Family Practice

by Charlene Weir

  “Can I get you anything?” Marlitta asked. “A cold drink, or some tea?” She looked tired to the point of dropping, still dressed in working clothes: a gray skirt, a white blouse, and hose.

  “No thank you. I have only a few questions.”

  Susan was struck by how much Marlitta resembled her older sister, but a blurred, softer version; her hair, slightly longer but still short, was lighter, her face less defined. A plain woman, not unattractive, but next to her startlingly handsome husband, she must look drab. She blended in with the muted colors of the room. Two chairs in a soft peach color, and a couch in a still paler peach, two watercolors above the couch: a bride being driven in a horse-drawn wagon to a church in the distance, and a row of ducks in tall grass by the edge of a stream.

  Marlitta dropped into the wing chair as though she couldn’t take another step. “I’m sorry I seem so slow-witted, but I really don’t think there’s anything else I can tell you.”

  Susan settled on the couch. “Is your husband home?”

  “I’m sorry,” Marlitta said again. A smile flickered thinly across her face. “I seem to be saying that a lot lately. Brent isn’t home yet. He has some kind of meeting.”

  Susan wondered whether Brent’s meeting was with a female.

  “There’s really nothing he can tell you. He knows nothing about Dorothy’s—about what happened. He was on campus Saturday afternoon.”

  So he claimed. “We have to keep going over things. I know it’s difficult, but it is important. What happened the week before Dorothy’s death?”

  “Nothing happened,” Marlitta said with a bewildered shake of her head. “It was an ordinary week.”

  “Nothing at all unusual or different?”

  “No.”

  “You must have talked with her.”

  “Of course. We talked about patients, other things. I don’t know. There wasn’t anything. I’m truly sorry—” She stopped and sighed. “There I go again. I’ve tried to think, but really there was nothing.”

  This family didn’t seem to go in much for cozy chats with each other. If Dorothy’d had anything on her mind, she might not have mentioned it to any of them. But unless the perp had indeed skulked into the medical building and shot Dorothy for no other reason than because she’d caught him, something had led up to her death. “What did Dorothy like to do when she wasn’t working?”

  A facsimile of a smile. “Dorothy was always working.” Marlitta laced her fingers, held her hands palm up in her lap, and talked to them. “She liked to play the piano. We all played together. Used to. We haven’t done that much lately.”

  “You all play the piano?”

  “Only Dorothy. She said it relaxed her. Carl and I— Oh, how we hated to practice.” Marlitta separated her hands and smoothed the skirt over her knees.

  “She’d been—” Marlitta paused. “Oh, I don’t know, remembering things.”

  “What things?”

  “I don’t know if that’s the right way to say it. I don’t mean depressed or anything like that. Feeling nostalgic perhaps. Actually, I believe she was quite liking it.”

  “Liking what?”

  “Gathering up all the old photographs. Going through them.”

  “Did she do that often?”

  “None of us had looked at those old pictures for years. They were just packed away someplace in the house. You can’t imagine what-all is packed away in that house. She found it kind of fun, I think, going through them. Albums and boxes.”

  “Why was she doing this?”

  “The Historical Society—well, it’s really Holly Dietz—wants to do a photo book of the early history of Hampstead. She asked Dorothy to bring her old pictures. Oh—” Marlitta rubbed her eyes. “Friday, I think, she meant to do that.”

  “Dorothy did some work at the battered women’s shelter. Did that pose any difficulties for her?”

  Marlitta took in a slow breath; otherwise she simply sat like a lump. Susan couldn’t tell if she was avoiding an answer or if the switch in subject had come too fast for her.

  “It made her mad. She got very angry that the men would do such a thing. And even angrier when the women wouldn’t even get themselves out of the situation.”

  “It’s not always—”

  “I know. It’s not as simple as all that.”

  “Did anyone ever threaten her?”

  “I don’t—” Something shifted in her eyes. Susan had no idea where to go with it. “Maybe.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. She got a phone call at the office.”

  “When?”

  “One day last week. I don’t even know what was said. Only that Dorothy said she wasn’t intimidated by threats.”

  “What else did she say?”

  Marlitta shook her head.

  “What might the threat have been?”

  “I don’t— Dorothy is—was—very strong. She’d never let anything stop her from doing what she felt was right.”

  Marlitta’s fatigue and air of confusion seemed real, but something about this threatening phone call smelled like a false scent to lead the dogs astray.

  “What can you tell me about Debra Cole?”

  “I don’t understand what you want to know. She’s worked for us for several years. Her work’s always been satisfactory. She’s—” Marlittla closed her eyes and shivered. “I’m really very tired. Could we do this another time?”

  “Of course.” Susan stood up. “I’m sorry to bother you. Do you know Ed Cole?”

  “Debra’s husband? Yes. Well, only who he is.” Marlitta put the heels of her hands against her face and rubbed them down her temples and over her cheeks. “I don’t think there’s anything I can tell you about him.”

  Susan left carrying her own brand of fatigue, the fatigue and irritation she always got when an investigation was still bits and pieces and she didn’t yet know which pieces were useful and which should be thrown away. She climbed into the pickup and pointed its nose toward Brookvale Hospital.

  Jen’s mother was standing by the elevator when the doors opened. “Oh,” she said. Makeup perfect, brown hair in tumbling curls, Terry wore a full skirt, red with white swirls, and a white blouse with ruffles down the front. She snapped open a straw handbag and made sharp little jabs into it.

  “You’re going to talk to her again, aren’t you?” Ordinarily a bubbly woman, all smiles and dimples, Terry had no fizz around Susan. “You’re just going to bring it all back. She needs to forget. Remembering makes her sicker. How can she get better if you keep on at her about it?”

  Jen would not be safe until the killer was caught, even with word spread around that she hadn’t seen her attacker, knew nothing. “I’ll try not to upset her.”

  “Why can’t you leave her alone? You’re giving her bad dreams.”

  What Terry really want to say, Susan thought, was stay away from my daughter.

  Terry stepped into the elevator, and the doors closed on a face of unguarded dislike.

  With a sigh, Susan trekked into ICU. Terry’s attitude made difficulties. The last thing Susan wanted was to cause conflicts for Jen.

  Jen had her eyes closed, face splotchy-red with measles. The monitors bleeped and flickered; an IV tube dripped fluid into one arm.

  “Hi,” Susan said softly.

  Jen’s eyes opened sleepily. “Mom?” focused, then blurred. “… worries.” Her voice was faint, the words squishy.

  “Moms worry. They’re programmed that way.”

  “… yeah.”

  “Everybody’s been doing some worrying.”

  A faded grin. “… you?”

  “Especially me.” Susan nudged the chair closer and plopped down. “You’re really something. A hero.”

  Jen shifted her shoulders, embarrassed. “… didn’t … do anything.”

  “You survived. Feel like talking?”

  “… I guess.” Her eyes closed. “… can’t … remember…”

  “You remember
going to the doctor’s office?”

  “Yeah.” She opened her eyes. “Sad … sorta mad … the ballet.”

  “When the doctor says okay, and your mom says okay”—that part might be hard come by—“we’re going.”

  “… promise?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “… okay.”

  “Is it scary to talk about what happened?”

  “Sort of…” Words breathy, soft. “Like a dream … like … didn’t really happen.”

  “Your mom said you’re having dreams. What about?”

  “… dumb.”

  “Dreams aren’t dumb. They’re just dreams. You ever hear of anybody who had smart dreams?”

  “Don’t … make sense.”

  “Is it a scary dream?”

  “… kinda.” Jen pinched a crease in the sheet; eyelids drooped shut. “I’m in … some place … dark. A monk.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Black robe … hood … can’t see…”

  “Then what?”

  Jen’s words came even more slowly as she drifted toward the dream. “Belt … rope thing … like in pictures … medieval times…”

  “Right. What then?”

  “Hood turns … looks at me…” Her eyes opened, gazed unseeing. “No face … just black and … a skull … like a pin.” She touched her shoulder just below the collarbone. “The arm raises … the sleeve, and he … points … at me … a finger … long, bony finger.”

  She blinked, looked at Susan. “Dumb.”

  “Sounds pretty scary.”

  “… yeah.”

  “What happens after that?”

  “Nothing.” Jen moved her head slightly back and forth on the pillow as though checking the reality of it. “Who … shot…?”

  “I’m working on it. What do you remember about being in the doctor’s office?”

  “Kinda not … anything.”

  Susan patted her wrist. “You probably remember more than you think. You remember being in the waiting room?”

  “I guess so.”

  “The doctor came, and you went with her.”

  “… open mouth … stick out tongue…”

  “Yes. Close your eyes and think for a minute. You’re sitting on the examining table. Dr. Barrington asks you to stick out your tongue.”

  Her eyelids were so heavy that Jen didn’t have any trouble closing them. “Throat culture.” Surprise at remembering. “She went … to get … a Q-Tip thing … stuck it down my throat.”

  “You’re doing great. Now what happens?”

  “She left … pretty soon … bang. I went … to see … and…”

  “What?”

  “On the floor … and blood … all this blood.”

  “Yes,” Susan murmured. “A lot of blood. What else did you see?”

  “… nothing.”

  “Did you hear anything?”

  Jen moved her head. “I remember … thinking, ‘Wow … so much blood’… and then … I don’t … remember anything…”

  Susan hesitated about pushing too much. Narrative questions—the tell-me-what-happened variety—generally produced the most accurate information. Interrogatory stuff—did you see this, did you hear that—brought out more details. The problem was the details weren’t necessarily correct. More errors occurred when subjects were urged to answer specific questions than when they were allowed to choose their own specifics.

  Picking words carefully so she didn’t plant a suggested response, she said, “When you saw Dr. Barrington on the floor, what else did you see?”

  “… only … black … a shadow.” Her eyes opened.

  The killer must have been in the hallway. Dorothy came from the examining room, angled across the hall toward her office, and went in. Got what she came for, started to leave, and was shot. A second or two must have passed before Jen came running out. She focused on the body—all that blood, a riveting sight for an eleven-year-old.

  Then Jen herself was shot.

  “You’ve been great. You don’t have to think about it anymore. If you remember something else later, just tell me. You know Officer White?”

  Jen nodded, weary.

  “He’s just outside there. If you want me, he’ll get me right away.”

  “… okay.” The eyelids drooped again.

  Susan stood up, put her hand over Jen’s, and squeezed. “I’ll be back later.”

  Damn. She jabbed the button for the elevator. She’d hoped for something on the shooter. Size, shape, sex. Anything to work with. Jen had given her the grim reaper.

  14

  ELLEN PADDED QUIETLY into the kitchen in search of breakfast. Carl was right. There were lots of guns in this world. Just because Dorothy had been shot, it didn’t mean she was shot with Daddy’s gun. “Oh, yes?” a little voice way back in her mind said. “Then why is it missing?”

  Opening the cabinet door, she peered at the shelf, pulled down a box of cornflakes, and shook some in a bowl. From the refrigerator she took a carton of milk, sloshed a dollop over the cereal, and picked up her spoon.

  Taylor came into the kitchen and, with little more than a glance at her, got a glass and filled it with orange juice. “I heard you up early.”

  “Trouble sleeping.”

  He looked at the orange juice, tipped the glass, and sipped. “I’m having the same problem.”

  She believed him. Even freshly shaved, neatly brushed, and properly dressed in conservative suit, white shirt, and subdued tie, he looked like he hadn’t had any sleep. His face was sallow, with deep lines from nose to mouth and a haunted, worried look in his eyes.

  She tried to see him objectively. Attractive, in a quiet sort of way. Dark hair with silver at the temples, neatly trimmed, but there was something slick about him, polished, as though he put on a facade when he put on the suit. He fit the picture of staid banker, if you didn’t look too closely.

  He hadn’t said a word about her staying here. Would he like to boot her out? This house was so much a Barrington monument, maybe he was the one who felt like a guest. She sure didn’t. She felt like home. And there was something wrong with that.

  She wished she knew what he was so worried about, then felt tons of shame. His wife had been brutally murdered. Wasn’t that enough? She was more of a Barrington than she admitted. How neat and tidy if Taylor were guilty.

  “Taylor, why did Dorothy want us all here Saturday night?”

  Something slipped very fast across his face and slid under—simulated?—pain and grief.

  Superflash: he knew why.

  “I told you, all of you, I don’t know. I wasn’t even aware she’d asked you.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Dorothy.”

  He sipped orange juice. “I’m sure she meant to tell me, but before she could, she was—” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Ellen felt a gush of sympathy. Sorrow? They should be sharing this. They were all knocked out, all isolated in their own space, and couldn’t reach for each other.

  “It might be—” he said hesitantly.

  “What?”

  “It may have had something to do with Carl.”

  “Carl? What about him?”

  “She was worried about him.”

  “Why?”

  Taylor took a slow breath, placed the orange juice glass carefully in the sink, and said evenly. “She thought he was drinking too much. She was afraid it was affecting his work.”

  “Dorothy told you this?” Fat chance. Barringtons never told anybody anything. Especially each other.

  “I guess there was something going on in Carl’s life. He wanted money.”

  Taylor was deliberately tossing suspicion on Carl. Any sympathy she’d felt just went right out the window. This stuff pointed the finger away from himself.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said as though he knew what she was thinking. “I know how much you’d all like it to be me, but I didn’t kill her.” He fished car keys from his pocket. “You Bar
ring-tons always think you’re better than everybody else.”

  Not me. I’m the one not good enough nohow.

  “I’m not going to let you, any of you, pin it on me,” he said.

  From the kitchen window, she watched him back his shiny maroon Mercedes from the garage and drive away. He was nervous; he was scared; he was worried. She planted that firmly in mind to overshadow the nonsense about Carl.

  She dumped her soggy cereal and put the bowl, along with Taylor’s glass, in the dishwasher. She wished she knew where he was going, or, more to her purpose, how long he’d be gone.

  She wasn’t exactly sure why she felt the urgent need to search the house: the gun, of course, and some indication of why Dorothy had told them all to come here Saturday night. Whatever the reason it must have something to do with her murder. The cops had already searched, but they didn’t know the place like she did.

  When Ellen found herself tiptoeing along the ten-foot-wide hallway with its crystal chandelier, she made herself walk normally. It didn’t help. She still felt like a guilty, sneaky snot. The empty bedrooms were easy: a quick look through closets, under beds, and in dresser drawers. There were seven of them, and even before she finished the last one, she realized how impossible the whole idea was. The house was too big. Originally built as Hampstead’s first hospital, in addition to eight bedrooms, six bathrooms, ten fireplaces, living room, and dining room, it had a sunroom, music room, library, kitchen and pantry, and two small office rooms, one used by Dorothy and one by Taylor.

  Too many possible hiding places. The gun could be squirreled away in some small niche easily overlooked. It would take weeks to search thoroughly, and even then she couldn’t be sure. This was stupid, and she was already hot and sweaty. Give it up.

  The door to the room with Daddy’s paintings was closed. It always was. She didn’t open it. She didn’t feel up to seeing the paintings. They were sort of humorous, but mostly sad. They made her cry. Always a man in some kind of overwhelming isolation.

  None of them had really known Daddy. The ever-ready tears popped out. Silly to get so emotional. She’d never really known her mother either. And she certainly didn’t know her siblings.

  She paused in the doorway of Dorothy’s bedroom. First her parents, now Dorothy and Taylor’s. It was much the same as it had always been: antique mahogany four-poster bed with carved headboard, heavy mahogany dresser, rocker with curved armrests. Windows on two sides let in bright light filtered through crisp lace curtains.