The Case of the Questionable Quadruplet

by Jacqueline Diamond

  With a scream, Celia rushed to her mother. But there was nothing a nurse, or anyone else, could do.

  *

  The evening passed in a swirl of dislocation and unreality. I strained to absorb the fact that Morris, Tory and I had nearly been murdered, along with the rest of Malerie’s family.

  How had one woman’s rage fomented such devastation? And how had I missed it? I couldn’t stop shaking as my brain replayed the terrible scene in home. At the police station, where we underwent interviews, Keith’s steady understanding—remarkably sensitive for my rough-edged friend—helped me pull myself together.

  Paramedics transported Morris to the hospital, where he seemed physically okay once the drug cleared from his system. Emotionally, he’d have to work through stages of anger, fear and grief. It didn’t ease matters that he had to be photographed and swabbed and otherwise thoroughly checked out for evidence, since police had to build a case even though their prime suspect was dead.

  As for Tory’s timely arrival, she explained that she’d previously installed GPS in her father’s van at his request. She’d tracked it to our block, notified Keith—who was already en route, thanks to my text—and sprung into action after she glimpsed our standoff through a front door pane. Fortunately, the lock was loose on her bedroom window, which she’d reached via a ladder from the garage.

  Celia tried to cooperate with detectives, but eventually she collapsed and had to be taken to the hospital to be treated for shock. In the span of a few hours, she’d found and lost a family, along with the mother who’d raised her.

  Later that night, Billie phoned from Las Vegas, a four-hour drive away, after seeing a news report. She explained she’d fled because Sandy called to say the police were about to arrest her for her brother’s murder. She agreed to return voluntarily.

  For the next few nights, since my house remained the scene of an investigation, I rented hotel rooms for Morris, Tory and me. Gradually, bits and pieces fell into place. Tests showed cyanide in the food at Doreen’s condo. Rafe’s autopsy confirmed that he’d died of a blood clot that had traveled to his heart, and there’d been no indication of foul play at the hospital. I’d forgotten about the DNA test, which to no one’s surprise showed he was unrelated to Malerie.

  A search of Sandy’s room turned up my stolen jewelry and Mrs. Abernathy’s medical file, as well as Dee Marie’s laptop and documents. The mystery file on Rafe’s cloud did indeed belong to his late wife and included questions about a baby with heart defects, along with a chilling note Dee Marie had written to herself: “Ask Sandy.”

  Perhaps she’d been trying to spare her mother’s sensibilities. If so, her kindness had proved lethal.

  Malerie’s finances remained to be unraveled, but much became clear. She’d entrusted her old friend with bill paying, and Sandy had seized the opportunity to embezzle. She’d left a tangled trail of unexplained withdrawals, odd payments and diverted checks aimed at confusing whoever tried to sort things out.

  About twenty thousand dollars turned up in an account in Sandy’s name. However, the financial damage she’d created was minor compared to the losses from Malerie’s bad investments. She’d gambled with her inheritance, and lost.

  Heather’s promise to pay her gains to Doreen and Danielle was a personal matter. As for the insider trading angle, I considered that none of my business.

  One more sad detail involved Sandy’s claim that, on the afternoon of Malerie’s death, she’d been working for an elderly employer. Under questioning, the client revealed that she suffered from early-stage Alzheimer’s, a fact she’d kept hidden. She had no idea whether her housekeeper had left the premises.

  Morris, Tory and I moved back into my house on Thursday. It, along with the catering premises, had been scrubbed by a service that specializes in crime scene and biohazards cleaning.

  While the sense of violation persisted, I refused to let anyone drive me from the place where I’d grown up and where Lydia and I had lived. It helped to share it with two people who’d endured the same loss, who also awoke from nightmares, who could prop up each other and me.

  On Friday, Celia insisted on returning to work for Jeremiah. Aware that she needed to talk and that I needed to listen, I shared a patio table with the two of them.

  Like me, Celia regretted not having detected a serious problem sooner. She also wondered, in retrospect, if there’d been a previous murder.

  A few years after Sandy’s mother succumbed to liver disease, she explained, the abusive stepfather, a diabetic, had died suddenly of what was ruled natural causes. From the bitter satisfaction with which her mother had referred to his demise, Celia believed Sandy might have injected him with an overdose of insulin.

  “If she got away with murder once,” Celia told us over a taco salad, “she must have figured she could do it again.”

  “That is logical,” Jeremiah concurred.

  As for the concrete that hit Doreen’s windshield, Celia recalled shopping at a specialty market nearby that day and arguing with her mother. She’d been mad enough to insist on taking the bus home. Most likely, Sandy had feared Doreen would spot the look-alike and had thrown the chunks to distract her.

  Having apparently run out of topics, Celia fell silent as she ate. The occasional side glance at me spoke volumes, however. What was she looking for? What was I looking for?

  If only I had a name for the malaise that had dogged me since Monday’s crisis. Dismay, guilt, sorrow—they figured in, but there was more.

  Since Malerie’s death, I’d been propelled by a mission. It had come as a relief from the remorse of failing to save my wife, or even understand why our marriage had crumbled. I had hoped that exposing the killer would bring a sense of resolution, but it didn’t.

  “May I ask a favor?” Celia’s attention fixed on me. Jeremiah’s did the same.

  “Of course.”

  “It’s sensitive.”

  “Try me.”

  She tilted her head. At this angle, despite the close range, she could easily have passed for Dee Marie. “Would you go with me to Mr. Tibbets’s funeral tomorrow?”

  Sensitive? Explosive might be more accurate. Malerie’s surviving daughters were reeling from a series of blows, including their own near-deaths. Learning that they had an older sister raised by their mother’s slayer had disturbed them. According to Tory, Celia’s existence added to their heartache by casting mud on their parents’ memories.

  “Are you sure that’s what you want?” I asked. “It could be an unpleasant experience.”

  “I’m more concerned about upsetting my sisters.” Celia’s fork mashed the remains of her lunch. “I don’t blame them for rejecting me after what Mom did. But it’s important to pay my respects.”

  That was a tough request. I could hardly refuse, though. Besides, I’d already planned to attend. “Will you speak to them?”

  “Not if it’s awkward.” Her shoulders sagged. “I wrote to Danielle and Doreen to express my sympathy and regrets. They haven’t answered.”

  “You should go,” Jeremiah said.

  Celia regarded him questioningly. “Why do you think so?”

  “You are staying on as my nurse, I trust.”

  “Yes.”

  “You will encounter them around town,” he continued. “They must accept the reality of your living here. And you also have been a victim of injustice. As you do not hold them responsible for their parents’ misdeeds, they should extend the same grace to you.”

  His wisdom impressed me. I regretted, a little, that Jeremiah’s irritating qualities had estranged us. Still, I couldn’t be around him for long without remembering that he’d once been Lydia’s lover.

  “Thank you, Dr. Schwartz.” Celia reached out as if to cup his folded hands, then thought the better of it. “Dr. Darcy, are you okay with going?”

  “Sure. I’ll pick you up at your motel,” I said.

  Danielle and Doreen might never forgive me. That was a risk I was willing to take.<
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  Chapter Twenty-Two

  In the week since Malerie’s funeral, November had arrived and the black-and-orange Day of the Dead trappings had departed. A sharp breeze whipped the cemetery, chilling us despite the weak sunshine.

  A tearful Billie, her once-purple hair dyed black, hung on Morris’s arm as she joined her in-laws in the front row. The other mourners included a few familiar faces, along with a sprinkling of people I didn’t recognize. Tory and a security guard held the news media at bay.

  At Malerie’s funeral, Rafe had been the outsider, lingering on the grass with Tory and me. Today, I stood with Celia at a discreet distance from the family. While Doreen and Danielle hadn’t replied to Celia’s letters, they hadn’t banned her, either. According to Tory, they’d concluded it would cause the least amount of fuss to tolerate her, and counted on me to restrain any unseemly behavior.

  I appreciated their faith in me. However, it was hard to imagine this subdued woman, her face half-hidden beneath the brim of a hat, bursting out in an offensive manner.

  The man who rose to address the gathering was fortyish, with graying temples and a calm manner. He introduced himself as Rafe’s pastor. Unlike Ilsa Ivy, he’d not only come to bury the dead, he intended to praise him.

  The pastor cited Rafe’s struggles since childhood with neglectful parents, a birth defect—a clubfoot—as well as his devotion to his sister, his wife’s asthma and then her murder. He didn’t shrink from mentioning the manner of Rafe’s death.

  “How can those who loved him hope to recover from such a vicious act?” he asked. “Should we forgive the evildoer?”

  As always during the past year, whenever the subject of death arose, I thought of Lydia. It would be intolerable if she’d been murdered. I didn’t believe I was capable of forgiving anyone who’d harmed her.

  “Some people declare that because each of us has sinned, we must forgive our fellow men and women as we would wish for God to forgive us. Others contend that only the victim of a crime has the right to grant absolution, and that is not humanly possible in a murder,” the pastor went on.

  “Whether to absolve the guilty is a matter for our individual consciences, especially in a case where justice can’t be dealt out in a courtroom,” he said. “But in order to heal, there is one person we must pardon.”

  He paused for a dramatic moment, allowing us to speculate about whom he meant, before saying, “That is ourselves. When someone dies, we instinctively relive our sins of omission and commission, our imperfections, the kind words left unspoken and the hurtful words we can’t take back. As part of the mourning process, we need to release our guilt. None of us is perfect, nor are we required to be. What we owe the departed is to embrace their memories with joy and to gather our surviving loved ones close.”

  He seemed to be speaking directly to me. This past year, I had pushed everyone away. I should have been more supportive of Morris and Tory. And perhaps of myself.

  After the eulogy, in a shaky voice, Billie read a favorite poem of Rafe’s. When she faltered, Danielle finished the poem, then thanked everyone for joining them. As guests got to their feet, she gazed over the green expanse, caught my eye and mouthed the word, “Wait.”

  Most of the mourners drifted toward the mortuary building. The pamphlet distributed on arrival had invited us to a gathering with refreshments.

  Beside me, Celia pushed her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “We should leave.”

  “Danielle wants us to wait,” I said.

  “She does?”

  “I think so.” Had I misread her lips? Maybe she’d said, “What!” Oh, well, we’d find out.

  First we had to face a scowling Doreen, who strode across the grass toward us. Heather plunked along in her wake.

  Shrinking toward me, Celia bumped her hat against my shoulder. A gust of wind tore it off, and only her fast grab saved it from whipping away.

  Doreen halted in astonishment. Breathing fast, Heather caught up, and she too stared at the newcomer.

  “You look just like Dee Marie,” Doreen exclaimed.

  “And Danielle,” Heather murmured.

  “No, her nose is thinner. Danielle’s, I mean. Otherwise they’re almost identical.”

  To me, the creases touching Celia’s eyes and mouth marked her as a few years older, but why quibble? “I’d like you to meet Celia Miller. Celia, this is Doreen Abernathy and Heather Blythe.” I’d explained the women’s relationship earlier, as well as the undercurrents with Fred.

  The sisters regarded each other uncertainly. I doubted any rule of etiquette covered this situation.

  Danielle and Fred reached us. Their eyes widened, too, at the full impact of Celia’s resemblance.

  The hush didn’t last long. “I’m your sister, Danielle.” A hand thrust out, grasping Celia’s. Nearly the same height, the two could have been mirror images if not for their different attire.

  “I’m Celia.” My companion swallowed.

  “This is my husband, Fred.” While they shook hands, Danielle said, “I agree with the pastor. Each of us deserves forgiveness. When I got your letter, I was angry, but not any more. I’d like to get better acquainted.”

  When Doreen squirmed, Heather spoke up. “The resemblance is striking. If she’s staying in the area, we can hardly ignore her, honey.”

  “True,” Doreen conceded. “I suppose we should talk.”

  “Let’s get out of this wind,” Danielle said. “There’s food and coffee inside, or hot chocolate if you prefer.”

  “I love hot chocolate.” Celia smiled. “Especially with whipped cream and bittersweet sprinkles.”

  “Me, too,” Danielle and Doreen said simultaneously.

  Fred offered one arm to his wife and the other to her newfound sibling. “Great eulogy, wasn’t it? We plan to attend his church tomorrow.”

  “I was impressed,” Celia agreed. “Maybe I’ll go, too, if it’s okay.”

  “Of course,” Danielle said.

  “Billie suggested him.” Doreen kept pace with them. “I liked his message.”

  I trailed behind with Heather. “Am I the only one who finds this situation weird?” she asked me.

  “Everything about it is weird,” I agreed.

  Ahead of us, I spotted Tory blocking a photographer’s attempt to push forward. Behind her, cameras clicked and reporters blathered to unseen viewers. Video of the three sisters would no doubt light up newscasts and go viral on the Internet.

  Indoors, a caterer had set up food and drinks in a private room. What I hadn’t anticipated—nor had anyone—was that guests became confused on approaching the family. Some shook Celia’s hand as if they’d met her before; a few called her Danielle or even, in a particularly uncomfortable moment, Dee Marie. She passed it off with a dip of the head and a soft thank-you-for-coming.

  Danielle introduced her to Billie and Morris. Curiosity brought a tinge of color to Billie’s cheeks, and she perked up as she spoke with Celia. She and Dee Marie had been close, I recalled.

  Less than three weeks ago, Malerie had appeared in my office with her strange claim about a quadruplet. In retrospect, I believed she’d been confused by a combination of her dreams, grief and the unexpected sight of a ringer for Dee Marie. If only it had occurred to her sooner that this was the supposedly deceased child.

  By the following day, she must have realized it. And in her hurry to confront Sandy, she’d unwittingly signed her own death warrant.

  I emerged from my reflections to discover that the conversation had shifted. Learning that Celia worked in an obstetrical office, Danielle was sharing her and Fred’s plans to hire a surrogate.

  “We’re not sure who’ll be executor of Mom’s estate—Heather’s helping us sort that out—but with luck we’ll inherit some money,” she said. “It’s terribly expensive, though. And then there’s the egg donation business.”

  “You’re lucky to have a sister who...” Celia halted. “I shouldn’t assume anything.”

  Do
reen stared at a group of guests across the room as if completely tuned out of this discussion. Heather took a swallow of coffee.

  “As an egg donor?” Fred said. “We’ll be looking elsewhere.”

  “Why not me?” Celia asked.

  Doreen’s jaw dropped. Heather choked on her coffee, but brought her coughing under control with admirable speed.

  “That is, if it’s acceptable to you,” Celia added. “We are full sisters, genetically speaking. Isn’t that right, Dr. Darcy?”

  “True.” Much as I respected her generosity, this wasn’t a decision to reach lightly. “However, egg donation is complicated and carries certain risks.” The drugs that stimulate egg production can have painful side effects, and the retrieval requires minor surgery.

  “I do work in the field,” Celia said dryly.

  “Just being cautious.” I left it at that. If she went forward with this, Safe Harbor’s egg donor staff would ensure she was fully informed.

  “It’s a huge commitment,” Danielle demurred.

  “It would be an honor,” Celia said. “You don’t have to decide right away.”

  Other people approached, and the subject was dropped. Later, Celia declined my offer of a ride home. Fred and Danielle had invited her to dinner at their house.

  I was glad to hear it. And for the chance to enjoy a little solitude.

  The tall, dark-timbered house presented a longed-for refuge. When I entered from the garage, however, the expected rush of relief failed to materialize.

  Ghostly memories swarmed. My fall down the stairs after learning of Lydia’s death. The sight of the hand vacuum flying toward me and the water-filled tub. The horror as Sandy shoved Morris toward the railing. Damn. When would they fade?

  In the front studio, late-afternoon light cast rainbows across the rack of clothing. I recognized a lacy white blouse and blue skirt Lydia had worn to a museum exhibit of the Dead Sea Scrolls. And remembered how a multicolored nightgown had sparked a night of lovemaking.

  The pastor was right about moving past might-have-beens and should-have-dones. Sandy had let hatred eat her alive. I had to stop letting love eat me alive.