She gets up and stands at the window, looking through the slats of the Venetian blind, thinking about Wilson.
The article said he had been found on a trail, miles into Tilden Park. Preliminary findings were that his death was accidental, most likely a heart attack.
She wonders about him. About the Crowes. About what he might have remembered, if given the chance.
52
“Everyone’s gone, aren’t they,” says Lillian to Marecita, who has brought her a tray with tea, a scrambled egg, and toast.
“Mr. Crowe is out, yes. Caroline in her room.”
“I mean the Masefields. My mother and father. Gone.”
Marecita takes a deep breath. “Breakfast,” she says, pointing at the food.
“Did I ever tell you about the shortbread cookies my mother used to make? She was quite a hand in the kitchen, despite having grown up with a cook who lived in. She would choose a day when the family was feeling down about one thing or another—looking back, it was never anything very bad, nothing more than a minor setback or inconvenience. Nothing at all like…like what goes on…”
“Egg not good cold,” says Marecita. She manages to sound warm and welcoming even though she goes through the same thing with Lillian every day and rarely convinces her to eat much of anything.
Lillian sips the tea and makes a face. “Is this herbal?” she says, as though Marecita has tried to poison her.
“Is something Caroline bring.”
Lillian shakes her head. “The shortbread was the butteriest thing you can imagine. And a little bit salty, you know. My little brother and I used to gobble them up like savages.” She leans back and closes her eyes. “I miss her so,” she murmurs, forgetting Marecita is still standing there. “They’re all gone now.”
Marecita gives up and goes to the door. “Ring if you want me,” she says, and disappears into the corridor.
Lillian flops on her side. She cannot think of a single reason to do anything at all—eat breakfast, get out of bed, stop drinking.
Live.
53
“Yes, Gordon, I got in last night. I’m on my way to talk to your son’s wife right now,” says Amory, calling from the backseat of a cab.
“Good. Wanted you to know that the autopsy is going forward after all.”
“I thought—”
“Right, I was against it at first but I think—maybe you have experience with this sort of thing?—I think I was reacting more out of shock than from sense. I don’t want the autopsy, for God’s sake, the thought of it turns my stomach as it would anyone’s. But…what happened,” says Gordon, “is that the medical examiner’s office has determined that the circumstances of Wilson’s death are suspicious enough that an automatic autopsy has been triggered. It’s not a judgment call that might be open to pressure, you understand? I could try to find a judge who would give me an injunction, but as I’ve said, I’m questioning now whether that’s the best use of my resources.”
“What do you think, Gordon?”
“About what?”
“Well, you hired me. I assume that means that you agree with the medical examiner’s office, at least partly, that the circumstances should be looked into, since there’s no need to investigate a heart attack. Is there…do you have something on your mind you’d like to share? Or is the outcome you’re looking for that the ME assigns a natural cause, and I try to check their work and assure you they haven’t screwed anything up?”
Gordon spins in his leather chair and looks out at midtown. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Just get me information, Amory. Once we have that, depending on what it is, we’ll figure out what to do with it. Now, tell me what your plans are for Rebecca.”
“I’m going to talk to her.”
“Run down your list of questions for me.”
“Gordon.”
“Amory?”
“Let me do my job.”
Silence.
Gordon says goodbye and hangs up just as the cab pulls up to the house on Sunset Lane.
54
Caroline
January 12. I don’t want to leave my room, but I’m afraid not to. I should be roaming around the apartment at the very least, gleaning what information I can. And so it is thus that I encounter Gordon in his office, staring at a computer monitor. He does not look up when I appear in the doorway.
“Hey,” I say, though I have no follow-up.
“Cops in Berkeley do quick work, I’ll say that for them. Autopsy report is already in.”
I barely manage not to gasp. “I thought you didn’t want an autopsy?” That cliché about blood running cold? Not a metaphor.
“I didn’t. It was going to happen anyway, nothing I could do about it. But some interesting developments here. Did you know that autopsies uncover significant surprises quite often? I’d say this falls into that category.”
“How so? What does it say?” My voice is even and unfaltering.
“Wilson only had one kidney.”
What is Gordon up to? Is he gaslighting me?
“Curious,” I say. “And is that what killed him, having one kidney?”
“Of course not,” says Gordon with an edge of contempt. “Actually, he died of organ failure brought on by mushroom poisoning. Something called Amanita phalloides, of all things.”
All I can do is nod and then shake my head. Words are flooding my head and pouring out of my ears and piling up in the corners of the room, but none of them seem to be coming out of my mouth.
Gordon smacks his palms down on the desk. “Fucking idiot,” he growls, and a spark of pleasure flickers within me.
“May I see?” I ask finally.
He gets up and leaves the chair for me to sit in. The report is many pages long, written by a pathologist by the name of Thomas Wendig and signed by him as well as the medical examiner. I skim past the description of his clothes and the external exam and go straight to the toxicology report. Blood, urine, vitreous humour, gastric contents, bile, liver, hair.
Amanita phalloides is listed under “gastric contents,” as are traces of carrot, beef, milk. It is midazolam I’m interested in. I check under all categories but do not see it.
Deep breath.
I check again. It’s not there. It must have a blessedly short half-life, and Wilson’s running probably helped too. I seem to recall he was on a water-drinking kick lately, so maybe he was pounding a lot of expensive designer water and flushing everything quickly through his system. Every little bit helps, right? I don’t bother reading the rest of the report. It’s on the dry side and we all know how the story ends.
I’ve just rounded the ugliest corner of this race, and the finish line is in sight.
I get up but Gordon does not reclaim his seat. He is standing at the window, expressionless. With a sudden sharp pang of regret, I slip my arm around him.
“Not now,” he snaps, and stalks out of the room before I have a chance to say anything.
55
Amory Porter has accepted a cup of coffee from Rebecca Crowe, though given her pregnancy and the fact that she just lost her husband, he is uncomfortable having her wait on him.
“Sorry about the mess,” she says, sitting in a large armchair across from him and balancing a cup of tea on her thigh. “I guess I should be making plans for some kind of funeral or memorial service, but all I’m doing is staring into space or crying.”
Amory nods, studying her face. Her skin is blotchy and eyes red.
This beginning moment is crucial. If he damages trust now, it is very difficult to regain.
“Thanks for seeing me. Gordon Crowe hired me to be eyes and ears on the West Coast. I want you to know that we’re hoping to support you during this awful time. He’s concerned that the police might not do a thorough enough job, and you know Gordon, his standards are a little high.”
Rebecca says nothing.
“Tell me a little about Wilson,” he says softly.
Rebecca leans back in the chair and trie
s to smile. “He was a nut,” she says. “A rascal, to use an old-fashioned word. But a good-hearted one.”
“How did he spend his time, what did he like to do?”
“Running, that was important to him. He was a teacher, though I can’t say that was out of any deep love for the profession, more something that would annoy his father.”
“He and Gordon…?”
“Oh, you know. Typical family stuff. Rich and powerful dad wants to boss everybody around, and Wilson…well, he stood up to him. At least some of the time. He didn’t automatically do what his father wanted, you know?”
Amory sees tears gather in the corners of her eyes.
“So, running…anything else? Did he like to cook?”
“Nah. He was the takeout king. At least here in Berkeley? The takeout is amazing.” Rebecca bows her head, and Amory can feel the effort she is making to hold it together.
“I know this is hard,” he says.
She nods. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s so not okay, but it’s…it’s fine that you’re here.”
Amory gives her a little time, then says, “I’m assuming someone called to talk to you about the autopsy results?”
Rebecca nods, then theatrically throws her hands in the air. “Yeah, I mean what the hell, Wilson? I can’t even…”
“You don’t think he was experimenting in the kitchen with the…the mushrooms? Making some fancy dish, something like that?”
“I wasn’t here,” Rebecca says firmly. “I can’t say what in God’s name he was doing. I doubt it, but I can’t say it’s totally out of the question.”
“Does he have friends who are outdoorsy…edible food enthusiasts, that kind of thing? I’m trying to get an angle on how he got the mushrooms in the first place.”
“Yeah, that’s the million dollar question.” She slides down in the chair and her pregnant belly rises up. Amory keeps his gaze on her eyes.
“I have an uncomfortable question to ask. Before I ask it though, I want to tell you that it’s a standard question that I ask all the time, in almost every similar case. Not because I have any indication that it applies to Wilson.”
Rebecca nods.
“Do you have any reason to think Wilson wanted to kill himself?”
She shakes her head. “No.” She presses her lips together and looks at the ceiling. “But…but I should say,” she adds, lowering her voice so that Amory can barely hear her. “He started therapy a few months ago, for the first time in his life. You’d think a family like that, with infinite resources…anyway, I should say that there was a lot about Wilson that was…hidden. He was a total extrovert in a lot of ways, life of the party, all that. But he had another side, a private side. We haven’t been together that long. And so I….” She tips her head forward and Amory can’t see her face. Her voice shakes. “I didn’t even know him that well. You understand? Not deep down. Those emotional vaults—they were still locked up pretty tight.”
Tears are streaming down her face now, and unexpectedly, Amory feels tears suddenly prickle his eyes too. “I’ve had some dealings with Gordon Crowe myself—well, my father did, anyway. Must not have been easy being his son.”
“No,” says Rebecca. She lets out a short sob and buries her head in her hands. “Sorry,” she mumbles.
“Please don’t apologize,” says Amory, and reaches across the coffee table to touch her arm. “This is very hard, what you’re going through. Do you have support? Friends coming over?”
“I…I moved here seven months ago. I hardly know anyone, my friends are mostly in LA.”
“Maybe you could head down there for a while?”
Rebecca shrugs. Amory can see she is too blindsided to make plans.
“Would you say that Wilson was a risk-taker?”
Rebecca laughs. “Well, I was about to marry his best friend when he got me pregnant. You can draw whatever conclusion you want from that.”
“The best friend’s name?”
“Donny Aldritch.”
“Have you seen him lately? I’m guessing that didn’t go over very well?”
“No. Yeah, no. When he found out he blasted me pretty hard. I deserved it, sure, I’m not complaining. And I haven’t heard from him since. Donny has a lot of pride, you know? Although I think he got over it pretty fast.”
“If you haven’t heard from him, how would you know?” Amory keeps his tone soft but Rebecca looks sharply at him.
“I guess I don’t,” she says.
“Speaking of LA,” he says. “You mentioned on the phone that there were some email shenanigans, something about a trip down there?”
“Yeah. I got an email, a few of them actually, from a friend, inviting me down. Not unusual. My work is really flexible so I took a couple of days to go down to see her. You know, getting in some traveling before the baby comes.” She stops and takes a deep breath in and out to settle herself before continuing. “So I get to Rani’s house, and she’s not expecting me, claims she never sent any emails. But you know, glad to see me and all, so I went ahead and spent a couple of nights with her.
“No idea what that was all about, but doesn’t it seem like…really fishy, in retrospect? Like someone wanted me out of the way? Or am I sounding like I watch too much TV? Maybe it was just a weird email glitch somehow.”
“May I see?”
“Here,” she says, finding the emails on her phone and passing it over.
Amory takes a look. “The address is your friend’s actual email?”
“Yup.”
He studies the words, clicks through and reads the rest in the short sequence. “Is Rani a prankster?”
“Nah. Not that type at all.”
“What about Wilson’s email? Is his computer here?”
“Cops took it. And his phone, which he did not take on his run. Complained it was annoying and phone belts look stupid. Another thing about Wilson: he was vain, liked looking good, looking cool. No fanny packs for him.” She tries to laugh but only a strangled snort comes out. “But I just—I think we’ve got an iPad around somewhere, that might be synced to his accounts…hold on.” She gets up and disappears down the hallway, hand rubbing her back.
Amory gets up and does a quick search of the room before Rebecca comes back. The place is neat enough, despite her protestations, and he doesn’t find anything of interest. Some dirty dishes in the sink, a scrap of paper on the floor that’s a receipt from Costco, light jackets and a cowboy hat in the coat closet. The living room has a half-decent TV and cheap furniture, no books or knickknacks. This branch of the Crowe family is more Ikea than Sotheby’s.
“Yeah, you can check his email out on this,” she says, handing over an iPad. She gets a funny look on her face. “I’m sort of torn about it. I mean, those emails are his last thoughts, last plans, you know? I feel like they should be something to savor, even if they will make me cry.”
Amory waits.
“But the thing is, I don’t…I don’t want to read them if they’re going to make me feel awful. And…like I said, the vaults were shut tight. Wilson was secretive. I just…I have a feeling if I read the emails, I will regret it.”
Amory nods. “Did he talk to you at all about what was going on in his therapy sessions? Do you know the name of his therapist?”
“He was agitated after some of the sessions. But he wouldn’t breathe a word to me about any of it. Um, her name was…something androgynous, like Jamie? Wait—Sandie, that was it.” She shakes her head. “Sorry. Like I said, he didn’t talk about it with me.” She starts to cry in earnest.
Amory does his best to comfort her, making her a cup of tea and sitting with her until she pulls herself together.
He’s impatient but doesn’t open the iPad until he is back at the motel in the center of Berkeley. He waits until he has showered and eaten dinner before settling on the cheap sofa to see who Wilson emailed in his last days, and about what.
56
Franks studies the autopsy report at his desk, poring ov
er every line.
Mushrooms. Unbelievable. What a case this is turning out to be, he thinks.
He’s gone through the passenger rosters for flights coming into Oakland from New York on the days leading up to Wilson’s death. He didn’t expect to see Caroline Crowe on any of them—she’s clearly not that stupid—but nevertheless, he had to fend off a cloud of disappointment. Video has already been wiped so that’s a no-go too.
Let’s assume she flew under an alias, he thinks. Throw in a disguise too, for the hell of it. She probably came to the house…I’ll go knock on some doors, see if anybody saw anything. Could use some bodies to help, but I better stay as far away from Oates as possible for now.
He got her cell number from a friend at AT&T (the one lucky break so far) and the friend’s tracking her phone on the off chance she made some calls while in California.
Though again, Franks doesn’t think she’s that sloppy.
Andie, the cute tech, sticks her head into his cubicle. “Hey, we’re ordering sandwiches. Want your regular?”
“Yep,” he says, distracted. “Hey, check this out,” he says, waving her over. “I told you that was no heart attack the other day. When you want to deliver on the bet?”
Andie scans the report over his shoulder. “I didn’t bet, you old goat.”
Franks had just been about to rest his hand on her back as she leans toward his monitor, but thinks the better of it.
“Mushroom poisoning.” He shakes his head. “Gotta admit, it’s pretty original. Never had a mushroom murder in forty years.”
“How do you know he didn’t eat them by accident?”
“Because he’s worth over a billion dollars, that’s why.”
“You guys in homicide,” she says, rolling her eyes. “To a hammer everything looks like a nail.”
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