by Joan Hess
“As in private sessions with Candice?” Peter said, scribbling in his notebook. “At the diet place, or at other, more secluded places?”
“I don’t know. Ask him.”
Joanie put her hands on her hips and glowered down at me. “You’re not implying Maribeth went into a murderous rage and drove into the Ultima Center with the express purpose of getting even with Candice, are you? You know her better than that, Claire!”
I took a breath deep enough to make my back sting and said, “No, I can’t believe Maribeth did this on purpose, although she’s been noticeably weird lately. Both Candice and Dr. Winder gave me some nonsense to explain away the mood swings, but they have an interest in the Ultima program and the public perception of it as medically safe. You, Peter, and I saw Maribeth lose her temper over insignificant remarks. She also seemed spaced out on more than one occasion. Candice told me Gerald had been concerned to the point that she recommended additional potassium caplets. Furthermore, if Maribeth was experiencing a deficiency, she might have made it worse with all the exercise.”
Peter closed the notebook. “I’ll have the hospital lab run a blood test to check on it. You try to get some rest, Claire; you’re still in shock, whether you admit it or not.” He gave me an avuncular kiss on the cheek and left the room.
Twisting her hands, Joanie paced around the room until she noticed my sagging eyelids, promised to visit later in the day, and tiptoed out the door. I drifted away to the relative tranquillity of Miss Wornewood’s geography lesson.
After two days of tedium, I was allowed to exchange the pea-green environment for the decor of my own choosing (a dusty rose selected by a previous tenant). A sallow-faced volunteer rolled me in a wheelchair to a side door to make my escape. Peter was waiting by his car, and he’d brought several cushions and a blanket to protect my back, etc. The pain was enough to occupy me all the torturous miles to the apartment, up the hundreds of stairs, across the limitless prairie of the living room, and on to my bed.
Once I was settled, the pillow pleasingly plumped, the teacup conveniently placed, the blankets aesthetically aligned, I asked Peter if he’d confronted Gerald Galleston about his alleged affair with Candice Winder.
I was rewarded with an exasperated look. “Just this once,” he said, turning on the long-suffering, what-have-I-done-to-deserve-this scowl, “I wish you’d stay out of this. I realize you know all the parties, but you had a severe blow to the head and only by a few inches missed having a piece of glass embedded in your heart. You need to turn off the curiosity and take it easy. No questions, no spate of deductive prowess, no anything. I’ll go down to the bookstore and fetch you an armload of mystery novels. You can literally swim in the bed of intrigue.”
“While you wait for Maribeth to wake up so that you can book her for homicide?”
“We’re not booking anyone until we get some answers.”
“Maybe you can rouse her with a cattle prod,” I continued mercilessly. Hospital food can do that to you, especially that yellowish, lumpy stuff that congeals before you’ve finished toying with the canned peas.
“I’ll suggest it to the attending physician. I need to go now, but I’ll be by this evening with all the mysteries I can find in that musty place you so adore. Is there anything you need before I leave?”
“Would you plug Caron’s telephone in here? No, don’t leap to any unfounded conclusions; I simply don’t feel up to getting out of bed for every siding salesman who’s worried about my exterior peeling.” I sank back and let out a brave little sigh. “My back feels as though someone has been playing tic-tac-toe on it with a branding iron, but if you’re going to get upset, I’ll manage somehow to climb out of bed every time the telephone rings.”
He regarded me for a minute, unconvinced but also unsure, then went into Caron’s room and returned with her telephone. He plugged it in, told me to call him at the station if I needed anything, spent another moment telling me how he’d have felt if the glass had entered my back a few inches higher, and let himself out the front door.
As soon as I heard the downstairs door close, I dialed the college switchboard and asked for Gerald’s office number. I then dialed that number while gingerly wiggling around to find a position that didn’t feel quite so much like lying on a bed of coals.
“Galleston here,” he answered.
“This is Claire Malloy, Gerald. I hope I’m not disturbing you just before a class, but I wanted to convey my concern about Maribeth’s condition.”
“Ah, thank you, Claire.”
“And poor Candice Winder,” I added in the same melancholic tone. “Her husband must be devastated by her death.” I listened to Gerald’s unsteady breath for a minute, then took an unsteady one of my own and said, “Have you had the opportunity to speak to him about the … incident?”
“There have been a few conversations. Unpleasant ones, I’m afraid. He’s very disturbed and has been making some wild accusations that have no basis in fact and come perilously close to slander. I’m most distressed. After all, my wife’s in a coma and my car’s in the shop, so I find myself reduced to hitchhiking rides with colleagues and coming home to an empty house. Maribeth is my primary concern, naturally, but the whole situation is intolerable. I haven’t worked on my manuscript since the accident. Not one word.” He paused for a moment, then cleared his throat. “You haven’t been talking to Winder by any chance, have you?”
“I was released from the hospital this morning,” I said, taking a small amount of pleasure from the undertone of strain in his voice. “I suppose I’ll call him at some time to express my condolences. Have the funeral arrangements been announced?”
“I couldn’t say. Listen, Claire, I need to talk to you, but I can’t do it on my office telephone. There’s no privacy here, but I could walk to your place after my eleven o’clock seminar is finished. In fact, I’ll detour by Thurber Street and pick up sandwiches and a bottle of wine; we can have a cozy picnic on your bed. I’m sure you’re much too sore in certain delicate areas to be up and about so soon. I do hope you’ll allow me to do everything possible to ease the pain. Until noon, ma cherie?”
I agreed amiably, although the cozy picnic would not be conducted on my bed unless I died within the hour. During the subsequent sixty minutes, I gave death serious consideration as I eased on clothing, made it to the bathroom to comb my hair, made it to the kitchen to put on the teakettle and hide the wineglasses in the cupboard at the top of the back stairs, and finally found a moderately acceptable position on the sofa to await Gerald.
All of the above-mentioned activity had precluded thought. Now, gazing out the window at the treetops, I tried to find some explanation for the incident—or accident—or attempted murder (and then of whom—Candice or me?)—or whatever it was. With the exception of Maribeth, I knew almost nothing about those who might be involved. Dr. Winder was slick, professional, and no doubt armed with a bedside manner that might land him in bed with the more acquiescent clients. Each examination room was equipped with a padded paper-covered examination table; one rip and the evidence of misconduct was replaced with pristine white paper. Much easier than taking sheets to the Laundromat.
As for Bobbi Rodriquez, she seemed to be bobbing on a veritable sea of enthusiasm; if she was holding anything below the surface, it was not visible. I’d seen her going into Delano’s Fitness Center and I’d seen her get into some hunk’s car. I’d seen her newest leotard, for that matter.
The owner of Delano’s Fitness Center was either genuinely enamored of Maribeth or genuinely enamored of being her inamorato when her impending fortune came due. Neither gave him any motive to wish her harm.
But Maribeth was the one who had harmed people—one terminally. She had mentioned that she wanted a divorce from Gerald, I recalled with a frown. Even if she had suddenly realized he was having an affair with Candice, she would hardly be inclined to risk her life-and mine—to come after Candice. Why would she care?
Because she was h
aving a mental breakdown. Because she was lying when she declared she wanted a divorce. Because she wasn’t after Candice but after me …
I ran out of theories just as I heard the downstairs bell ring. I hobbled to my door and yelled as loudly as I could for Gerald to come upstairs. He looked disappointed to find me fully clothed on the sofa, but produced a smile and held out a bottle of wine.
“A rosé, somewhat shy but with a lingering sweetness and a bouquet reminiscent of a spring shower,” he said.
“I just look for the cork,” I said dryly. “How’s Maribeth? Has there been a change in her condition?”
He put the wine bottle on the coffee table and offered me a sandwich. When I shook my head, he sat beside me and ran his fingers through his hair. “No, I called the hospital before I left my office; she’s exactly as she’s been for the last two and a half days. They won’t say a word about her prognosis. I’m increasingly worried that there might be permanent brain damage, that she’ll remain in this coma indefinitely, simply vegetating, unaware of anyone or anything.” His voice cracked and he turned his head to discreetly wipe his eyes. “Poor girl.”
It would have been touching had I believed a syllable of it, but beneath his wretched tone I could hear the siding salesman offering me that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be the first kid on the block to be cloaked in aluminum.
“If she’s that bad, you might as well divorce her,” I said. “She wouldn’t know the difference, would she?”
“But that would be treachery. I shall always be there for her, to manage her affairs and see that she is given the best treatment available.” He picked up the wine bottle with a shaky hand. “Shall I fetch a corkscrew and two glasses? I do think you’ll find this rosé quite a scintillating experience.”
“I often find roses to be, shall we say, unsubstantial. Tell me how you met Maribeth and fell in love.”
“If I can remember,” he muttered, not pleased with my dismissal of his shy yet sweet and showery wine selection. “Someone brought her to a party and then dumped her, I think. I took pity on her, chatted with her, and found myself obliged to drive her to her dormitory. We talked for a while about our respective childhoods and all that sort of drivel undergraduates consider ‘sharing.’ Eventually I discovered I’d grown fond of her. I suppose I imagined myself a modern-day Henry Higgins, willing to teach her how to behave in an intellectual environment, but she turned out to be less of an Eliza Doolittle than I’d hoped. Which is not to imply, of course, that I’m not truly worried about her now.”
I could imagine Maribeth pouring out stories of her childhood in Farber Mansion to an attentive audience—right down to the amount of the trust fund coming to her on her thirtieth birthday. “She dropped out of school before she finished her degree, didn’t she?”
“Yes, due to some problem from a childhood disease. They kept her in the school infirmary for months, and she missed too many classes to catch up. Where can I find a corkscrew? I’m terribly eager to try this little treasure, and I would be excited if you’d try a tiny sip. I picked it with you in mind, Claire. I find you shy, yet I suspect there’s a sweetness just below the surface, a fragile yet deeply romantic desire to be swept into someone’s arms and carried into the bedroom.”
“The corkscrew’s on the counter and the sofa is just fine,” I said flatly. When he returned with the corkscrew and two tumblers, I had moved all the way to the end of the sofa and curled my feet atop the middle cushion. He opened the wine and ceremoniously sniffed the cork before filling the glasses. I allowed him to take a mouthful of wine, then said, “I was surprised you haven’t heard any information about Candice’s funeral, but I guess it’s awkward for the widower to call the lover.”
He choked in a most satisfactory way. “The—lover? Whatever can you be talking about?”
“You didn’t know? How quaint. It’s the nonparticipatory spouse who’s supposed to be the last to find out,” I said, “but even Maribeth had it figured out. Three meetings a week? Really, Gerald, you might have at least read the schedule on the Ultima Center door. Wednesday, from five until six. We were shortchanged last week, but I was not inclined to argue the point.”
“And you blabbed to the police,” he said, his fingers tightening around the wineglass. “Some detective hinted as much, but I told him the truth: Candice and I may have had consultations in private, but only out of consideration for Maribeth’s feelings. Had I attended those group meetings, I might have encountered someone I knew from the college, who would have told everyone on campus that she was so fat that she had to spend a fortune to go to the dieters’ equivalent of Alcoholics Anonymous.”
“I see,” I murmured. “And where did these consultations take place?”
He took a long sip of wine. “Is this any of your business, my dearest Claire? I thought you were worried about Maribeth, not about a bunch of boring consultations at the Ultima Center.”
“I’m always being accused of meddling. Now, what did you want to talk to me about, Gerald?”
“Another matter entirely,” he said as he polished off the wine and refilled his glass. “Are you sure you won’t join me? What I needed to ask you is if you’re willing to testify to Maribeth’s inexplicable behavior the last few days before the accident? There may be some question of liability for the damage to the building and the … the unfortunate demise of one of the owners. I think it prudent to confirm that she was incapable of rational thought or action, which would serve to reinforce my contention that she was not responsible for the damages resulting from the crash. Once we’ve established that, the insurance company will be obligated to settle any claims.”
“How do you account for it?” asked curiously.
“Beats me.” He drank the contents of my glass, refilled his own again, and gave me a seductive smile. “I mentioned it to Candice, and she said it might be something to do with the potassium or protein. Something like that. Jesus H., after all I’ve been through lately, how am I supposed to remember that? Whatever it was, Candice gave me a bottle of pills to take to Maribeth, which I did.” His seductive, if somewhat blurred, smile disappeared as his eyes narrowed. “Do you think the pills were poison? I sure as hell won’t have any problems with liability if Candice poisoned Maribeth. I’d be home free and clear, I would!”
The above speech was not given nearly as clearly as indicated by the crisp print of prose. Gerald was rapidly getting bombed; his sandwich was untouched but the bottle of rosé was almost empty. He was attempting to look crafty, but a certain lack of focus destroyed the effect, and he was having difficulty coaxing the wine into the glass.
“Why would Candice want to poison Maribeth?” I prodded, as willing as anyone to take advantage of a drunk.
“I dunno. How about one teeny tiny sip of rose, honey? It’s shy and sweet and very, very nice.”
I shook my head politely. “I thought Candice was very, very nice, too. She had such a warm smile and a real concern for her clients.”
“Big knockers. She had the biggest damn knockers I’ve seen in all my days, and I’ve seen some damn big ones.” He ogled at mine, then made a face and said, “They were a lot bigger than yours. That’s for sure. You ever thought about silicone injections?”
“I’ll think about it tonight. My goodness, look at the time. You’re going to have to hurry if you don’t want to miss your class, Gerald. I strongly suggest you take the sandwiches with you and eat them while you walk back to your office.”
“Don’t have a class for another hour.” He tipped the glass back so far that wine splattered on his nose, then banged it down and drank the remaining wine from the bottle with noisy gulps. “We got all the time in the world, Claire. We can do all kinda stuff. Hey, you’re not mad about what I said, are you? Your knockers are plenty big enough for me. I’m more of a leg man anyway.”
He lunged just as I turned my leg and lifted my knee, and his midriff slammed down against it. Air whooshed out of his lungs. He gave me a wounded look,
then his eyes rolled upward and he sprawled across my lap. The unexpected pressure made me feel as if I were sitting in a pool of lava.
“Get off me,” I growled, shaking his shoulder as I fought back tears. “Come on, Gerald, I’m sure you’ve got a faculty meeting, or a long-distance telephone call.”
He mumbled and began to burrow toward my crotch.
“Stop this,” I said, now shaking his shoulder hard enough to frappe his brain. “Stop this right now, damn it!”
To make things more exciting, I heard a knock at the door. I shook Gerald furiously as I imagined Peter’s face when he opened the door. Poor Claire, bed-ridden and too weak to walk to the telephone, with a suspect’s husband attempting to gnaw through her zipper while too drunk to uncross his eyes. The knock was repeated.
Gerald had managed to worm his arm around me, and for all intents and purposes, was glued to my thighs. No explanations came to mind. Exerting as much pull as I could on his arm, I yelled, “Go away! I’m too sore to come to the door.”
Joanie opened the door and said, “I heard you coming home earlier, and I brought you some soup for lunch. Shall I warm it up in the kitchen?”
From the doorway the back of the sofa must have blocked her view of the problem, but as she started for the kitchen she saw it. Or the back of its head, to be precise. “What in heaven’s name … ?” she gasped, her pace faltering.
“Would you help me roll him off, please? He’s remarkably heavy at the moment, and uncooperative.”
“Why, that’s Gerald …” she continued. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what it is the two of you are doing.”
“Stop worrying about it and drag him off of me,” I said through clenched teeth. “He’s drunker than a barroom brawler, and equally beyond reason. If you don’t do something soon, my gynecologist is in for a shock. Don’t just stand there—help me.”