in the chest, and knew lung surgeries could be tricky.

As the clock ticked closer to an hour, Swift got up and paced around the room. Finally, he muttered something about looking for some