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“Lunchtime, honey. Are you hungry?”
“I guess,” Nola said. “Did anyone call the police? I need to talk to the police.”
The nurse elevated the head of the bed to sit her up, then swung the tray table across the bed and took the cover off the plate.
“Yes, they called. I’m sure they’ll come soon. Can you manage this?” she said, eyeing the abrasions on the palms of Nola’s hands.
“I think so, and thanks.”
“If you need help, press the call button. I’ll be back later to get the tray.”
Nola eyed the square of meat loaf, the spoonful of scalloped potatoes next to the green peas, and reached for her fork. After a quick taste, she reached for the salt.
It was the first solid food she’d had in days, and it didn’t take long for her to get full. When she quit eating, she kept the cup of iced tea and shoved the tray table aside. Moments later the door opened. She thought it was the nurse coming back for her tray, but it was the R.N. with a policeman.
Nola saw the badge clipped to his belt and caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster under his suit coat. The nurse looked none too happy that there was an armed man on her floor and gave Nola a steady look as she introduced them.
“Miss Landry, this is Lieutenant Carroll with the Tidewater Police. He’s been apprised of your claim and is ready to take your statement.”
Nola tensed, her fingers curling around the cup of iced tea as she eyed the tall, bald-headed man.
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll take it from here,” he said to the nurse, who glanced at Nola, then nodded and left.
The officer smiled at Nola, revealing perfect white teeth. His tan jacket was only a couple of shades lighter than his skin, and his dark eyes sparkled in a friendly manner.
She watched him pull a chair up next to her bed and then take out a notebook.
“For the record, would you please state your name, age, occupation and where you’re from?”
“Nola Landry, twenty-nine years old. I’m a professional artist from Queens Crossing, Louisiana.”
“Thank you. I understand you’ve been through quite an ordeal,” he said, eyeing the raw marks on her wrists and the obvious wounds on her face and hands. “You are one very lucky woman.”
When his face suddenly blurred, she took a quick sip of her iced tea to gather her emotions.
“Luckier than my neighbors by far,” she said, and then wiped her eyes with the corner of the sheet.
“About your neighbors…are those the people you claim were murdered?”
She frowned. “It’s not a claim, it’s a fact. They were on the roof of their house. I could see them clearly from the tree I was in.”
“How many, and what were their names?” he asked.
“There were three. Whitman Lewis, his wife, Candy, and her mother, Ruth Andrews. She lived with them.”
He was writing. “Okay, now tell me about the murderer. Where did he come from?”
“He was in a motorboat, coming downriver. I heard the outboard engine before I saw him, and they did, too. They stood up on the roof and began laughing and waving. They were so happy.” Her voice broke. “For a few moments we were all happy, thinking we had been saved.”
She took another sip of the tea and swallowed tears along with it.
Carroll gave her a few moments to regain her composure and then continued questioning.
“Were they upriver from you, or did the man have to pass you to get to them?”
“They were upriver. It all happened so suddenly. I was thinking to myself that as soon as he loaded them up I would climb down far enough to get his attention, and then he pulled up to the roof. All of a sudden there was a gun in his hand and he started shooting.”
“What kind of a gun?”
