“How long have you been a cop?” he asked.
She was aware that Parkhurst made a slight shift in his stance behind her, irritated by Wakeley’s stage-managing. “Long enough to recognize evasion when I hear it.”
Wakeley studied her with the same intent interest he’d given the student. “I was just wondering about your background. Why people become police officers is often quite revealing.”
“My background has no relevance.”
He switched his gaze to Parkhurst. “How about yours, Lieutenant?”
Parkhurst, standing in the doorway, was at his most wooden.
“Did you know that a great many cops come from alcoholic families?”
“That right?”
Wakeley turned the full blast of his charm back onto her. “What did you want to ask me?”
She shifted books and papers unceremoniously from a chair to the floor, sat down, and took out her notebook. “Where were you at one-thirty on Saturday afternoon?”
“I believe I’ve already answered that. More than once, I may add. So if that’s all—”
“If you’d just answer the question, sir.”
His good humor started to slip. He grabbed a pen and tapped it against the desk. “I was right here. In this office. At this desk.”
“We’ve not been able to corroborate that statement. How do you explain that?”
He tossed down the pen. “I don’t have to explain it. But if I did, I’d say it’s not that surprising. Not everybody works on Saturday.”
“Why were you working on Saturday?”
“I was preparing this week’s lecture.”
“Here and not at home?”
“That is correct.”
“Who in the family has reason to want Dorothy dead?”
“You might benefit from my next lecture, Ms. Wren.”
He’d deliberately omitted her title. Reducing her stature. “Yes?”
“Denial, idealization, repression, disassociation.”
“All this applies to the Barringtons?”
“Young children make themselves responsible for the abuse they suffer.”
“The Barringtons were abused?”
“Not all abuse is physical.” Wakeley leaned back in his chair. “The family is the scene of the most intimate and powerful of human experiences. Family situations are bloodier and more passionate than any others, and the costs are greater.”
“You suggesting a member of Dorothy’s family killed her?”
“The family line is a drug addict killed her simply because she happened to be there.” His voice shifted from lecture mode to banter.
“You toeing the family line?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled.
Beautiful Brent had a beautiful smile. “You don’t want Dorothy’s killer found?”
The smile decayed a tad. “I certainly want to see justice prevail.”
Not exactly an answer. “Anything you can tell me to gain that end?”
He shook his head. “Family pathology is part and parcel of its secrets.”
Right. Sounding profound and meaning nothing. She could feel Parkhurst, even though he hadn’t moved a muscle, getting steamed. “Did the Barringtons have secrets?”
“All families have secrets. There’s more than one kind of secret. The secret nobody knows, and the secret everybody knows but nobody talks about. You’d be amazed at how many families harbor this type. It is often the case with alcoholism, for instance. Everybody knows Daddy’s a drunk. They tiptoe around it, never mention it. The hippopotamus in the living room. You’ve heard of that? Nobody looks directly at it. Mama crochets a tablecloth and covers it. Everybody carefully steps around it. Nobody mentions it.”
“You sound very sincere. Personal experience?”
“Quite sharp, Ms. Wren. It was something that puzzled me greatly as a child. My father had a debilitating illness.”
Alcoholism, she wondered.
“How long have you been lecturing here?” Parkhurst asked.
“This will be my third year.”
Parkhurst took a step closer. “Enjoy it?”
“Certainly.”
“Like being looked up to?”
Wakeley lost a little of his composure. “What are you trying, in your heavy-handed way, to imply?”
“Admiration. Not getting a whole lot from these Barrington doctors down there at the clinic?”
That dart hit home, she could see.
“Room full of eager young women all looking at you with adoring eyes. Must be pretty heady stuff. Ever take advantage of all that adoration?”
Wakeley leaned back in his chair, an attitude of nonchalance that didn’t come off. “You have any evidence for throwing around accusations of this sort?”
“Not an accusation, a question. Would you care to answer?”
“Give me some credit, Lieutenant,” Wakeley said with exasperation. “Do I look like a stupid man? Would I risk my career, my reputation, for some eager young body?”
“I don’t know. Would you?”
Wakeley shot forward in his chair, glared at him, then turned to Susan. “Don’t you people have to have some evidence before you can harass the innocent? You spread this kind of thing around, and I’ll slap a lawsuit on you so fast you won’t even see it coming.”
He leaned slightly back again and got his breathing under control. “What does any of this have to do with Dorothy?”
The man had a temper; that much was clear. “Who would want to kill her?” she asked.
“Isn’t that your job?”
“Yes, Dr. Wakeley, it is my job, and it entails asking a lot of questions, annoying questions sometimes. Dorothy’s death means your wife will be coming into some money.”
“Are you accusing me of killing Dorothy so Marlitta will inherit money?”
“We’re not accusing you of anything, Dr. Wakeley. We’re trying to find out what happened.”
Suddenly, he smiled, Brent the Beautiful with a beautiful smile.
“If we’re getting down to truth here, Ms. Wren, I won’t deny that money is a nice thing to have. But I can tell you, in truth, that I didn’t kill her.”
“Who did, Dr. Wakeley? Who wanted her dead?”
“I really can’t help you there. Shouldn’t you be searching for the weapon? I hesitate to tell you how to do your job, but I’d think that would be your top priority.”
“Do you own a gun?”
“I do not.”
“Your wife?”
“Marlitta knows nothing about guns.”
“I see. Does she have one?”
“No.”
“Anybody else in the family? Have you ever seen any of them with a revolver?”
“No.”
“Has any member of the family been acting differently lately? Anyone who has seemed more troubled?”
“Ellen. She’s trying hard to be independent, self-supporting. It’s a struggle in a lot of ways. Money is a part of it.”
“Anyone else?”
“Taylor. He’s always wanted to be a big financial success. He may have made some risky investments that he’s worried about.”
So the good doctor wasn’t above tossing out a little spite where he could. “What kind of investments?”
“I wouldn’t know. Something with the possibility of a great payoff.”
“Stock market? That kind of thing?”
“Something like that, perhaps. Speculation in high-risk ventures; that would be the kind of thing he might try.” Wakeley glanced at Parkhurst. “It’s somewhat uncomfortable for him to be a member of the Barrington family and not have some outstanding achievement of his own.”
“You think that’s what he’s trying to do? Gain outstanding achievement?”
“I think it’s a possibility.” Wakeley looked at his watch. “Now, if that’s all, I have patients waiting.”
“Certainly, Dr. Wakeley.” Susan got to her feet. “We may need to talk with you again.”
She and Parkhurst
went back along the hallway and outside. The clouds were darker and larger; rain was imminent. Again.
“Talks rather well around questions, doesn’t he?” Susan said.
“My daddy used to maintain, if you have to use ten-dollar words, what you’re trying to say isn’t worth a dime.”
13
IF SHE HAD any sense, Marlitta thought, she’d skip dinner and go straight to bed. She dragged the chicken out of the refrigerator. No sleep last night. She barely got through the day by putting one foot in front of the other. Dorothy’s patients had to be shared out to the rest of them. She got the Ackerbaugh baby. Problems there. But maybe not. Ackerbaugh was very angry. More work. So tired. Brent saying he’d be late. How could he, when he knew she needed him?
She thunked the chicken on the cabinet. Cooking was something she never really cared for. She was a Barrington; they took care of the sick. She collected potatoes from the bin and tumbled them in the sink. In the living room, the clock chimed six. Rubbing her aching head, she wondered if she was up to peeling potatoes. She hated peeling potatoes. Dirt and starchy white stuff all over her hands. She could still smell it even after she washed it off. Maybe baked potatoes.
With the point of the knife, she stabbed the plastic around the chicken and ripped it off. Blood trickled over her hand and puddled on the cabinet. Her stomach clenched. Blood. Oh, God.
Dorothy lying in a pool of blood.
For God’s sake, you’d think you’d never seen blood before. When she was tired, her mind did odd things. Odd things. Dorothy dying. Odd. Something she’d thought about. Now, instead of thinking what that meant, she could only think Dorothy was gone. The police asking question after question. The family sitting around talking, pretending—
She really didn’t expect they’d do anything different, but she had thought she’d be more in control of herself. Instead, she’d been awkward and apprehensive. Just like when she and Carl were young and had done something Dorothy didn’t like and they waited for her to chew them out.
Last night they had all looked at each other and thought about Dorothy. Dead on the office floor. Dead and bloody. Today that piece of carpet was missing. Cut out and gone. Like Dorothy. Gone.
And they still all looked at each other and waited, as if Dorothy would walk in at any moment.
Marlitta stared at the chicken—slimy, white, dimpled skin, legs sticking out, bloody paper packet of neck and gizzard—and felt she might be sick.
Last night she’d been so tired she thought she’d drop before she’d even gotten herself to bed. She never even went to sleep. She lay there, Brent asleep next to her, and stared at the ceiling. And she’d been so cold. So cold. Even with the heat wave and Brent’s warm body right beside her.
Abruptly, Marlitta turned on the tap and rinsed the clammy chicken. The doorbell rang. She started and dropped the chicken, splattering water all over herself. She leaned over the sink, holding on with all her strength.
When the bell rang again, she turned off the water, grabbed a towel, and wiped her hands as she went to the door.
“Carl,” she said. Baggy jeans wearing thin at the knees, loose cotton shirt, he looked like a bum. Ragged. He really ought to dress better. “What are you doing here?”
“Thought I’d see how you were holding up. You were a little shaky today.”
“Why wouldn’t I be shaky?” She turned around and plodded back to the kitchen.
He closed the door and followed. “Brent not home?”
“No.” With her back to him, she stared at the chicken in the sink. A corpse with its head chopped off. “He had a meeting.”
“Right.”
She wheeled around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He looked as tired as she felt. “Calm down.”
“I can’t calm down. I just can’t. I think I may opt for a nervous breakdown. So peaceful. Nothing but lying in bed. No sick people to take care of. No disgusting chicken to cook.” She had the urge to pick it up and throw it against the wall.
“Here. Let me do that. Sit down.” He pulled out a chair and nudged her into it. “You got any tea?”
“Top left-hand cabinet.”
He ran water in the tea kettle and put it on the stove, opened the cabinet, and rummaged through boxes. When the kettle shrieked, he poured hot water in a cup and dipped in a tea bag. He plunked it in front of her and turned back for the sugar bowl. “Put some sugar in it and drink it.”
“I don’t like hot tea.” She sniffed the spicy orange flavor and felt like weeping.
He rattled around finding a roasting pan and banged it on the cabinet. “You like baked chicken?”
She nodded. Nobody would eat it anyway. She certainly couldn’t eat, and God knew when Brent would get home. It just seemed important to carry on with all the usual rituals.
Carl busied himself, patting dry the chicken, sorting out spices, and peeling potatoes. “Carrots?”
“In the refrigerator.”
“Where are the onions?”
She pointed.
He selected one from the bag in the pantry and reached for the chopping board. “We have to do some talking.”
She took a cautious sip of tea and burned her lip. “No. I don’t want to talk about it. I won’t.”
“Marlitta—”
“No. Willis is right. An addict looking for drugs.”
“Maybe.”
“Of course.”
“There’s no ‘of course’ about it. It’s a possibility, but a remote one, and you better prepare yourself for a lot of nastiness.”
“I don’t see why. The police will look into all that. They might even find the person. They won’t want to investigate us. We have standing in the community.”
“You’re right about one thing. They won’t want to investigate us.”
“There you are, then.”
“But they will. They’ll have to.” He scraped chopped onions into a bowl.
“I don’t see why.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Because we have standing, as you say, they will have to solve this murder. They’ll mess around with addicts and hassle a few people, but they’ll keep coming back to us.”
She wrapped both hands around the cup.
“Ellen’s been talking to me.” He put the chicken in the pan and surrounded it with potatoes and carrots.
“What about?”
“She’s worried about Daddy’s gun.”
“What about it?”
“It’s missing.”
“I don’t see what that matters.”
“Use your head, Marlitta. The cops will find the gun. It will turn out to be the one that killed Dorothy. Then we’re all up shit creek.”
The room seemed to spin around. “No,” she said. “Don’t say it. Don’t say one of us killed her.”
He opened the oven door, slid the pan inside and banged the door shut, then turned to face her, leaned back against the cabinet, and crossed his arms. “It’s not going to do any good to bury your head in the sand.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“You never did like to look anything straight in the face.” He opened the refrigerator door and selected a bottle of beer. “Imported. Going fancy.” He twisted off the cap and sat down across from her.
She stared into her tea.
He took a long swallow. “Marlitta, did Dorothy ever mention Daddy’s paintings to you?”
She couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. Nothing made sense anymore. She squeezed the cup so tightly her fingers turned white. “Why would she? What do they have to do with—”
“I don’t know. She dashed over to Comach’s gallery on Saturday to find out if he’d sold the one he has.”
Sold Daddy’s painting? Why was she so slow and thick? Thick like blood. Thicker than water. “Had he?”
“No. Did she talk to you about them?”
Marlitta rubbed her face—it felt numb—and shook her head. “She never talked abo
ut them. Nothing’s ever been said, except when Ellen wanted to take one. Right after she bought that place. She said the painting was hers and she wanted it. They fought about it, but Dorothy wouldn’t let her have it.”
Marlitta took a sip of tea. “Nobody ever got away with one of Daddy’s paintings.” She raised her eyes and looked at Carl. He looked older. When had he gotten older? “Except you.”
He grinned, and suddenly looked like Carl again, the Carl she had always known, about to suggest something that would get them both into trouble. “Daddy gave it to me. I always liked it the best of all his stuff.”
“I don’t see how you could. It’s so—”
“Marlitta, you never were one to look very far under the surface. I got that one away before Dorothy knew what was happening, and she never could figure how to get it back.”
“I never wanted one. I don’t think Dorothy liked them much either. I don’t think she ever even looked at them. They were always just there. In that room.”
“When was the last time you looked at them?”
“I don’t—” She squeezed her eyes shut tight. They stung, felt dry and scratchy. “Years. I—”
“Are you sure they’re all still there?”
* * *
After the rainstorm, the sun came out to blaze fiercely, making the most of the short time left before it had to go down. Trees dripped; water rushed along the gutters and flooded over the curbs. As Susan drove by the Tudor-style house on Kentucky Street, a car backed out of the driveway and took off in the other direction. The driver was Carl Barrington. She U-turned at the end of the block and parked in front.
With a finger against the bell, she heard the ding-dong, ding-dong, ding inside. Nobody answered. She pressed again. Just as she was about to give up, the door opened.
“Good evening, Dr. Barrington. I wonder if I could speak with you a few minutes.”
Marlitta looked at her blankly, then seemed to focus, realize who she was, and stepped back with a sigh.
The wide entry had slate tiles, and Marlitta’s flat-heeled shoes made a weary thumping sound as she showed Susan into the living room.
The rich smell of roasting chicken permeated the house, making Susan hungry. Pick up something on the way home and actually cook it? Nah. It was a lot quicker to pick up something already cooked. And that way, no cleanup.
Family Practice Page 12