“That you, Mark?” called Doug.
“Yes, it’s I.” The response slipped out naturally from the grammarian within, but even as I said it, I knew how pedantic I sounded. With a cough, I added, “It’s me, I’m here.”
“Morning, Mark,” said Dr. Formhals, stepping around the partition to shake my hand. His brown skin looked inky black against a starched white lab coat. “Always a pleasure to welcome you to these sad surroundings.” He was referring not only to the morgue itself, which lay beyond his offices, but to the utilitarian decorating, the artificial light, the plastic plants, and the shabby, county-issued metal furniture. Only his desk of ornately carved wood, far too big for the space it occupied, showed any sign of personality or character.
I greeted the doctor, then reached to shake hands with Doug, who was seated, trapped at the far end of the ungainly desk.
Doug said, “Vernon was just sharing with me some of his initial findings.”
“Mind if I sit in?”
Doug grinned. “That’s why I asked you here.” He felt compelled to explain to the doctor, “Mark’s perspective on mysterious death has always been useful to me.”
“Of course, Douglas. Of course.” Formhals sat behind his desk, gesturing that I should take the remaining chair, next to Doug. “I hate to disappoint either of you, but in the case of this death, there’s very little mystery.”
I asked, “Testing confirms your initial theory of an accidental fall?”
“Largely, yes.”
“What has me puzzled,” I said, putting on my glasses, taking out my pen and notebook, “is why the fall proved fatal. Even if Gillian was at the top of the ladder, up on the balcony, she was no more than ten feet or so above the floor. I’ve heard of people surviving much higher falls—several stories, in fact.”
“You’re correct, Mark, but there are two types of fall, known as either ‘controlled’ or ‘uncontrolled.’ In a controlled, vertical fall, a person lands upright, on the feet. Upon impact, energy is absorbed by the feet and legs, which can cause great injury but still spare the vital organs. Falls of more than a hundred feet have been survived in this manner.”
“From the look of things,” said Doug, “I’m guessing Gillian didn’t land on her feet.”
“Correct. And that’s exactly what defines an uncontrolled fall, which can be fatal from even a short distance, as from a stepladder. Compounding the problem for Mrs. Reece, she landed on a stone floor, which is extremely unforgiving.”
I asked, “What did the autopsy show?”
“Massive head injury, shearing of the aorta, and most significantly, a snapped cervix—she broke her neck. Death came very quickly, if not instantly. I doubt that she suffered.”
I recalled, “She didn’t even bleed.”
“I assure you, Mark, she bled a great deal internally.”
Doug asked, “Were you able to establish a more precise time of death?”
Formhals opened a folder on his desk and glanced at the top page inside. “My original estimate of eleven o’clock proved quite accurate. The victim died some thirty to sixty minutes prior to the time when Mark and his associate found her.”
Although the coroner seemed satisfied Gillian’s death had been accidental, I was nonetheless grateful that Lucille Haring and I had been working in a crowded newsroom at the time of death. If the investigation were to take an unexpected turn, it might be handy to have a clear-cut alibi.
I asked Doug, “What about your examination of physical evidence at the scene? Any developments?”
He shook his head. “Nothing unexpected. There were fingerprints all over the place—very predictable at a construction site with numerous workers present. The absence of fingerprints on the ladder or the balcony railing would have triggered my suspicions, but there were so many sets of prints, they’re impossible to sort out. Nor was there any other evidence of foul play—no faulty ladder rungs, no ripped buttons or torn clothing, no fistfuls of hair.
“What’s more,” Formhals added, “there was no flesh or blood under the victim’s fingernails, which would have indicated a struggle. Similarly, there were no bruises or wounds, no signs of external trauma other than those directly attributable to the fall.”
I wondered, “What about that welt on her left cheek?”
With a pensive nod, Formhals acknowledged, “I keep coming back to that. It’s intriguing, Mark, to say the least, especially given the bizarre bout of slapping you witnessed earlier that morning. The problem is, the welt on the victim’s cheek cannot be conclusively identified as the result of a slap. More likely, it was an abrasion sustained in the fall; in other words, the welt was the result of the fall, not the cause of it.”
Doug said, “It sounds as if you’re ready to render an opinion, Vernon.”
“I’m zeroing in on it.” Formhals pinched the knot of his necktie. “I’ll continue to review the evidence while awaiting results of toxicology and other routine testing, but at this point, I can give you a fairly accurate idea of the main points to be covered in the final autopsy report.”
I poised my pen as the coroner referred to his file.
He continued, “The time of death has been established as eleven o’clock Wednesday morning. The cause of death was an uncontrolled fall from a ladder. The mechanism of death was bleeding into the brain and cardiac arrest, both resulting from massive internal injury. Which leaves only the manner of the victim’s death.” He tapped his notes.
“Accidental?” asked Doug.
Dr. Formhals reviewed, “There are only four possible manners of death: natural, accidental, suicide, and homicide. We know the victim didn’t die of natural causes, such as illness or old age, and we assume she didn’t take her own life, as neither the circumstances nor her personal history pointed to suicide.”
“That’s an understatement,” I said. “Say what you will about Gillian Reece, but I have no doubt she had a strong will to live.”
“The manner of her death, therefore, was either accident or homicide, and I am strongly leaning toward a final ruling that her death was accidental. Lacking any additional evidence, it would be difficult—indeed, impossible—to prove foul play.”
With that, the doctor closed his file.
I capped my pen.
Chapter Sixteen
Lunch promised to restore a welcome sense of normalcy to my life, which had been disrupted over the past two days by the arrival of Todd Draper and the departure of Gillian Reece. In the case of Todd, this disruption was not altogether unpleasant, quite the contrary, at least in regard to the effect he’d had on my fantasies. In the case of Gillian, her death might have been accidental, but it was nonetheless disturbing, and I still couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that the timing of her fatal fall had coincided too neatly with too many other people’s interests.
So when I learned that morning that Neil would be joining me as usual for lunch at First Avenue Grill (he had missed the day before) and that Todd would not be joining us (he needed to keep an eye on the curtain installation at the Reece house), I was grateful for the return to a familiar and pleasing routine—even if it would last only an hour. I could ogle Todd later, and I could postpone my search for answers, if answers were to be had, in the perplexing circumstances of Gillian’s death. For the moment, I just wanted everything back the way it had been prior to Tuesday.
Walking along First Avenue from the Register to Neil’s office, I felt a rush of anticipation, as if I hadn’t seen him in years and we were about to reunite. In a sense, I realized, my flirtation with Todd’s proposed ménage had created an unintended distance in my relationship with Neil, and I doubted if Neil was even aware of it. Our lunch date presented a promising chance to assess whether damage had been done, and if so, an immediate opportunity to fix it.
When I walked through the front door of Neil’s office, he was busy on the phone at his desk, sounding hassled. I stepped behind him, gave his shoulders a hug, and kissed the top of his head. He patted
my hand as he talked, twisting his head to kiss my fingers when the other party began gabbing back at him.
Waiting for him to finish, I strolled about the office, studying some perspective drawings of various projects he had on display, then sat at the conference table, watching passersby on the street.
“Sorry,” he said, hanging up the phone. “I was at the Reece house longer than I’d planned. Just got in—need to catch up on a few calls.” He picked up the phone again.
“No problem, no rush. How’s everything going with the curtains?”
He grinned. “I’d like to tell you they’re drop-dead gorgeous, which they are, but that description might seem insensitive, under the circumstances.” He dialed.
“And, uh … how’s Todd doing?”
“Fine.” Then he spoke to the person he’d called, a supplier who was behind on something. Neil’s tone was not quite rude—never, not Neil—but he did sound stressed. I wished I hadn’t mentioned Todd, which was clearly the source of his distraction. Still, I now understood that his instant dismissal of Todd’s proposition the night before had been a cover for his confused reaction to it. He had been as tempted as I had been to consider intimacy with Todd, and he was now struggling, as I was, to sort out two conflicting emotions—guilt, for feeling attracted to Todd, and disappointment, for turning him down. We really did need to talk this out.
“Let’s get going,” he said, hanging up the phone and standing. “We’re running late, and I’m starved. How about you?” He switched off his desk lamp and grabbed a jacket.
Sensing this was not the best time for a heart-to-heart, I stood, answering, “You know me—always ready for lunch.”
Meeting him at the door, I patted his back as we stepped outside. He locked up; then we walked the block or so to the Grill.
“Nancy’s got a good crowd today,” I noted as we passed one of the restaurant’s front windows.
Since we were later than usual, we were the last of the lunch customers to be seated. The prim, well-dressed owner, Nancy Sanderson, had saved my prime table for us, seating us in a corner between the fireplace and the windows, where we could see the whole dining room, which was packed. Berta, our usual waitress, didn’t need to ask—she brought iced tea for me and iced coffee for Neil—then recited a few specials, from which we chose without opening our menus.
I had brought a newspaper from the office, that morning’s Chicago Journal, and shared a few sections of it with Neil during the lull as we waited for our lunch to arrive. Although we were both reading, he seemed conspicuously quiet, lost in his thoughts. I was itching to broach with him our predicament with Todd, but I was deterred both by the public setting of the restaurant and by my own unsure feelings. Why rush, I reasoned, to open a discussion that offered little likelihood of being resolved then and there?
Immersed in these thoughts, I reacted with a start to the sound of Neil’s voice when he asked me something. “What’s that?” I said, setting down the paper and slipping off my glasses.
“The coroner,” he repeated. “How did your meeting go this morning?”
“Ah!” I responded with an eager smile, grateful for a topic other than Todd Draper. “Doug and I met with him as planned. The long and the short of it is, Vernon thinks Gillian’s death was an accident.”
“Hngh.” Neil set his section of the paper on the table; a splashy decorating feature covered the front page. “I’m sort of surprised. Gillian had trouble brewing on so many fronts—not that I think any of those people would stoop to kill her.”
I nodded. “That’s exactly the dilemma I’ve been tussling with. Given all the enmity associated with Gillian, coupled with the timing of her death, I’d say the circumstances are highly suspicious. Still, we know all these people, some better than others, and none of them strike me as the type who would resort to murder.”
“So where does that leave the investigation?”
“I guess it’s dead-ended. Vernon is still waiting for the results of some routine testing, but he doesn’t expect them to reveal anything. Barring the arrival of stunning new evidence, the death will be ruled accidental. At this point, in effect, there is no investigation.”
“Well, I suppose that’s good news.” With a sigh, Neil added, “One less thing to worry about.” If his other worry was Todd Draper, he quickly dismissed it, as his spirits seemed to lighten when he saw Berta approaching. “Make way,” he said, clearing our papers from the table. “Here’s lunch.”
As always, it was excellent. Nancy, who not only owned the Grill but also provided its culinary vision, never failed to amaze me. Working out of a storefront in a small town, she had contributed greatly to our contentment there, raising our perception of Dumont’s quality of life. The turkey-and-corn fritters she served us that day, perfectly attuned to the chillier weather and the season of harvest, would have done anyone proud, even some snooty “name chef” in a trendy metropolis. Nancy kept hinting at retirement, but I hoped the day would never come.
Savoring our meal, finishing our fritters, and conversing of nothing momentous—the food, the weather, the purely mundane—we managed to set aside the vexing issues that had recently intruded on our lives, simply enjoying each other’s company. At one point, Neil took my hand and quietly mentioned that he loved me. “Ditto, kiddo,” I told him.
Because of our late start, the crowd in the dining room had thinned some. When Berta picked up our plates and moved from the table, it seemed as if most of the other patrons had been swept out the door.
“Hey,” said Neil, “isn’t that Glee?”
Sure enough, there was my features editor, Glee Savage, sitting with another woman at a table across the room. Even with her back to us, there was no mistaking the big floppy-brimmed hat of shocking scarlet silk—who else in Dumont would make such a statement? I asked Neil, “Can you see who’s with her?”
He leaned for a better view. “I think … yeah, that’s Tamra Thaine.”
“Oh?” I leaned as well, confirming with my own eyes that Glee was lunching with Esmond Reece’s yoga teacher, who wore an all-white outfit of pleated slacks and bulky sweater—pin a big orange mum on her chest, and she’d have looked like an escapee from some middle-aged pep squad.
“Nothing against either woman,” said Neil, “but they seem an unlikely pair. I wonder how they even know each other.”
“Simple. I introduced them—well, indirectly. The Register is doing a story on Tamra’s hoodoo institute, and I assigned it to Glee.”
Neil smirked. “Try to keep an open mind, Mark.”
“Sorry. It should make an interesting feature, if Glee can sort it all out. I wish her luck; Tamra’s lingo was way beyond me.”
Other patrons got up and left, affording Neil and me a better view of Glee and Tamra’s table. I could now see that their lunch had ended. Dessert dishes had been cleared, and the two women were lingering over coffee. In fact, their cups were empty, as evidenced when Glee lifted hers for another sip, but finding none, set it down again. Deep in conversation, they seemed oblivious to their surroundings.
“It seems they’ve hit it off,” noted Neil. “They’re yakking like schoolgirls.”
Berta returned to our table with coffee and offered dessert, which we declined. When she left, we sat back with our coffee, spoke of this and that, and kept an eye on Glee and Tamra.
Their conversation seemed mostly whispered—and intense. They leaned close to each other, speaking and nodding. Glee had a steno pad on the table, but she wasn’t writing notes, and in fact, the pad’s cover was closed.
Voicing my own thoughts, Neil said, “It doesn’t look like an interview.”
“I admit, it seems odd for a business lunch. And Glee’s not the gossipy type.”
With a grin, Neil reminded me, “She’s a reporter.”
“Touche. But you know what I mean. She’s as professional as they come. Maybe Glee is just trying to … to draw Tamra out. Maybe she’s trying to dig for some background because sh
e feels Tamra is holding back. This so-called institute struck me as nutty from the get-go. Maybe Glee drew the same conclusion and is sniffing around for an expose.”
“Maybe,” said Neil, sounding unconvinced.
His skepticism was warranted. While my theory sounded reasonable, it didn’t quite account for what I saw. In their whispered conversation, Glee didn’t appear to be needling Tamra for information that Tamra, in turn, was trying to withhold. Rather, the two women seemed mutually engaged, and I couldn’t help characterizing their shared attitude as furtive, scheming, and—just possibly—guilty.
“I hate to interrupt all this delicious intrigue,” said Neil, setting his cup on the table, “but I need to get back to the office.”
I glanced at my watch. “So do I.” Standing, I hailed Berta, who stood at the ready with our check.
She brought it to the table and waited while I signed; the amount would be added to an account I ran there. Neil stood, slipping his jacket on while thanking Berta and wishing her well. Berta returned these courtesies, then bustled off to another table.
As she moved away, I realized that Glee and Tamra had just risen from their chairs with a flourish of napkins, a popping of breath mints, and a snapping of purses. They had not yet noticed us, but would soon encounter us as we all made our way to the door.
“Glee!” I said. “What a pleasant surprise.” Though I had been eyeing her every move for some minutes, it seemed far more gracious to let her believe I had spotted her just that moment.
“Mark! Neil!” She beelined toward us with Tamra in tow, meeting us near the hostess stand at the door. “I didn’t see you when we came in.”
“My fault,” said Neil. “I made Mark late—catching up on some phone calls.”
“Ugh.” She leaned close to Neil. “Don’t you sometimes feel like pulling the cord out of the wall?”
“In fact, I do—sometimes.”
I asked, “Is that Tamra?” The woman was not only slow catching up with Glee, but she seemed to hide behind her, as if wanting to disappear into the crowd. But there was no crowd left in the room, and her white outfit was conspicuous anyway—Labor Day was nearly two months past.
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