by Leslie Meier
Lenny looked at her as if she were incredibly stupid. “Because with a life sentence, he gets rid of Bar, and there’s no question of alimony,” he said. It was clearly his last word on the subject. He yanked open the rusted front car door and slid behind the steering wheel and carefully fastened his seatbelt. The car didn’t start when he turned the key, however, and Lucy could still hear him attempting to get the engine to turn over when she reached the office.
Chapter Fifteen
Pulling the door open, Lucy wondered why, all of a sudden, everybody seemed to be fingering Bart as Tina’s killer. Was it the Martha Stewart syndrome? Was Bart, the eminent cardiac surgeon, church deacon, and Republican Party stalwart, just too perfect to be true?
Phyllis certainly thought so. She could hardly wait for Lucy to get through the door before she began relating his latest advance to Elfrida.
“You won’t believe this,” she began, primly pursing her lips. “That Dr. Straight-and-Narrow has some mouth on him. Elfrida called me last night, all upset. Said she couldn’t believe what she was hearing, just because she won’t put out for him in the storage closet.”
“The storage closet?”
“Yeah, he wants to keep it a secret because his girlfriend is real jealous.”
Lucy was puzzled. “His girlfriend?”
“Yeah, his receptionist. Amanda Connell.”
“Are you telling me that Bart already has a girlfriend, but he still wants to mess around with Elfrida?”
“Right. And Elfrida doesn’t want anything to do with him, and that’s exactly what she told him, nice and polite, and he started this foulmouthed tirade.”
“That doesn’t sound like Bart,” insisted Lucy. “Are you sure Elfrida isn’t exaggerating?”
“Not Elfrida. Say what you will about her morals, but she’s painfully honest.”
Lucy tended to agree, and she knew that men could be crude, even highly educated professional men. “Okay, so what did he say?”
Phyllis squeezed her lips together. “I can’t say.”
“Oh, come on,” coaxed Lucy. “We’re alone, and believe me, I’ve pretty much heard it all. My husband’s in the building trades. My son went to college, and although he didn’t get a diploma, he did pick up some interesting language, which he’s had the opportunity to refine as a fisherman.”
“Oh, I know nothing would offend you,” said Phyllis.
“I wouldn’t exactly say that,” protested Lucy.
“You know what I mean,” said Phyllis, with a dismissive flap of her hand. “We’re both big girls, right? But Elfrida wouldn’t tell me.”
“Why not?”
“She said it was so foul, she absolutely could not bring herself to repeat it.”
“Elfrida never struck me as particularly prudish,” said Lucy. “What could he possibly have said?”
Phyllis shrugged. “Maybe something medical?”
“I guess doctors probably have a different view of bodily functions,” speculated Lucy. “There’s really no polite way to talk about colon cancer or venereal disease, things like that, but it hardly seems the way to a girl’s heart.”
Phyllis raised one eyebrow, attempting to adopt a lascivious expression, but only managing to look comical. “Sweetheart, you haven’t had a pelvic exam until you’ve had a Bart Hume pelvic.”
“Oh stop!” protested Lucy, grimacing and laughing at the same time. “That’s awful.”
“Elfrida said it was horrible,” said Phyllis. “She’s thinking of filing a sexual harassment complaint.”
“Really?” asked Lucy, suddenly serious. “How’s she going to do that if she can’t say the words?”
“She says she’ll write them, with blank spaces.”
“A sexual harassment complaint is a serious step,” said Lucy. “She better think it over. Something like that can backfire.”
“That’s what I told her,” said Phyllis. “You mess with somebody like Dr. Barton Hume at your peril.”
“Keep me posted,” said Lucy, sitting down at her desk and booting up the computer. “That would be a big story, if she does file a complaint.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Phyllis, reaching for the phone. “I better warn Elfrida. She’s a shy thing. I don’t think she’d like having her name in the papers.”
Lucy bit her tongue, remembering Elfrida’s highly public battle with the historical commission when she wanted to paint her house in zebra stripes, arguing that black and white were approved colors. She finally gave up when the commission threatened to impose penalties and fines, but stubbornly flew a zebra design flag from her porch.
Half listening to Phyllis’s conversation, she Googled Bart, skipping over the recent news stories about his wife and scrolling down to earlier, pre-murder listings. There were plenty of them. He not only had his own Web site, complete with photos of himself as well as group family photos, but there were also interviews, newspaper and magazine articles citing various awards from political, charitable, and pro-life organizations, and a number of extracts from medical journals in which he was included among a group of contributing scientists. In all, there was nothing to detract from his image as an ideal family man, accomplished professional, and upstanding citizen.
Recalling Bar’s suggestion that Tina might have been targeted by an extreme pro-life group, Lucy checked out several of those Web sites and eventually found a hit list of abortion providers. She thought it extremely odd that a group that claimed to be pro-life was advocating murder and was even providing the addresses of clinics and physicians. She was also shocked to see they’d apparently had some success, as red lines had been drawn through several names, indicating successful hits. Tina’s name, however, was not on the list.
She was wondering if perhaps there should be some limits on free speech and was closing Google when she noticed Phyllis’s voice had become excited, and she began to pay closer attention. “You’re kidding!” Phyllis was exclaiming. “I can’t believe it.”
When she hung up, Lucy couldn’t resist. “What can’t you believe?”
“What Elfrida told me. She said she called the HR lady at the hospital just to kind of sound her out about what was involved in filing a sexual harassment complaint, and the woman immediately guessed it was Dr. Hume and practically begged Elfrida to come forward, saying that if she did, she was sure there were several other women who would also file complaints.”
“I don’t understand,” said Lucy.
“Well, the HR lady said the others have been afraid to go public, but she thought that if one person would do it, so would the others.”
“I can see that,” said Lucy, impulsively reaching for the phone and dialing Bart’s office. She didn’t really expect to speak to him directly, but the receptionist put her call right through, and when Lucy explained she had interviewed Bar at Bob Goodman’s request and was writing a story from her point of view, he immediately agreed to see her, suggesting she come around to his house for lunch. “I always eat lunch at home,” he told her. “My work is so demanding that I find I need to touch base, so to speak, to keep things in perspective.”
The Hume house was one of the immaculately restored sea captain’s houses that lined Main Street. A substantial Georgian-style house with two stories, it had a white clapboard front and an imposing front door flanked with sidelights and topped with an oversized pediment. There were two windows with black shutters on either side of the door, and the second story had five windows, to complete the symmetrical design. The roof featured two chimneys, one on either side, and a widow’s walk in the center.
Lucy wasn’t thinking about eighteenth-century architecture, however, as she rang the bell. She was wondering if she was the fly walking into the seductive spider’s sticky parlor.
“Come in, come in,” said Bart, greeting her with a big smile and a hearty handshake. Surprisingly enough, he was wearing madras shorts and a Dice-K T-shirt. They were wildly popular, and Lucy knew the Japanese letters on his ch
est meant “strike out.”
“A baseball fan?” she asked, stepping inside.
“Last year’s Father’s Day present,” he said. “Like I told you on the phone, I try to take a break in the middle of the day, if I can. I’m at the hospital early. Then I have office hours in the afternoon and generally something at night. This is the only time I get to myself.”
“I’m jealous,” said Lucy. “Ted’s a slave driver.”
“I don’t believe that,” he said, leading the way to the kitchen. “He’s a good guy.”
Lucy followed, taking in the gleaming wood floors, the graceful stairway that swirled up the left wall, the polished gilt mirror that hung above an important-looking mahogany sideboard, the Oriental rugs, and the oil paintings of horses and dogs. And that was just the front hall.
“What a lovely house,” she said. It wasn’t her style, but she had to admit Bar was right. The place sure had class.
“It’s not the same without Bar,” he said, pushing open the kitchen door. As she expected, the kitchen had been done to death with granite countertops, top-of-the-line stainless appliances, and at least fifty thousand dollars’ worth of English-style kitchen cabinets, with plate racks, reeded moldings, and an enormous range hood with an elaborate carved coat of arms that Grinling Gibbons would have envied. The cook, a dark-haired woman who was almost as wide as she was tall, was working silently at the center island, and Lucy wondered if Bar had had her husband’s wandering eye in mind when she’d hired her as they seated themselves at an oak trestle table set in a windowed alcove.
“This is very nice,” said Lucy, unfolding the plaid cloth napkin and spreading it on her lap. The table was set simply with matching plaid place mats, white plates, greenish glass goblets, old rat-tail silver, and a bouquet of roses.
Bart lowered his head, then raised it to reveal a pained expression. “I feel so guilty, here, with all this, when Bar is stuck in that…,” he said, his voice trailing off.
“As jails go, it’s not too bad,” said Lucy. “Not that that’s any comfort, but when I saw her, she seemed to be holding up very well.”
“That’s my Bar,” he said. “She’s got true grit. You’ll see. She’ll be proven innocent. There’s no case against her. It’s all circumstantial. Whatever the prosecution throws at us, her lawyer will be able to rip it apart.” He paused and snapped his fingers. “Hey, chiquita! We haven’t got all day here.”
Lucy glanced at the cook, who looked as if she hadn’t appreciated Bart’s comment. “It’s almost ready, Dr. Hume,” she said, ladling out the soup. “And you know, I asked you to call me Alma, because that’s my name.”
“Okay, Alma,” he said, catching Lucy’s eye. “They come. They go. It’s easier to call ’em all chiquita. It’s never been a problem before, but this one is sensitive.” He raised his voice as she approached with the bowls of soup. “Hell of a good cook, though. That’s why we put up with her.”
“Corn chowder, just the way you like it,” said Alma, placing the bowls in front of them. She stepped back and stood, her hands folded. “Shall I serve the salad now, or do you want to wait?”
“Better give it to us now. We’ve got a lot to talk about,” said Bart. “And while you’re at it, could you be a doll and bring me the Tabasco sauce?”
“Right away,” grumbled Alma, bringing over a generous bowl of salad studded with bacon bits, nuts, and dried fruit, as well as a large bottle of Tabasco sauce. Then she withdrew and left them alone. In the distance, Lucy heard a vacuum cleaner start.
“Take the blond hair the witnesses saw,” said Bart, adding a generous shake of hot sauce to his soup and resuming his argument. “Could’ve been a wig. Fingerprints on the gun? It was my wife’s gun. Of course, it had her fingerprints. But that doesn’t mean she shot it. The shooter could have stolen it.”
Lucy listened, savoring the delicious soup before asking, “Was there a theft? Was anything else missing?”
“Not important,” said Bart, pausing to slurp some soup. “All we have to establish is reasonable doubt, and the truth is that Bar wasn’t feeling good that morning and never left her bed. She was sleeping so soundly that anybody could have sneaked into the house, unnoticed, and taken the gun.”
“Where was it kept?” asked Lucy.
“In the shooting gallery. She’s got a practice range in the cellar.”
“Is that widely known?” asked Lucy.
“Sure. She has friends over for practice shoots. And her coach and, you know, fellow gun-club members, people like that.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, who couldn’t quite equate a home shooting gallery with, say, a pool or tennis court.
Bart seemed to sense her discomfort with the idea. “Look, lots of people have home theaters, right? Or bowling alleys? This is no different. It’s good family fun. Even Ashley enjoys firing off a few rounds now and then.” He slurped up some soup. “Of course, she’s not nearly as good as her mother.”
“Sure,” said Lucy, who had her doubts about target shooting as a wholesome family activity. “But what about motive? Bar and Tina had a long-standing rivalry. Everybody knew about it. I saw them fighting over a fifty-cent newspaper at the IGA.”
“Okay, I’ll admit Tina wasn’t Bar’s favorite person, but that doesn’t mean she killed her. In fact, a very clever killer could have taken advantage of that rivalry to frame Bar.”
Lucy put down her spoon and took a deep breath, determined to ask the tough question. “Well, that brings me to a question I have to ask you. There are rumors around town, a lot of people are saying, in fact, that maybe you are that clever person who framed Bar.”
If Bart was upset by this accusation, he didn’t show it. Instead, he calmly tore a piece off his whole-wheat roll and slathered it with butter. “That’s ridiculous,” he said, popping it in his mouth.
“Of course, it’s nonsense, but people are saying that you did it to get rid of Bar, that a life sentence gets her out of your way without the embarrassment of divorce and the cost of alimony.” She paused, stirring her soup with the spoon.
“You could say the same about half the married people in the state,” said Bart. Lucy suspected he was furious with her, but he forced his mouth into a smile and picked up his spoon. “It just goes to show that most people are fools and will say anything. I’ve even heard people speculate that Lenny hired a killer to get rid of Tina.” He scooped up a spoonful of soup and slurped it off his spoon, swallowed noisily, and went back for more.
“I suppose that’s it,” agreed Lucy, with a dismissive shrug. “People will say anything. I’ve even heard rumors that you and Bar weren’t very happy and that you’re known at the hospital as a flirt.”
Bart got his mouthful of soup down with difficulty and took a drink of water. “This is the sort of thing we doctors have to deal with all the time,” he said. “We are surrounded by women, and they all think they’re irresistible. As if I’d even look at any woman other than Bar—except in a professional capacity, of course.”
“Of course,” said Lucy.
He leveled his gaze and looked her straight in the eye, reminding Lucy of a politician running for office. “Bar and I have been married for more than twenty years,” he said, “and I hope we’ll make fifty, just like my folks did last year. That’s how I feel about my wife. I want her out of jail and home, here, where she belongs.”
Lucy nodded as she set her soup bowl aside and helped herself to salad. “I imagine Ashley must miss her mother very much.”
Bart had taken another big bite of crusty roll and was chewing. He shoved a forkful of salad in his mouth before answering. “Of course, she does,” he said, giving Lucy a view of half-chewed lettuce and bread. “A girl her age needs her mother. The timing couldn’t be worse, since this is the year that really counts with colleges. But Ashley’s well aware that she can’t afford to let her grades slip. Or her tennis. There’s a good chance she’ll get the state championship again this year, which would look great on her app
lications.”
Lucy had a sudden surge of sympathy for Ashley, who was under so much pressure to succeed, despite the fact that her mother was away in jail and had been charged with murder. “Does she have much contact with her mother?”
“Only by phone. We, Bar and I, decided it would be too upsetting for her to visit her mother in jail.”
“I can understand that,” said Lucy, who really didn’t. It seemed to her that it might be a relief to Ashley to see that her mother was okay, even if she was in jail. In fact, considering the circumstances, Lucy was almost ready to forgive the girl for being so mean to Sara. She was only a kid, after all, and although she had every material comfort anyone could want, she didn’t seem to get the unqualified love from her parents that she needed.
“I hesitate to mention this, but I think you should know,” began Lucy, pushing her salad around her plate with a fork, “Ashley and Heather have been terrorizing other kids at school.”
Bart was on it in a flash. “What do you mean?”
“They’ve started rumors. They send nasty text messages….”
Bart interrupted. “I’d believe that of Heather, considering the way she’s been brought up, but not my Ashley.”
Lucy straightened her back; her heart was pounding. “Your Ashley even used her cell phone in the gym locker room to take a picture of one girl in her underwear, and sent it to the boys on the football team.”
Bart shrugged and grinned. “I bet the boys loved it.”
“That doesn’t excuse it,” said Lucy, finding his attitude shockingly offensive. “It was a violation of privacy. Of trust.”
“She’ll get over it,” he replied, with a shrug. “No blood was shed, right?”
“The girl was embarrassed. Her feelings were hurt.”
“It’s just part of growing up. We all go through it. This is nothing like the stuff I had to go through in prep school, let me tell you. Now that was rough.”
“I don’t understand,” said Lucy. “If you suffered so much, why don’t you want to stop this sort of thing? By tolerating this behavior, you’re actually encouraging it.”