Murder in Retribution by Anne Cleeland Page B

he could think what he liked and it didn’t matter to her. Although she did value his good opinion, and wished he thought better of her.
    He seemed to have regretted his outburst also, and drew a breath, looking down at his hands. His next words were a bit slurred, “I went by your building to see if you needed a ride one morning—I—I saw him coming out.”
    She could see that the memory was one that still stung. “Oh—oh; I see how it looked. But we were already married, Williams, believe me.” And apparently Williams had seen himself in the role of a suitor; this was a revelation, and was excruciatingly embarrassing. For the love o’ Mike, couldn’t he have kept this to himself? It was water so far under the bridge it was out to the far isles, already.
    “I apologize if I—if I offended . . . ,” he started, then slumped over and fell to the floor, knocking his chair over with a clatter in the process.
    Doyle leapt up, horrified, and went to him as others nearby offered to help. Amused glances were exchanged among the bystanders.
    She felt for a pulse, and lifted an eyelid; he was out cold. “Williams!” she called imperatively, but there was no response.
    Turning her head to address the other patrons, she announced, “I don’t believe he’s drunk—somethin’ is wrong. We are police; please call for an ambulance.” Doyle had seen Acton drink a half a bottle of scotch at a sitting; impossible that another big man like Williams could pass out on two pints. While a bystander began to dial for an ambulance, Doyle patted down his torso and then pulled Williams’s wallet from his suit coat pocket. Yes—there was a medical alert card next to his identification, and she saw that he was a diabetic. This must be insulin shock; she closed her eyes briefly, trying to remember the first aid. “Orange juice with sugar,” she demanded of the waiter. “Quickly.”
    She struggled to prop Williams up on her lap, which was no easy task as he was broad-shouldered and heavy. The waiter brought the orange juice, and she tried to get him to swallow, even though the smell of it made her own stomach heave. “Drink,” she commanded sternly, and forced some between his teeth. Murmuring in protest, he swallowed and almost immediately his color was a bit better.
    “I didn’t want to press you.” He opened his eyes briefly, then closed them again. “You seemed so shy.”
    “Whist, Williams,” she said gently. “You mustn’t say such things.”
    By the time the ambulance came, she had bullied him into drinking a goodly portion and he seemed to be recovering. The medical personnel had him swallow some sort of paste from a tube, and then loaded him into the ambulance. She sat with him on the way to the hospital, clasping his hand in hers while he lay quietly with his eyes closed. She took the opportunity to ring up Acton, and since she wasn’t certain whether Williams was listening, she edited her comments accordingly.
    “Kathleen.”
    “Acton, Williams had a little medical problem and we are on our way to the hospital.” She didn’t know if Acton knew he was a diabetic, and so didn’t give particulars.
    “Which hospital?”
    Doyle realized she didn’t know, so she asked the medical technician and relayed the information. “Can you notify his family, or whoever is supposed to know? I want to stay with him until they come.” She thought about logistics. “Should I drive the unmarked back?”
    “By no means,” he said. “I will be there in about an hour.”
    At the hospital, the medical staff was efficient and reassuring. The doctor examined him, and then came out to speak with her, shaking his head. “Happens all the time—especially the younger ones; they think they needn’t abide by the rules.”
    In a very short time, Williams was sitting up and seemed perfectly normal again, and the doctor told Doyle they would release him after an observation period. Thanks be to God, she thought; and now to try to