Still Life

by Joy Fielding

  “She’s in pretty good shape, considering what she’s been through,” Donna remarked. “Look at these biceps.”

  “Very impressive.”

  “She must lift weights.”

  “Wish I had the time to work out,” Patsy said.

  “You don’t need to work out. You have a great body.”

  “I have a great body?” Patsy repeated, a smile in her voice. “You really think so?”

  “You look fantastic, and you know it.”

  Casey imagined Patsy spinning around in a small circle beside her bed. “Thanks.”

  “No thanks necessary. Okay, I’m almost done on my side. How are you coming along?”

  A door opened.

  “I’m sorry, but you can’t come in here right now,” Donna said sharply.

  “Can I help you?” Patsy asked in the next beat.

  “I’m looking for Warren Marshall,” a man answered, as Casey tried—and failed—to place the voice. “I was told I might be able to find him in here.”

  “I haven’t seen him today,” Donna said.

  “I can leave him a message,” Patsy volunteered.

  “No thanks,” the man said brusquely. “I’ll wait a while. See if he shows up.”

  Who was it? Casey wondered. What was so urgent?

  “Visitors’ lounge is down the hall,” Patsy instructed.

  “Nice dimples,” Donna commented after he was gone.

  “Tell me,” Patsy said. “Is there any man on earth you don’t find attractive?”

  “Not too many, no.”

  Patsy laughed. “Wonder what he wants with Mr. Marshall.”

  “None of our business.”

  “He just looks like trouble. You know what I mean?”

  “Can’t say that I do.”

  “I wouldn’t want to see him upsetting Mr. Marshall.”

  “You’re too sensitive.”

  “Nurses are supposed to be sensitive,” Patsy reminded her.

  “We’re not nurses,” Donna corrected. “We’re nurses’ aides.”

  “Same difference.”

  “Tell that to the man signing our paychecks. Okay, I’m finished here. What about you?”

  “Give me another few minutes.”

  Was Patsy preparing to whisper more poisonous confidences in her ear? Casey wondered, counting down the seconds. She stopped at eighty-five.

  “Okay. All through,” Patsy said as someone knocked on the door. “You can come in,” she called out. “We’re done.”

  Casey wondered if it was the man with the nice dimples, and what he wanted with her husband, why he’d come to the hospital. What did Patsy mean when she said he looked like trouble?

  “Oh, hi, Mr. Marshall,” Patsy said, her voice suddenly soft and low. “How’re you doing today?”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Warren replied, approaching the bed. “How’s my wife?”

  “About the same.”

  “She seems more comfortable,” Donna said, “since they put that tube in her throat.”

  “Yeah. Hopefully, she’ll start breathing on her own soon, and they can take it out.”

  “We’re rooting for her,” Patsy said.

  Yeah, sure.

  “Thank you.”

  Casey felt the women gathering up their things and heading for the door.

  “Oh, there was a man here looking for you a few minutes ago,” Donna said. “We sent him to the visitors’ lounge.”

  “I can tell him you’re here, if you’d like,” Patsy offered.

  “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble at all. Oh, and Mr. Marshall,” she continued, and then paused. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all …”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  “I’d be happy to volunteer my services if you require any help once your wife leaves the hospital.”

  Oh, you’re good. You’re good.

  “What about your job here?”

  “It’s just temporary.”

  “Then thank you. I’ll certainly consider your offer …”

  “Patsy,” she told him.

  “Patsy,” he repeated.

  You’re the only patsy here, Casey all but screamed.

  “Well,” Patsy demurred, as Casey pictured her lowering her chin and lifting her eyes coquettishly. “I can only imagine what you’re going through….”

  “Thank you. I know how much Casey would appreciate the kindness you’ve shown her.”

  I wouldn’t be too sure about that.

  “I’ll see if I can locate that gentleman.”

  Warren thanked her again as Patsy left the room.

  Don’t even think about hiring that woman, Casey warned. I don’t want her anywhere near me. Can’t you see the only thing she wants to do is you? Even I can see that much, and I’m in a coma, for God’s sake!

  What was it with men? Were they really so blind when it came to women? “Men are basically very simple creatures,” Janine had once remarked, and Casey had dismissed it as the cynicism of someone who’d had her hopes dashed one too many times. Was it possible she was right?

  “We marry our fathers,” Janine had also pronounced, a remark that had given Casey pause when she felt herself falling in love with Warren. Casey knew that women had been coming on to Warren ever since they’d met. They made no secret of their attraction to him, brushing up against him on the street, or smiling at him from the bar of a crowded restaurant. She’d actually seen one particularly brazen young woman slip a piece of paper into the palm of his hand as he walked past her on his way to the washroom, and she’d held her breath, thinking of her father and all the scented scraps of paper with unidentified phone numbers she’d regularly found hidden about the house. But seconds later, Casey had watched as Warren tossed that piece of paper into a nearby wastepaper basket without even bothering to glance at it. So Warren Marshall was nothing like Ronald Lerner. Nothing like her father at all.

  Which meant women like Patsy were of no consequence; they posed no threat to her whatsoever.

  “Let’s put the TV on, shall we?” Warren said, clicking it on.

  Immediately, other voices filled the room.

  “You never loved me,” a woman was saying. “You’ve been lying to me from the very beginning.”

  “Maybe not from the very beginning,” a man answered, a cruel laugh in his voice.

  “How’re you doing, sweetheart?” Warren asked, back at her side. She wondered if he was patting her hand, or maybe caressing her hair. She recalled the gentleness of his touch and wondered if she’d ever be able to feel it again. “The nurse said you seem more comfortable since they put the tube in.”

  They’re not nurses. They’re nurses’ aides. And that one named Patsy. Watch out for her.

  “She seems very nice,” he said with a sigh.

  He sounds exhausted, Casey thought, as if someone had reached inside his chest and pulled out his heart. How different from the first time he’d walked into the small downtown offices of Lerner, Pegabo, wearing a dark gray suit with a pale pink shirt and a silk burgundy tie, looking tan and lean, and exuding confidence and energy. “I have an appointment with Janine Pegabo at eleven o’clock,” he’d announced, peeking his head into her room.

  “You’re Warren Marshall?” Casey asked, trying to ignore the quickening of her pulse, and swallowing the catch in her throat. “I’m sorry, but Janine had to leave rather suddenly. She broke a tooth on a bagel, of all things, and the only time the dentist could squeeze her in was …” Why was she rambling on this way? “I’m Casey Lerner, her partner. She asked me to fill in for her. I hope that’s all right.”

  “More than all right,” Warren said, making himself comfortable in the red velvet chair across from her desk. “Interesting room,” he said, penetrating brown eyes casually absorbing the leopard-print carpeting, the dark walnut desk, and the taupe-colored walls lined with black-and-white photographs of fruit and floral arrangements
. “It’s … quirky.”

  “Quirky?”

  “That’s a compliment. I’ve always liked quirky. Who did you use?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The decorator,” he explained with a smile.

  “Oh. No decorator. Just me. I did the whole office, actually. Janine’s room, too. She’s not really interested in that sort of thing, and it’s always been kind of a hobby of mine….” She was rambling again, Casey realized, and stopped. “How can I help you, Mr. Marshall?”

  “Well, as I explained to Ms. Pegabo on the phone the other day, I’ve been with Miller, Sheridan for the last five years and I’m looking to make a move. I faxed over a copy of my résumé….”

  “Yes, it’s very impressive. Bachelor in finance from Princeton, law degree from Columbia. I don’t imagine we’ll have much trouble finding you a new position. Do you mind my asking you why you want to leave Miller, Sheridan?”

  “I’m looking for a firm with more vision, more guts,” he said easily. “Miller, Sheridan is a good, capable firm, but they’re also a little old-fashioned, and I prefer …”

  “Quirkier?”

  He smiled. “I don’t want to wait the requisite ten years before being made a full partner.”

  “A man in a hurry,” Casey observed.

  “I prefer to think of myself as a man who knows his own worth.”

  Casey glanced back at his résumé, although she’d already committed all the relevant facts to memory: Warren Marshall had attended Princeton on a full scholarship and graduated Columbia in the top third of his class; his area of expertise was corporate and commercial law; he was already pulling in a salary of several hundred thousand dollars a year. “I’m not sure I can get you more money than you’re getting now, at least to start out.”

  “Sure you can,” he said with a smile.

  He was a little arrogant, Casey decided. But that was all right. In the right hands, arrogant could be very attractive. Providing there was something to be arrogant about. Her father had been arrogant. She found herself checking out the ring finger of Warren Marshall’s left hand and was happy to see it was empty, although that didn’t necessarily mean anything. What was she doing? This wasn’t like her.

  “Look. Nobody becomes a lawyer to get rich,” Warren was saying. “You make a decent living, yes. Okay, more than a decent living. But factor in expenses and taxes and overhead, you’re certainly not retiring at forty.”

  “Is that what you want to do? Retire at forty?”

  “No, that’s not me. But sixty doesn’t sound so unreasonable. Old,” he continued with a laugh. “But not unreasonable.”

  Casey laughed as well. They spent the next half hour talking about his preferences and his politics, his likes and dislikes, his goals and his dreams, all of which were compatible with hers. More than once, they finished each other’s sentences. Casey was surprised at their easy camaraderie, as if they’d known each other for years. He gets me, she thought, wishing she could think of a way to prolong the interview further.

  “So, you think you can do something for me?” he asked, pushing back his chair and standing up.

  “I can’t imagine I’ll have too much trouble,” Casey answered honestly. Warren Marshall was a gift, she was thinking, the easiest commission she’d ever earn.

  “By the way, will you marry me?” he asked in the next breath.

  “What?”

  “Sorry. That’s the man in a hurry talking. We can start with dinner, if you’d prefer.”

  “What?” Casey said again.

  “I don’t believe it,” Janine had wailed when she returned to the office half an hour later. “I get a broken tooth; you get a date.”

  She got more than that, Casey was thinking now. She got her knight in shining armor, her Prince Charming, the man of her dreams. Ten months later, she and Warren were married.

  The door to her hospital room suddenly swung open.

  “I found him,” Patsy announced, an irritating chirp to her voice.

  “Mr. Marshall,” a male voice said. “I’m Detective Spinetti, with the Philadelphia police department.”

  “Have you found the person responsible for my wife’s accident?” Warren asked immediately.

  “No,” the detective answered quickly. “But there is something we need to discuss.”

  “Thank you, Patsy,” Warren said, dismissing the nurse’s aide.

  “Just ring if you need anything.”

  The door closed behind her.

  Casey didn’t know why, but she was certain that had she not been connected to a respirator, she would be holding her breath.

  FIVE

  “How is your wife doing?” the detective asked.

  “About the same,” Warren answered. “You have some news regarding her accident?”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “Do you know what your wife was doing in South Philly the day of the accident, Mr. Marshall?” Detective Spinetti asked immediately.

  “What was she doing in South Philly?” Warren repeated, as if trying to make sense of the question. “She was meeting friends for lunch. Why?”

  “Do you recall the name of the restaurant?”

  Why do you want to know that?

  “I think it was Southwark, over on South Street. How is this relevant?”

  “If you’d just bear with me for a few minutes.”

  There was a slight pause. Casey pictured Warren giving the officer his silent assent.

  “You said she was meeting friends for lunch,” the detective continued. “Do you know who those friends were?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Can I have their names?”

  “Janine Pegabo and Gail MacDonald.”

  “That’s P-e-g …”

  “… a-b-o,” Warren finished quickly, as Casey listened to the scribbling of a pen. “MacDonald, spelled M-a-c,” he added, without further prompting. “They’re her best friends. Again, I have to ask, how is this relevant to my wife’s accident?”

  A longer pause. Then, “Actually, we’re no longer convinced it was an accident.”

  What?

  “What?”

  What do you mean?

  “What are you saying?”

  “We have reason to believe that your wife might have been deliberately targeted.”

  I don’t understand.

  “What reason?”

  “In reviewing the garage’s surveillance tapes again—”

  Surveillance tapes? There were surveillance tapes?

  “Were you able to get a better look at the driver’s face?” Warren interrupted. “Was it someone you recognize?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. The driver wore a hoodie and dark glasses, and kept his head down. Combined with the poor quality of the tape, there was no way to make any kind of positive identification.”

  “Then I don’t understand. What makes you think someone would have deliberately targeted my wife?” Warren’s voice cracked, and he coughed to mask the sound.

  Someone deliberately ran me down?

  “Maybe you should sit down, Mr. Marshall,” Detective Spinetti said. “You’re looking a little pale.”

  “I don’t want to sit down. I want to know why you no longer think this was an accident.”

  “Please, Mr. Marshall. I understand this is upsetting …”

  “You’re telling me somebody tried to murder my wife, for God’s sake. Of course I’m upset.”

  Hold on a minute. You’re saying someone tried to murder me? Is that what you’re saying?

  “If you’ll let me explain,” the detective began.

  There must be some mistake. Who would possibly want to kill me?

  “I’m sorry. Of course. Go ahead. I’m sorry,” Warren apologized again.

  Casey heard the sound of chairs being adjusted and occupied, Warren in one, the police officer right beside him. She pictured the detect
ive as tall and swarthy, with thinning, wavy dark hair and a deeply lined face. His voice, strong and matter-of-fact, indicated he was used to being in charge. She decided he was probably around forty, although she could easily have been off by a decade in either direction. Voices were so deceiving, she thought.

  “As I was saying, we reviewed the surveillance tapes.” Detective Spinetti paused, as if he expected to be interrupted again, then continued when no such interruption was forthcoming. “Unfortunately, the parking garage has been around forever, and the security cameras are on their last legs. So all we knew for certain was that the vehicle that hit your wife was a late-model Ford SUV, probably silver in color. We enhanced the images and were able to get a partial plate. But you already know this.”

  “Clearly there’s something I don’t know.”

  “After we ran the plates, we discovered they were phony. That, plus the fact your wife is Ronald Lerner’s daughter, and Ronald Lerner was a man who’d ruffled more than a few feathers in his day….”

  “That day is long past. The man’s been dead for years,” Warren scoffed. “Why would someone go after his daughter now?”

  “I’m not saying that’s what happened. I’m simply saying it got us thinking that this might not have been the simple case of hit-and—run we first assumed it was. So we went back and looked at the tapes again, both at the exit and the entrance to the garage, starting first thing that morning, to see if we could spot the SUV when it arrived. Unfortunately, the cameras on the individual levels of the garage contained no film, so they weren’t of any help.”

  “And what did you find out?”

  “We saw your wife drive in at just before noon …”

  Another pause. Was he straining for dramatic effect? Casey wondered impatiently. Just spit it out.

  “Go on,” Warren said.

  “… and the car that hit her drive in soon after.”

  “How soon?”

  “Within seconds.”

  Within seconds. What does that mean?

  “You’re saying you think she was being followed?”

  “It’s an awfully big coincidence if she wasn’t. Think about it, Mr. Marshall. Your wife enters the parking garage at just before noon, followed immediately by the same SUV that runs her down several hours later.”