“The RoseBouquet”

(an excerpt from Chapter 7 of the novel, Ruthe’s Secret Roses)

By Monday morning, on her private early dawn walk, Ruthe still considered backing off this new adventure trail, however, she knew with a growing insight, that she had to go check on that woman. At least once.

What if she has no home to go to? What if she was scared out of her wits? All morning, as she wrote her chemistry exam, these questions haunted her.

Lord, I’m scared of him too, but I have an advantage; I can pray and expect You to deliver me. That short young woman with the shiny black hair probably can’t. The reasonable, mature thing to do was to check out the aftermath of Saturday evening, perhaps even with the police. Ruthe winced, but she knew that sometimes doing right costs.

As soon as her exam was done, Ruthe could leave. She threw her resolve to remain anonymous away, and her tightly budgeted studying time too. She told her mother she had to drive into Saskatoon a couple of hours before her evening shift. She did not say why.

When she was thirteen, Ruthe had stumbled on a profound thought. If she hid from one crisis, there would be sure to be others to cow her into a corner. That was not how she meant to live her life. On that premise she had begged her dad not to pick up and move just because he felt the neighbours did not like him in Kleinstadt. He had never said she had changed his mind, but Ruthe was relieved when he dropped the idea. This connected in her mind. She was going to follow through on what she had started the previous Saturday.

The woman sitting on the hospital bed did not recognize her, so Ruthe made a self-conscious face and introduced herself as, “the person who brought you here on Saturday night.” She added offhandedly, “early evening, actually.”

That olive complexion looked paler against the blue pillow and sheets. Now that Ruthe looked closer, the woman seemed much younger. But the expression was hard and old.

“By the way, my name’s Ruthe. Yours?” she asked, shifting her weight back to her left foot uneasily.

“That’s the idea,” said the conscientious intern, swinging through the door on rubber soles. “Get her personal data and next of kin, will you? She’s refused to help us out. Not a word.”

Ruthe gave a startled look at the dimple man. She turned back to the woman.

“A-, I wasn’t sure- what happened. What did I do? Them #@$%& cops don’t need nothin’ on me!”

Ruthe turned to show Dr. Davie her own dimpled left cheek. “Would you excuse us a bit,” she asked softly, “while I censor the facts?”

He dimpled right back. “Sure, Angel o’ Mercy. I trust you. D’sooner d’better.” He left with a good-natured whistle.

Ruthe pulled up the cheap guest chair beside the bed. “Now, I’m just an ordinary, rather naive country girl, who cares about people.”

The patient turned to face her directly. “Yeah. Y’look like a softy. Y’don’t want to know the @#$ #$%& mess.”

[To read the rest of this excerpt go to Strangler’s Victim]