A Will and a Way

deadly ones, with someone very important to me. If you were in my place, would you twiddle your thumbs and wait?”
    Randall smiled, just a little. “You know, Donahue, I never miss your show. Great entertainment. Some of this business sounds just like one of your shows.”
    “Like one of my shows,” Michael repeated slowly.
    “Problem is, things don’t work the same way out here in the world as they do on television. But it sure is a pleasure to watch. Here comes your lady.”
    Michael sprang up and headed for her.
    “I’m fine,” she told him before he could ask.
    “Not entirely.” Behind her a young, white coated doctor stood impatiently. “Miss McVie has a concussion.”
    “He put a few stitches in my head and wants to hold me prisoner.” She gave the doctor a sweet smile and linked arms with Michael. “Let’s go home.”
    “Just a minute.” Keeping her beside him, Michael turned to the doctor. “You want her in the hospital?”
    “Michael—”
    “Shut up.”
    “Anyone suffering from a concussion should be routinely checked. Miss McVie would be wise to remain overnight with professional care.”
    “I’m not staying in the hospital because I have a bump on the head. Good afternoon, Lieutenant.”
    “Miss McVie.”
    Lifting her chin, she looked back at the doctor. “Now, Doctor…”
    “Barnhouse.”
    “Dr. Barnhouse,” she began. “I will take your advice to a point. I’ll rest, avoid stress. At the first sign of nausea or dizziness, I’ll be on your doorstep. I can assure you, now that you’ve convinced Michael I’m an invalid, I’ll be properly smothered and hovered over. You’ll have to be satisfied with that.”
    Far from satisfied, the doctor directed himself to Michael. “I can’t force her to stay, of course.”
    Michael lifted a brow. “If you think I can, you’ve got a lot to learn about women.”
    Resigned, Barnhouse turned back to Pandora. “I want to see you in a week, sooner if any of the symptoms we discussed show up. You’re to rest for twenty-four hours. That means horizontally.”
    “Yes, Doctor.” She offered a hand, which he took grudgingly. “You were very gentle. Thank you.”
    His lips twitched. “A week,” he repeated and strode back down the hall.
    “If I didn’t know better,” Michael mused, “I’d say he wanted to keep you here just to look at you.”
    “Of course. I look stunning with blood running down my face and a hole in my head.”
    “I thought so.” He kissed her cheek, but used the gesture to get a closer look at her wound. The stitches were small and neat, disappearing into her hairline. After counting six of them, his determination iced. “Come on, we’ll go home so I can start pampering you.”
    “I’ll take you myself.” Randall gestured toward the door. “I might as well look around a bit while I’m there.”
     
    Sweeney clucked like a mother hen and had Pandora bundled into bed five minutes after she’d walked in the door. If she’d had the strength, Pandora would have argued for form’s sake. Instead she let herself be tucked under a comforter, fed soup and sweet tea, and fussed over. Though the doctor had assured her it was perfectly safe to sleep, she thought of the old wives’ tale and struggled to stay awake. Armed with a sketch pad and pencil, she whiled away the time designing. But when she began to tire of that, she began to think.
    Murder. It would have been nothing less than murder. Murder for gain, she mused, an impossible thing for her to understand. She’d told herself before that her life was threatened, but somehow it had seemed remote. She had only to touch her own forehead now to prove just how direct it had become.
    An uncle, a cousin, an aunt? Which one wanted Jolley’s fortune so badly to murder for it? Not for the first time, Pandora wished she knew them better, understood them better. She realized she’d simply followed Jolley’s lead and dismissed them as boring.
    And that was true enough, Pandora assured herself. She’d been to a party or two with all of them. Monroe would huff, Biff would preen, Ginger would prattle, and so on. But boring or not, one of them had slipped over the line of civilized behavior. And they were willing to step over her to do it. Slowly, from memory, she began to sketch each of her relatives. Perhaps that way, she’d see something that was buried in her subconscious.
    When Michael came in, she had sketches lined in rows over her spread. “Quite a