Misfortune

by Nancy Geary

  “Look, even if you’re mad at me, you can’t just walk out on your unit. Your line assistants are hysterical. They look up to you. They rely on you. Kimberly has been in my office this morning nearly in tears because her first trial is coming up. You’re her supervisor. She doesn’t know what to do. And Mark mentioned he’s got some big evidentiary problem that you’d agreed to help him with. You can’t leave these people stranded.”

  Frances met Malcolm’s stare. “Don’t make me feel guilty for leaving. There are plenty of people, senior people, around here who can lend a hand.”

  Malcolm took a deep breath and sighed. His tone changed. “Fanny, if you need time off, to be with your father, whatever, it’s yours. But you don’t want to quit. What will you do tomorrow when you wake up and have nowhere to go?” He hadn’t anticipated opposition to his proposal. She had never seen this mixture of worry and agitation on the face of the sleek politician.

  Frances glanced at her watch. It was not yet ten. “I guess I’ve got the rest of the day to figure that out.”

  “Frances.” Henry Lewis sounded startled as he opened his front door to find Frances standing on the threshold. “What can I do for you?”

  “May I come in?” she asked.

  He stepped back hesitantly, and she entered the house. He looked more rumpled than the last time she had seen him. The tail of his denim shirt hung out of his khaki slacks. The back pocket of his pants was torn. He was barefoot. She noticed that one toenail was completely purple. He beckoned her toward the living room, and she followed in silence. After they were seated, Henry volunteered that Louise had taken the girls down to the beach for a swim before lunch. “I wasn’t in the mood,” he added as if his presence in his own house needed to be explained.

  “It’s not the best of days for a swim,” Frances remarked.

  “How’s your investigation going?” Henry asked coolly.

  “I no longer work at the district attorney’s office,” Frances said.

  Henry leaned back and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He had an odd expression on his face. Assuming his complaint to Malcolm had precipitated her sudden departure, Frances couldn’t tell whether he felt smug or guilty for criticizing her to her boss.

  “Your discussion with Malcolm about our earlier meeting had nothing to do with it,” she said. She looked for a reaction. Henry showed none.

  “What can I do for you?” He seemed to ignore her remark. His voice was flat.

  “I wasn’t aware that you were involved in Long Island politics.” Frances tried to sound casual.

  “No reason you should be.”

  “I understand you’re a big supporter of Malcolm’s.”

  “I don’t know about ‘big.’ I think he’s done a good job so far.” Henry stared at her intently, then lowered his voice. “My political views are none of your business. Why don’t you tell me what you want?”

  Frances felt her pulse rise. She should have been prepared for hostility, and she silently reprimanded herself for making herself vulnerable. “Do you remember about eight months or so ago that your father-in-law asked for a recommendation of a psychiatrist?”

  Henry nodded. “Whom did you recommend?”

  “Dr. Fritz Prescott.”

  “How did you know of him?”

  “I don’t know of him. I know him.”

  “How?”

  “He’s on staff at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. He and I were roommates in medical school. He’s a very competent and caring man.”

  “Did you know at the time that the referral was for Clio Pratt?”

  “I assumed as much. Marshall Bancroft said he had a friend in trouble who needed a professional in grief counseling, preferably a specialty in ‘spousal loss or incapacitation.’ I believe those were his words. Clio was the obvious mystery patient.”

  “Were you aware that Clio began to see Dr. Prescott?”

  “I was.” Apparently Henry was prepared to make her work for her information.

  “How did you know?”

  “I ran into her at Columbia Presbyterian. In the lobby.”

  “And she told you about it?” That didn’t sound like Clio.

  “The first time, no. She tried to pretend she hadn’t seen me. I wasn’t surprised. It’s a sad commentary on our society, but people are still embarrassed to seek psychiatric help. We haven’t gotten to a place where we recognize it for what it is—another form of medical care.”

  “If she didn’t tell you, how did you know about her relationship with Dr. Prescott?” Frances prompted.

  “The second time we saw each other at the hospital, she was very polite, bordering on friendly. She thanked me. She said she liked Dr. Prescott.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “Not that I recall. It was a short conversation.”

  “Did she tell you whether Dr. Prescott had put her on any medication?”

  “No she didn’t.”

  “Did he?”

  “My only conversation with Fritz on the subject was when I called him to make sure that he had availability to take on new patients. I wasn’t about to recommend anyone to Marshall who wasn’t in a position to help. It would’ve been a waste of everyone’s time. At that point, I told him what I knew, which was very little.”

  “So you never asked Dr. Prescott anything about Clio after you knew she was a patient?”

  Henry’s disapproval was obvious. “That is between them. I would never interfere like that. It would be highly unethical for me to inquire, or for him to disclose.”

  “Well, when Clio said the guy was helping her, did you ask her anything about it?”

  “She said she liked him. I was pleased it had worked out. That’s all. Besides, it was quite clear to me later on that Clio regretted having said anything.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I can’t tell you exactly. All I know is that after our one conversation—which, by the way, was only in passing—Clio did an about-face. She hardly said a word to either me or Louise. When we were doing all the ridiculous stuff to try to get into Fair Lawn, all the parties and meetings with members, Clio actually let people introduce me to her without giving any indication that she already knew who I was. She couldn’t do the same to Louise, given the history of Richard’s friendship with Marshall, but she was very formal.”

  “What do you know about Dr. Prescott?”

  “I’ve known Fritz for years. He’s a very decent man and a good doctor, as I said. Both his parents were psychiatrists. He’s a bachelor and lives in Riverdale. I’m downtown from the hospital, so our paths rarely cross, socially, I mean. He and Louise get along, but he’s not particularly fond of children. He calls from time to time, primarily to discuss various drugs. He’s extremely interested in psychopharmacology.”

  “Which is?”

  “Managing mental illness through medication.”

  “Why does he call you?”

  “Many of the drugs in use today for psychiatric purposes are prescribed ‘off-label,’ meaning that they were developed and tested for a specific disease or condition but have been shown to be effective for other, often unrelated problems, including emotional illness. Many of these drugs have side effects, some significant. It’s a constant struggle to balance the potential psychiatric benefits and quality of life that may be gained against the physical ramifications. Fritz calls me because I’m a cardiologist. Many of the medications he considers have some effect on the heart, even if it’s simply an elevated heart rate.”

  “So you give him advice about drugs?”

  “I wouldn’t call it advice. We discuss certain risks. Knowing Fritz as I do, he talks to lots of specialists. He’s meticulous in his research.”

  Frances leaned forward. “May I ask you something in confidence?”

  “You may ask me whatever you like. I don’t promise to maintain your confidentiality, but I expect that my answers may not remain confidential, either.”

  “That’s fa
ir.” Frances took a deep breath, trying to maintain her composure. Henry Lewis had done nothing to make her feel the least bit comfortable. In fact, he seemed to go out of his way to keep the conversation tense. “Clio’s body had significant levels of amphetamines in it, as well as trace levels of phenelzine. The coroner believes the amphetamines could have come from over-the-counter diet pills, although there were no actual capsules in her stomach. She had been given a prescription for Nardil by Dr. Prescott. Whether our killer knew that or not, we can’t say. The amphetamine level was high enough to have killed her on its own. Can you think of anyone, anyone at all, with access to Fair Lawn who might have known this information?”

  “That phenelzine and amphetamines don’t mix, or that amphetamines can kill?” Henry’s tone made it clear that he thought Frances’s question was pedestrian. “Virtually every woman, or any man, for that matter, I don’t want to make sexist assumptions, anyone who’s ever taken a diet pill would know about the dangers of amphetamines. The precautions, especially dosage levels, would be right on the warning information. And the warnings have intensified since the onslaught of litigation over diet drugs.”

  Frances remembered a recent newspaper article about a combination of drugs prescribed for seriously overweight individuals that had resulted in several deaths, a gold mine for the plaintiffs’ bar.

  “As for phenelzine, it’s uncommon. It’s used for severe hypochondria and paranoia. You have to look for someone with particular experience with it, or someone with exposure to pretty arcane medical information. Not even your run-of-the-mill doctor would necessarily know about it.”

  Their mutual thought hung unspoken in the air. Frances had wanted to disprove Meaty’s theory. Instead the evidence pointed to a killer with particular coronary expertise who had been close enough to poison Clio within a small window of time before her death. Those characteristics pointed to Henry even without the hair analysis.

  “I see. And there’s no one you can think of with such knowledge who has access to Fair Lawn?”

  “No.”

  “May I ask you one more thing?”

  “What?”

  “How did you and my mother meet?”

  “Is that part of your investigation?” he asked.

  “Just part of my curiosity.”

  “I met her several years ago. I was brought in for a consult on her heart condition. Since then, we’ve become acquainted socially. I enjoy her painting. Louise is very fond of her as well.”

  “Her heart condition?” This was the first Frances had heard of cardiac trouble in her family.

  “Her mitral valve prolapse? I assumed you knew.”

  “I did,” Frances lied. “But that was quite some time ago. I’d almost forgotten. I guess she just seems so well.” She forced a smile.

  “Although mitral valve prolapse can be serious, hers isn’t. One of the valves in the heart doesn’t function exactly as it should, so she has a slightly irregular heartbeat. Nothing to worry about. Avoiding certain things like caffeine that tend to elevate her heart rate, taking antibiotics before she has any dental work, there aren’t many restrictions. She has led, and will continue to lead, a normal life.”

  Frances stood up and extended her hand, but Henry did not return the gesture. “Thank you for your time,” she said softly as she walked to the door.

  As Frances drove to her father’s house, she used her cell phone to get the telephone number for Dr. Fritz Prescott in Manhattan. The operator patched her through, but Dr. Prescott’s voice mail picked up before her call rang even once. She left a message identifying herself as the stepdaughter of his recently murdered patient and gave her number. Dr. Prescott returned her call less than a mile later.

  “I was waiting for someone to find me,” he said without identifying himself by name. His voice was soft and melodic, soothing, Frances thought. “I read about Clio’s death in the paper.”

  “You haven’t spoken to anyone from the police?”

  “No. I actually thought Mr. Pratt might give the police my name, but so far I haven’t been contacted. You’re the first.”

  “Could you spare any time today?” Frances looked at her watch. She still needed to see her father, but the visit would be brief. “I could be in the city by three.”

  “I have patients until five o’clock. Why don’t we say five-thirty. There’s a coffee shop on 168th and Broadway, just across from the hospital entrance, with a red awning and a neon sign advertising waffles in the window. I’ll see you there.”

  “How will I know you?” Frances asked.

  “I’ll know you,” he said. “I’ve seen your picture.”

  Each time she slowed down in front of the formal gates and turned off Ox Pasture Road into her father’s driveway, Frances felt the same sick feeling in her stomach, tasted the same acidic saliva in her throat. What kind of a life was this for him without Clio? Being wheeled from room to empty room, parked facing out a window, only to be turned periodically for a change of scenery. No one to talk to but Lily or an occasional visitor who passed by for a polite, brief visit, no more than an hour at most. Why go on? She wondered what would happen to him.

  Frances parked but sat with the motor idling, staring at the black front door with its oversize brass knocker. The sky had darkened to an eerie gray. Rain was sure to come soon, so ominous was the cloud cover. It felt later than noon.

  Frances and Pietro had been visiting Southampton during Hurricane Bob, the hurricane of 1991 that had pounded Long Island and much of the northeastern coastline. With her father they watched the interminable news coverage, reporters in slickers standing in front of pounding surf or toppled trees. Frances had a distinct memory of watching rain on the camera lens. Had some television producer somewhere determined that the storm would feel more real if the reporters were blurred by actual water drops, or had someone simply forgotten to bring an umbrella? Richard had puffed on a cigar. Pietro had smoked and intermittently jumped up from his overstuffed chair to get a better look out the window. They’d sipped cognac, seemingly content to pass the dismal afternoon in conversational banter, discussions of investment potential in Latin America and manufacturing in Thailand, mixed with sports statistics, the fate of the Yankees, and the U.S. Open. Pietro had been so comfortable with her father, more relaxed than she had ever been in Richard and Clio’s house.

  Lily’s knock on the driver’s-side window startled Frances. She rolled down the glass. There were heavy crescents of bluish purple under Lily’s eyes, and her skin seemed paler than usual. Frances could see several veins in her forehead.

  “Your father’s finally asleep,” Lily said softly, as if her voice might actually carry inside. “I didn’t want you to ring the doorbell. He’s gotten so little rest. He’s very weak.” She stepped back from the truck, allowing Frances to get out.

  Frances looked at her father’s nurse, wondering whether to ask how weak, how frail, her father really was, but she couldn’t bring herself to utter the question. She never wanted to hear the truth about Richard’s declining condition. She understood at some level that his health was beyond repair, but hearing the words from Lily’s lips would make it too real. “Is it all right if I have a look inside?” she asked.

  “You don’t need to ask me,” Lily replied. “Hannah’s gone into town for groceries, so there’s nobody here but us.”

  “I won’t disturb anything,” Frances promised. She followed Lily back inside, and they both stood in the entranceway, staring at the enormous arrangement of delphinium in a cobalt vase on the hall table. Apparently nobody had bothered to cancel Clio’s standing delivery order with the florist.

  “Has anyone been through Clio’s things?” Frances asked in a hushed tone.

  “The police were here on Monday. They wanted to go through Mrs. Pratt’s personal effects, her correspondence, her checkbook, if that’s what you mean. Blair showed them some business papers, I know that, but your father refused to give them anything else.” Frances listened,
recalling the subsequent search of the Pratt Capital offices. “Then,” Lily added, “they came back yesterday with a warrant for the house.”

  “Did they take anything?”

  “Yes. They left an inventory with your father, but he threw it away. ‘Meaningless documentation,’ he called it. He was displeased by their invasiveness.” She paused as if waiting to see if Frances had any more questions, then dismissed herself. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”

  The police would’ve taken Clio’s diary this time. They would see the regular notations 3:00—FP at CP, and 10:00—RC, Clio’s code. It was clear now that the first referenced her visits to Dr. Fritz Prescott at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital on Wednesday afternoons. The second reference remained indecipherable, something perhaps only Richard could explain.

  Frances wandered through the entrance hall, listening to her sandals flap against the marble floor. Despite all the time spent in this house, she still felt like a trespasser, tiptoeing around Clio, who seemed just as omnipotent in death as she had in life. Apprehensive, Frances felt an ingrained sensation that she was doing something wrong, even though there would be no one to accuse her of tracking dirt through the house, sitting down in a wet bathing suit, dropping crumbs that belonged in the kitchen.

  She opened the porch doors and stepped outside. Despite the gray sky and the cool temperature, Frances found herself slipping out of her clothes. She dove in. After thirty-eight years she was finally able to skinny-dip in her father’s pool. The water made her heart race, and she swam rapidly back and forth lengthwise. She was a strong swimmer, and her strokes were steady; the water fell away from her bare skin as her arms pulled her forward. After several laps she paused for breath in the deep end. She held on to the side and felt the tile against her breast. Then she noticed a pair of stockinged ankles and white shoes. Lily stood above her. “Your father’s awake.” She placed a towel on the ledge by Frances’s face.

  Lily turned her back while Frances pulled herself out of the pool and wrapped the towel around her. “He’s in his bedroom. Why don’t you come in when you’re ready.”