The Case of the Questionable Quadruplet

by Jacqueline Diamond

  “Are the police searching his house?” Keith demanded.

  “No. The paramedics must have called them, because they showed up and took a report. Then they left.”

  Keith muttered angrily about the one-track minds of some patrol officers. “Did you remove or touch anything?”

  “I think the paramedics took some of the food,” Morris said. “After they left, I locked up and finished the deliveries.”

  “You did what?” Tory said in dismay. “Dad…”

  “Nobody else has a peanut allergy, so I didn’t see how the food could hurt them, and I was late,” Morris said weakly.

  “You can’t be sure it was peanuts,” she said. “What if you poisoned your customers?”

  “I ate a little of every item myself,” he said. “And waited a few minutes. It was delicious. Cheese ravioli with steamed vegetables and Apple Brown Betty.”

  We regarded him open-mouthed. Of all the stupid risks! In his panic, he’d clung to his guiding principle: Never disappoint a customer.

  It occurred to me that he’d fixed the dessert I’d dreamed about. But even if it hadn’t been potentially poisoned, any leftovers had become evidence.

  “What did you do next?” Keith stopped. “Hold on. I need to talk to you alone.” In the heat of the moment, he’d forgotten to isolate the witness.

  Morris barreled ahead. “I went back to my kitchen and searched for contaminants.”

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Fury suffused my friend’s face. Even Tory looked apprehensive.

  “For what it’s worth, I didn’t find any.”

  “You might have destroyed evidence without realizing it!” Another instant and there’d be steam pouring from Keith’s ears.

  “Breathe,” I told him.

  “What?”

  “Just do it.”

  A couple of long breaths cleared the fiery red from his cheeks. When Keith resumed addressing Morris, he was stern but calmer. “Do we have permission to search your property?”

  “Of course.” Morris fished out a key.

  On his phone, Keith alerted his sergeant to the developments. He arranged for officers to secure Rafe’s house and Morris’s catering facility, and learned from the hospital’s nursing supervisor that Rafe was unconscious but stable.

  On TV, people suffer knocks in the head and wake up minutes later with a slight ache. In real life, head trauma can be deadly. If Rafe survived, he ran the risk of serious disabilities.

  “Billie was in the house for several minutes when she delivered the meal?” Tory rocked from foot to foot. Clearly, like me, she was troubled by Billie’s bad habit of being on the scene of possible murders. “Did you go in with her?”

  “No,” Morris said. “Why?”

  “They were both out of your sight right before he collapsed? And again when she administered the shot?” Tory asked.

  “Billie didn’t do this,” protested my father-in-law. “Rafe’s her brother!”

  Keith got off the phone. “Stop talking, all of you. Morris, wait for me upstairs in the library.”

  “Okay.” Off he went with robotic stiffness.

  Keith placed another call to assign an officer to guard the victim. Rafe’s sister was not to be allowed near him.

  I didn’t believe Billie had tried to kill her brother. According to Morris’s story, she’d administered the epinephrine that might have saved him. But it was Keith’s job to be cautious.

  I also didn’t believe that Morris had delivered a contaminated meal from carelessness. We now had two murders and another possible attack—two, if you counted the cement chunk that hit Doreen’s windshield—each initially appearing to be an accident.

  “I think whoever did this wanted that file,” Tory said.

  Keith frowned. “Mrs. Abernathy’s file that was stolen from Eric?”

  “No, Dee Marie’s notes,” I said. “Rafe told us at the funeral he stumbled across a file he didn’t recognize among his cloud backups. I was about to explain that before Tory got here.”

  “You’d damn well better explain it now.” Keith waved a hand in frustration. “Alone. Tory, you can provide your account later.”

  “I’ll go check on Dad.”

  “No!”

  When her jaw tensed, I braced for an argument. But he was right and she knew it. “I’ll wait in the conservatory.”

  “The what?” Keith asked.

  “Lydia’s studio.”

  Once she was out of earshot, I described how Rafe had planned to view the unfamiliar file after his client appointment. Also how Heather had overheard the conversation, which she’d apparently relayed to the family.

  “And no one alerted me. Now Rafe’s unconscious,” Keith raged. “His house has been unguarded. If he left his computer on, whoever did this has had plenty of opportunity to access it.”

  He was right. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’d better go interview Morris in case there’s any information you two haven’t contaminated.”

  It wasn’t our fault he’d let the witness chatter away in front of us. He’d been as distracted by Morris’s statements as we had. But I saw no point in reminding him of that.

  Keith hurried upstairs. In the studio, I found Tory on a call with Doreen. “I’ll keep you advised,” Tory assured her client. “You and your sister should be very careful.”

  How? I wondered. They couldn’t isolate themselves from everyone close to them. What if the killer was Heather or Fred or Sandy—or Doreen or Danielle?

  Or a look-alike who might, at a glance, pass for either of them?

  Shame flooded me. I might have prevented this latest tragedy had I not been so caught up in the belief that I’d been entrusted with a mission. Instead of reporting the existence of a suspicious file, I’d acted as if this were my case to investigate. Tory was right about my giant ego. Being a doctor didn’t make me a superhero.

  I went into the kitchen and scrambled half a dozen eggs to share with Tory and whoever else might be hungry. When she joined me, she reported that Doreen had been upset about her brother-in-law’s injury and promised to spread the word to Danielle.

  A few minutes later, after obtaining Tory’s account of our conversation with Rafe, Keith departed for the hospital. Morris calmed a little when his daughter fixed him a cup of cocoa and settled him in front of a documentary series called Dogs With Jobs.

  “He loves that show,” she told me as we headed to Heights at Morris’s request, to check on Billie.

  Tory let me drive, since my M.D. sticker from Safe Harbor might prove useful. However, I’ve had no reason to seek admitting privileges at Heights, which long ago closed its maternity unit. In the rare event that a patient of mine lands there, I coordinate with a physician on staff. Rafe was not my patient, so any special treatment I received would be purely a courtesy.

  Despite the lofty name, Heights occupies a flat site north of the freeway. The only upgrade to the forty-plus-year-old facility is a modern wing stuck on its butt.

  I didn’t push my luck by occupying a space reserved for doctors. Instead, I plucked a ticket from the machine—unlike Safe Harbor, Heights charges for parking—and puttered into the ramped structure.

  Emergency rooms get busy late on Saturday nights, when alcohol, bad driving and gang shootings kick in. At seven p.m., however, the waiting room held only a scattering of people, including a fidgety Keith.

  Shortly after we entered, a nurse with striking black hair and a name tag that read N. Petrakis, R.N., popped in from the hallway to hand him a wrapped sandwich and lidded cup. The smile lighting her face implied this was the lady of the fling.

  Beside me, Tory’s lip curled. “How sweet.”

  Catching sight of us, Keith froze. If I’d doubted the nurse’s identity, his discomfort confirmed it.

  “Thank goodness you’re here.” Billie Tibbets waylaid us from the side. A baseball cap hid her purple hair, which explained why I hadn’t noticed her immediately. “They barred me from seeing
my brother. I’m his next of kin and I should be in the loop. Now that cop’s threatening to haul me down to the station.”

  No surprise there. “Have you agreed to an interview?”

  “Are you kidding?” As her voice rose, we drew a quelling glance from Nurse Petrakis. “He wants to pin this on me. I didn’t hurt my brother!”

  “It’s in your best interest to be straight with the police,” Tory said.

  “I don’t care,” Billie squealed. “I want out. Tell Morris I quit. I can’t deliver another dinner.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I said. This had to be the deadliest catering job since the Romans fed Christians to the lions.

  Ms. Petrakis stalked over, an electronic tablet held in front of her like a shield. “Please lower your voices.”

  Both Tory and Billie swung toward her with teeth bared. The startled woman retreated a pace.

  Much as I sympathized with my companions, I have great respect for nurses. Also a certain irritation with Keith, who’d created this awkward situation.

  “Hi, I’m Dr. Eric Darcy,” I said. “From Safe Harbor.”

  The nurse frowned at the tablet. “You have a patient here?”

  “Rafe Tibbets’ late wife was my patient, and we’ve become friends.” Only a slight exaggeration. “Billie here is his sister.”

  “Yes, I’ve been advised about her,” came the cool response.

  “And Tory is an investigator representing Rafe’s sister-in-law,” I finished. “We apologize for disrupting your E.R.”

  “Any change in his condition?” Billie asked.

  Ms. Petrakis hesitated. But neither strict patient privacy rules nor the police ban on direct contact had changed Billie’s status as Rafe’s next of kin.

  “The doctor ordered a CT scan to look for a skull fracture or bleeding,” she said.

  “Has the neurologist arrived?” I asked.

  “She’s on her way.” To Billie, the nurse explained, “She’ll evaluate the damage and decide whether surgery is required.”

  “That stupid tile in his kitchen,” Billie said. “That’s what he hit. It’s as hard as a rock.”

  “Soft floor coverings don’t hold up well in kitchens.” The nurse cleared her throat. “But that’s irrelevant.”

  Speaking of irrelevant, I automatically compared N. Petrakis (Natalie? Nora? Nadine?) with Tory. Black, straight hair woven into a chignon vs. shoulder-length brown waves; black eyes vs. green; and a few inches shorter—that was the nurse. Not the same physical type but both raised their chins boldly, braced for verbal combat. Also, both sneaked glances at Keith, Tory’s aggrieved and Natalie/Nora/Nadine’s speculative.

  “Mind telling me your first name?” I asked.

  “Narda,” she said. “What’s the subtext here? I’m missing something.”

  I was impressed by her use of “subtext.” So, apparently, was Billie-the-English-grad. “Detective Sparks was sneaking around on Tory with you.” To me, she noted, “Morris told me about him cheating with a nurse. The way she’s been treating him, I figure it was her.”

  Among the waiting patients, heads turned. A few people leaned forward to hear better. Most continued playing games on their phones.

  “You’re his girlfriend?” Narda asked Tory.

  “Used to be.”

  “He wasn’t wearing a ring,” the nurse said. “Anyway, a guy who’s involved with a woman ought to act like it.”

  “You’re right.”

  Tossing his sandwich wrappings in the trash, Keith stalked over. Whatever his thoughts about the two women’s confrontation, I felt certain he had more serious matters in mind.

  However, Nurse Petrakis beat him to the punch. “Were you dating this woman?” Her chin jerked toward Tory.

  “Yes.” He ducked his head. “Let’s discuss this later, Narda.”

  “Fine. If I’m not too busy.” Nostrils flaring, she marched away.

  His gaze met Tory’s. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  He swung toward Billie. “Ms. Tibbets, I cut you some slack until you cooled off. Now I need for you to tell me what happened.”

  “At the risk of repeating myself—up yours, detective.” As Billie faced him, I saw that the back of her T-shirt read: “Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.– Oscar Wilde.”

  Keith scowled. “Miss Tibbets, if your brother had trusted me with the information about finding an unidentified file, I might have prevented this.”

  “What file?” Billie asked.

  “Let’s discuss this privately.”

  “Not interested. I told you the whole story about Mrs. Abernathy, and what good did it do? You let the killer keep right on attacking people.”

  He blew out a frustrated breath. “Miss Tibbets, don’t force my hand. I’d hate to have to arrest you.”

  “I’ll sue!”

  Just as I feared his head might explode, down the aisle swayed a vision in a black dress and hat. “Detective Sparks! Just the handsome fellow I was hoping to see.”

  “Not another one,” Tory muttered.

  “I haven’t encouraged her, believe me.” Keith’s forehead creased in annoyance as the reporter swept to a halt. “Miss Montenegro, no comment.”

  Without missing a beat, Soraya targeted Billie. “You’re Miss Tibbets, aren’t you? I stopped by your brother’s house and a neighbor told me he’d been injured. How is he? Did you see what happened?”

  “You’re interfering with a homicide investigation.” Keith’s simmering fury flamed toward her. “You’re leaving the premises. If you butt in again, I’ll arrest you. Got it?”

  The reporter paled. “Okay, detective.” She scurried through the ER and out.

  “As for you, Miss Tibbets...”

  His obviously shredded patience must have resonated with Billie. “All right,” she said. “I’ll talk to you. On one condition.”

  His expression said Oh, hell. “What’s that?”

  “I want a witness.” She pointed at me. “Him.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Keith shot me a discouraging glare. “I’m glad to help but I can’t offer legal advice,” I reminded Billie.

  “You did fine last time,” she said. “He wasn’t in the way, was he, detective? Admit it.”

  After a tick of inner struggle, Keith yielded. “Ground rules. The doc listens and keeps his mouth shut.”

  “Fine by me,” I said.

  Tory promised to watch in case the reporter returned. She also, I was sure, intended to brief her father on the latest developments.

  With Narda’s permission, the three of us retreated to a private waiting room down the hall. Hospitals maintain these for families dealing with difficult situations.

  After Keith offered Billie a drink, which she declined, we took seats around the small space. He activated his recorder, introduced himself, stated the time, date and place, and identified those present.

  I remained on alert. Although I didn’t intend to interfere—Keith might be irked enough to take me into custody—I owed Billie my support, both for Morris’s sake and for Rafe’s.

  Keith proceeded through the events of that afternoon and evening. With only minor variations, she repeated what Morris had told us earlier: that she’d heard her brother fall, raced inside and injected him with medication.

  “He hadn’t locked the door?”

  She shrugged. “I have a key.”

  “And you know the alarm code?”

  “Sure.”

  “But you were with Morris all day,” I pointed out, before recalling that I was here as a witness only. “Oh. Sorry.”

  “That’s right,” she said.

  Keith gritted his teeth. If he weren’t careful, he’d have a major dental bill before this case was over.

  Billie continued her account. Only she and Morris had handled the food, she told us. Rafe had been home when they arrived, and hadn’t mentioned anyone else visiting since he returned from a client meeting.

 
; “Who was the client?” Keith asked.

  “Mr. Tran,” Billie said. “From Rosie’s Posies. They swap referrals with Morris’s catering company for events.”

  “You know him, then?”

  “We’ve met. He said he was interested in estate planning, so I recommended my brother.”

  I recalled the elderly Vietnamese fellow who’d advised me on bouquets for Lydia. He’d inquired once concerning his own wife’s mental issues, which were suggestive of dementia, and I’d recommended a specialist.

  As for Rafe’s peanut allergy, he did his own grocery shopping and read labels carefully, his sister said. He also subscribed to on-line alerts about unlisted allergens in foods.

  “How long has he had this allergy?” Keith asked.

  “Since we were kids.”

  “Tell me about that.” With more patience than I’d expected, he probed for details of her childhood. Their alcoholic father had abandoned them when she was ten, she related, and their mother had died of heart disease when she was sixteen. Rafe, just out of law school, had saved her from the foster care system by inviting her to stay with him until she turned eighteen.

  “He was a father figure?” Keith asked.

  “Heavens, no.” Billie rolled her eyes. “Our father was verbally abusive. Rafe’s completely different.”

  “How would you describe your relationship?”

  “Best friends,” she said.

  “What happened when you turned eighteen?”

  “I started college, worked part-time and moved into an apartment with a couple of other students. I used his place as my permanent address until he got married.”

  “How did you feel about that?” Keith probed.

  “I was glad for him,” she said. “Dee Marie was a sweetheart.”

  “How did she and your brother get along?”

  “He adored her,” Billie said.

  “Ever hit her?”

  “Of course not!” Her hands clenched.

  “Yell at her?”

  “Not around me.” Billie seemed to be hanging onto her self-control by a thread. “Is that all?”

  “For now.” Keith ended with the time. We were rising when Billie said, “I just remembered something.”

  He switched on his recorder and repeated the information about those present, along with the time lapsed. “What’s that?”