“Okay. That’s all right, we’ll just work with what we’ve got.” Kyle sauntered over to the sink and scrubbed his hands thoroughly.
“Carter,” she whispered, “can we go home now?”
“Not yet,” he replied gently, rubbing her back. “Dr. Durand’s going to look at your arm first.”
“How long have we been here?” she asked, looking around the spare exam room with a sigh. “I didn’t get the spider. I don’t want it to get away; I think it was a brown recluse.”
“Mrs. Carpenter, can you tell me what happened when you fell?” He suspected she’d hit her head, but he started with the basics. He shined a light into her right eye, and she lifted a hand to block it, squinting.
“Do you mind?” she asked. “That’s really bright.”
“Mom, you have to let him examine you,” Crash said, pulling her hand down.
Kyle put down his light. He was going to have to try another tactic with her, despite the seats filling up in the waiting area.
“I’m sorry, Willow, I didn’t introduce myself very well. I’m Kyle Durand. You know my mother, Farrah?”
Her eyes lit up. “Yes, Farrah cuts my hair. She has for twenty-five years. No one mixes color like Farrah.”
“That’s her,” he agreed. “Ever since you moved to Timber Falls, you’ve been coming to her, haven’t you?”
“That’s right.” She paused. “You’re her son?”
“Yes, I’m her second-oldest son. Same as your twins, Chase and Christopher.”
“Where is Chase?” she asked. “I haven’t seen him lately.”
“Chase is in rehab, Mom . . . remember? We went to see him last weekend?”
“Oh, that’s right . . .” She turned to Crash again. “Can we go now? I don’t care for this place.”
“Pretty soon,” Crash promised, and when he looked back at Kyle, he saw the deep frustration in the younger man.
“Tell me about your accident, Willow.”
“Accident?”
“Yes, you fell off a chair, right?”
“It rolled right out from under me . . .”
Crash looked stunned. “You stood on a chair with wheels?”
“There was a spider up in the corner. I asked the staff to kill it for me, but they said it was too high up. I’m taller than they are, so I thought I could get it, but I guess . . .” She rubbed her wrist with regret in her voice. “I guess not.”
“Does your wrist hurt?”
“Yes.”
“May I examine it? I promise I’ll be very gentle.”
Willow gave him a skeptical side-eye, but she offered him her arm. He took her hand as if to shake it, then tipped her hand up, watching for her reaction. She bit her lip, but said nothing.
“Does that hurt, Mrs. Carpenter?”
“A little bit . . .”
He gripped her thumb gently, telescoping it in toward her wrist, and he heard her breath catch. Willow pulled her hand back, and he let go of her. He suspected she had a scaphoid fracture, which was common in this type of fall, but he’d need another minute to check two more things . . . She eyed him with mistrust, giving him an injured look. But more than that, she was wearing all her emotions on her sleeve. This woman was the head of the Ladies’ Auxiliary of Linn and Marion Counties. She hosted benefits and organized the Christmas bazaar, and he’d never seen her flustered, let alone hurt. This was more than physical pain on her carefully made-up face.
“Willow, I’m sorry if I hurt you. Let’s go ahead and do some X-rays and see what it looks like inside, okay? That won’t hurt at all.” He paused. He wanted more information. An idea occurred to him . . . It was maybe a little deceptive, but he didn’t think she really wanted to cooperate at the moment. “May I look at your hair, Willow? I’d like to see if Farrah did a good job the last time she dyed it . . .”
“Of course,” she said, tipping her head down for him to see better. He combed his fingers through her hair, looking for blood, contusions, bumps, anything to indicate she’d taken a blow to the head . . . but her scalp looked perfect aside from some light dandruff. He tipped it lightly from side to side to see if she complained of pain, but she just smiled at him. Despite his mind being firmly at work, he smiled back. He wanted her at ease.
“Do you have a headache?”
“No, not right now.”
“Have you had any alcohol to drink today?”
“I think I had a glass of wine with my lunch.”
“And what did you have for lunch?” It was a test. He didn’t want to be right. He wanted so badly to be wrong. He wanted Mrs. Carpenter to just have poor balance from a lack of exercise and too much alcohol. He wanted that to be what had lowered her inhibitions enough to stand on a rolling chair.
“Um . . .”
Crash pulled out his phone. “I can call the staff and ask . . .” Kyle gave him a little head shake.
“Willow, what did you have for breakfast?”
“She always—”
Crash finally shut up when he saw Kyle’s stern look.
“I always have eggs and half a grapefruit for breakfast.”
“Is that right?” Kyle said conversationally, but he looked to Crash, who gave him a slight nod to confirm the information.
“And what were you trying to do on the chair?”
“I don’t . . .” She swallowed hard. “I don’t remember.”
“Okay. Wait here for just a minute, I’m going to talk to your son outside. You can use your phone if you want; there’s free Wi-Fi in the hospital. The password is ‘santiamhealth.’” Another test, and perhaps not a very fair one. But he wanted to know how her short-term memory was being affected. “Carter and I will be right back.”
The younger man followed him out into the hall, his expression grim.
“Has this happened before?”
“Has she fallen before? No. But there’s been other little things . . . Last month, she was making a cup of tea, and she grabbed the handle of the kettle with her hand, even though it’s not insulated. She’s had that teakettle since I was in high school. She should know better.”
“Okay. Any other recent instances of ‘she should’ve known better’?” Thankfully, Kyle had a good memory; he’d put this into the chart later . . . He wasn’t allowed to use his phone, annoyingly. He understood the reason for the rule, but he still resented it. He would never misuse the information or allow it to fall into the wrong hands.
“Yeah. Yes, she was . . . she was in the garage, and she was trying to find a box of books that she gave away to the library last week.”
“New books or old books?”
“Old. Super old, like I’m not sure they’d even want them in that condition. Textbooks from her college days and stuff.”
“Okay.” That last question was purely selfish; their friend Starla had been receiving anonymous donations of recent bestsellers at the Rachel Rutherford Memorial Library, and they were all curious as to who was sending them. This ruled her out as the book fairy; Kyle agreed with Starla that the mystery needed to be solved.