"That's nice."
"Ray was a nice guy." She teared up and Billy Wayne lent her his red bandanna for a good blow.
"Did he keep other things at your place? Syringes?"
She nodded. "I'm diabetic, and I give my own insulin shots. In the thigh." She poked her leg below her pink micromini. "I'm not supposed to have sweets," she confessed, "but sometimes I do and shoot up extra insulin."
"Did you have syringes with you at the hospital the night Mr. Carmichael died?"
"Yeah, I carry them in my purse. Ray always brought me supplies. He saved me tons of money."
"Did anyone else have access to your purse at the hospital?"
She shrugged. "I dozed off a few times in the waiting room, so maybe."
"Mrs. Carmichael, did you know Raymond was already married when you married him?"
"No."
"When did you find out?"
"At the hospital, when Natalie and Beatrix came into his room. Ray keeled over, then out in the hall Beatrix said they'd never gotten a divorce. I thought Natalie was going to croak, then she said that she and Ray had never gotten a divorce either."
"Were you angry when you found out what Mr. Carmichael had done?"
She chewed on her lip. "A little. I loved Ray, and I was counting on him being around to help with the baby."
"Is Mr. Carmichael the father of your baby?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"How far along is your pregnancy?"
She smiled. "Three months."
"And how did the other Mrs. Carmichaels react to news of the baby?"
"They didn't like it one little bit. Beatrix couldn't have kids, and Natalie didn't want them."
"Do you think that either Natalie or Beatrix could have killed Mr. Carmichael while he was in the hospital?"
She frowned. "Beatrix is a real meanie—I wouldn't be surprised if she did it. On the other hand, Natalie is a doctor and knows how to kill people, I guess."
"Was Natalie ever alone with Mr. Carmichael?"
"She was in the ICU once, I think, with Beatrix. I don't know about the rest of the time."
"Was Beatrix ever alone with Mr. Carmichael?"
She frowned, trying to remember, then pointed her index finger. "Yeah! I woke up and saw her coming out of the ICU alone. I was mad because I didn't get to go in to see him."
"You didn't go into the ICU at all?"
Ruby wanted to lie, but Detective Aldrich seemed too darn smart, firing questions one right after another. "Just for a minute. The nurse snuck me in so I could look at him, but I didn't get to talk to him or anything."
"When was that?"
"I don't remember."
"Did the nurse stay with you while you were in the ICU?"
"Uh-huh."
"Do you remember the nurse's name?"
"No, but she looked like Ma Ingalls on Little House on the Prairie. I told her that."
"Okay."
"Hey," Billy Wayne said to Aldrich, looking as if an idea had whomped him upside the head. "Ruby's baby is entitled to Raymond's estate, ain’t it?"
Aldrich nodded. "If she can prove paternity, she'll probably be granted some portion of the estate in the form of a trust. Most likely the bulk of Raymond's holdings will revert to Beatrix, his real wife."
Billy Wayne frowned. "But what if that old bag killed him?"
"No one can profit from a murder. If she killed her husband, his assets and life insurance would probably go to Raymond's offspring."
"Ruby's baby?"
"Er, yes."
"How much dough are we talking about here?"
Aldrich frowned. "About half a million loaves."
Her lawyer gaped. "You don't say."
Ruby swallowed. Five hundred thousand dollars? She made eye contact with Billy Wayne, who gave her a thumbs-up, then tapped his Timex. He had to get back to Leander to play in a softball game this afternoon.
"Are we almost finished?" she asked Aldrich.
The detective set down his pencil. "Mrs. Carmichael, we need to talk about a Mr. Hammond Jackson."
She felt the blood drain from her cheeks. "Ham... Ham's dead."
"Around five years ago, according to my sources."
She nodded.
"He was your mother's boyfriend?"
"For a while." Then hers—not by choice.
"He beat her?"
"Whoever was handy," she said. Hate bubbled in her stomach.
"How did Mr. Jackson die, Mrs. Carmichael?"
She glanced at Billy Wayne, who was cleaning his nails with a pocket knife and humming to himself, probably thinking about the money. "He, uh... drank rat poison by mistake. He couldn't read, and thought it was booze."
"He drank the poison, or someone injected him with it?"
Uh-oh. "I don't know."
"You were the last person who saw him alive."
Her armpits were sticky. "So?"
"So you must know what happened to him."
She stared at him, begging him not to ask more questions. "Can I go now? I have to be at work in a couple of hours, and I'm the feature act tonight."
Ruby hated the pity in his eyes, the condemnation (doing the daily crossword was paying off), and the doubt. "That's all for now," he agreed with a nod.
Standing so quickly she almost twisted her ankle in her platform shoes, she said, "Come on, Billy Wayne."
Her lawyer jumped up, saluted Aldrich, and followed her out of the room at a trot. "Five hundred thou," he whispered, his eyes wide. "Ruby, I know I told you I'd represent you for free passes to the club, but if you hit the jackpot, I could use a new set of tires."
"The money won't be mine unless they find out that Beatrix killed Ray," she murmured, her head pounding with confusion. The gossip surrounding Ham Jackson's death was just starting to die down in her hometown. Would they start saying she'd killed Ray, too? On TV, innocent people got thrown in jail all the time. She clutched her tummy—she couldn't have this baby behind bars. Terri, her own mother, had given birth to her in the clink, cursing her for life. "Better hold off on those tires for now, Billy Wayne."
"Why? I'll bet she did him in, the bat."
Maybe Beatrix did kill Ray, Ruby conceded as she shoved open the front door and walked out into a surprising spring chill. But God would get her good if she herself profited from Ray's murder, because she wasn't totally, completely, absolutely, one hundred percent innocent.
Chapter 13
Natalie squinted. "Of course I've heard of ouabain. Is that your theory behind Raymond's death? Ouabain poisoning?"
Detective Aldrich nodded. "Yes."
She touched her forehead. "I don't believe this. Did anyone tell you, Detective, that ouabain occurs naturally in humans?" Weak with relief, she slumped in the metal folding chair. It was all a ghastly mistake.
"This much?" He slid a paper across the table in front of her and Masterson. "For the purposes of the tape, I just provided a copy of the medical examiner's report."
Natalie scanned the autopsy results and the M.E.'s comments, then shook her head. "This report must be in error."
"Like the original autopsy order," Masterson chimed in, tossing back the paper. "Raymond Carmichael's body was not even supposed to be autopsied, yet you come back with a murder allegation. Sounds like the medical examiner's office is trying to avoid a lawsuit, Detective."
Aldrich sat back in his seat and folded his hands behind his head. "I feel pretty safe with this one, counselor, since murderers typically don't draw attention to a case by filing a suit."
"My client is not a murderer."
"I'd rather hear that from your client," Aldrich said, making eye contact with Natalie.
"I'm not a murderer."
He regarded her for a long minute. "Before you go on, Doctor, I feel obligated to inform you that one of my own men overheard you threatening to kill Mr. Carmichael."
"What?" She laughed, her voice cracking. "That's absurd."
"Do you recall State Trooper Nolen
calling to tell you Mr. Carmichael had been in an accident?"
"I remember that an officer called, but not his name."
"Do you remember telling the officer to stop by the hospital later because you were going to kill your husband?"
She opened her mouth to say that he and his man Nolen were both insane. Then she remembered that when the phone rang, she'd been cursing Raymond for losing their life savings. No, make that her life savings. "I was angry. I'd just found out something he'd done," she stammered.
"That he was already married?"
"No. That he had amassed a great deal of debt without telling me."
"I see. And how did you find out about the debt?"
"A local pawnbroker named Brian Butler came to see me, to tell me that Raymond owed him money."
"How much?"
She swallowed hard. "Over a hundred thousand dollars."
Aldrich lifted an eyebrow. "Good thing you're the beneficiary of a life insurance policy for two hundred thousand that you took out on Raymond less than six months ago."
"Stop the recorder," her attorney said.
"No." Natalie held up her hand. "I have nothing to hide. The insurance was Raymond's idea. I didn't kill my husband for the money, or for any other reason. But I was angry with Raymond when I received the phone call. I just didn't expect the officer to take me seriously."
Aldrich leaned forward. "Dr. Carmichael, we're taking this case very seriously. Let's review the facts: You discover your husband has wrecked your finances, then you threaten to kill him, then on top of everything else, you find out that he's a bigamist who has two other wives, then he winds up dead from a lethal dose of an obscure poison."
All it takes is a motive, circumstantial evidence, and a persuasive prosecuting attorney. Tony had tried to warn her. "This is ridiculous," Natalie murmured.
"From my point of view," the detective said, "it makes perfect sense. You're a doctor with plenty enough know-how and opportunity to do him in. Plus you have a motive and the means."
Masterson scoffed. "What motive?"
"Money, revenge."
Her lawyer's mouth flattened, but he attempted nonchalance. "Buying life insurance is no crime."
"No, but inducing a heart attack to collect on the policy is."
Natalie wanted to scream, but if she forced herself to remain calm, perhaps the world would right itself. "Detective Aldrich, Raymond was having chest pains before I arrived at the hospital."
The man shrugged. "Maybe it gave you the idea to finish him off."
She inhaled deeply and swallowed her tears—she had to remain sharp, focused. "I didn't know he was even having chest pains until I walked into Dade General and found out he'd been admitted."
"Maybe you had the stuff with you. The M.E. says that low doses of the ouabain would trigger chest pains. Maybe you've been giving Raymond ouabain without him knowing."
She fisted her hands. "I only saw my husband every other weekend. And don't you think he'd have been suspicious if I'd given him injections?"
"You don't have to inject the stuff. But then, you knew that, didn't you, Dr. Carmichael?"
She looked away.
"Please speak for the tape. Were you aware that the poison ouabain can be absorbed through the skin or ingested?"
"Yes."
"And if we were to search your office and your home, would we find ouabain?"
Panic ballooned in her stomach. She'd never gotten around to cleaning out the previous doctor's stash of samples and accumulated junk at the office. For all she knew, Jimmy Hoffa could be buried in the storeroom. And she didn't have a clue what Raymond kept in the metal lockers that lined the interior of the garage—could he have been taking the drug without telling her in an attempt to disguise a heart problem?
"How about it, Dr. Carmichael? Got any ouabain lying around?"
"No... not to my knowledge."
Masterson snorted. "This is crazy, Detective. Dr. Carmichael is a dedicated physician with an excellent personal and professional reputation."
"Which will be tanked when word gets out that she married a bigamist and he died from a lethal dose of cardiac poison."
True. So true. She sat back in the cold chair, overwhelmed. Where had her life gone? How could her entire identity be so tenuous as to disappear in a matter of a few days?
Her lawyer's hand on her arm was meant to comfort, but she could only stare at his soft white fingers. "If you're convinced that Raymond Carmichael was poisoned," Masterson said, his voice a bit shrill, "may I point out that there are at least two other women who might have wanted him dead."
"And I've already talked to both of them," Aldrich said.
The person they interview first has the advantage. She sprang up, her legs tingling from the adrenaline surge. "They told you that I killed Raymond? That elitist snob and that empty-headed juvenile?" Was it not enough that they both had a piece of Raymond that she didn't? Were they out to annihilate her? Did they actually think she was capable of killing him?
Natalie swallowed. Was she? The few hours she'd been able to sleep these past few days, hadn't her dreams been awash with fantasies of confrontation and revenge?
"Both his wife and the woman who's carrying his baby have more to gain from Raymond's death than Natalie," Masterson said quickly. "She doesn't even have a solid claim on his estate."
"So if Raymond lived, she got nothing. This way, she takes home two hundred grand."
"And maybe Raymond stiffed someone else—a coworker or a business associate who decided to get even," her lawyer pointed out.
"Or someone he owed money," Natalie ventured, leaning on the table. An image of Brian Butler exploded into her head. Could that thug have hired someone to kill Raymond?
"Who just happened to be at the hospital the night he was admitted, with a syringe full of ouabain," Aldrich said with a fair amount of sarcasm.
She exhaled. Right—how would Butler have known Raymond was in the hospital? Her brain hurt from too many connections and too few conclusions.
"On the other hand," Aldrich said, "Dr. Carmichael here could have called someone to bring her the poison."
"Like who?" Masterson demanded.
"Like her brother who just got out of the Missouri State Pen. Maybe he graduated from robbery to murder. Or accessory to murder."
Natalie clenched her jaw, close to tears again. "Look, Detective. I came in to talk to you with the hope I could find out what happened to my hus—" She covered her hand with her mouth and choked back a sob. She just wanted her life back, and to be far, far away from this, this... seediness. "Lowell, I have to go. Now."
Masterson was already standing, wielding his briefcase. "Yes, it's past time to leave."
Aldrich smiled and slowly unfolded his broad body. "Would you agree to take a polygraph test, Dr. Carmichael?"
"Yes," she said.
"No," Masterson said a heartbeat later. He leaned close to her ear. "You're too emotional right now. The polygraph could misinterpret your anxiety."
Natalie set her jaw, recognizing the sanity of his observation, especially in light of a sudden revelation about herself.
"Dr. Carmichael?" the detective prodded.
Maybe she hadn't killed Raymond. But oh, God, how she'd wanted to.
Chapter 14
Masterson had told her not to worry—if the police had enough evidence to finger her, they would have arrested her. Still, Natalie couldn't help but jump every time the phone rang and the doorbell sounded. Even now, while pruning the neglected beauty bush, she found herself looking over her shoulder down the stone garden path, expecting Detective Aldrich to appear at the black wrought-iron gate, lift the rusty latch, and march into her overgrown sanctuary swinging a pair of handcuffs.
She'd decided she'd be better off not checking the supply room at the office for ouabain. Not that she'd know exactly what to look for, since the drug could be obtained in several forms—crystals, crystalline powder, pills, water-soluble solutions. Besi
des, even if the storeroom were lined with the stuff, the layers of dust on the contents would speak for themselves.
She had, however, pried open the white lockers in the garage to find financial records for Raymond Carmichael of Northbend, Tennessee, and for Raymond Carmichael of Smiley, Missouri, and for Raymond Carmichael of Leander, Kentucky. Tax returns, originals of his "loan" papers to Brian Butler, copies of forms for different driver's licenses, and other papers she simply didn't have the strength to sort through.
But no ouabain.
Natalie tossed the brittle branches onto one of the piles she'd accumulated, crushing a stand of grapefruit mint beneath the soles of her lace-up boots. They were Rose Marie's boots, actually. And her hat. The aggressive mint was a nuisance, her aunt had said, but smelled nice when trod upon. Natalie was content to blame her occasional tearing and sniffling on the fresh, stinging aroma. At a clinking sound, her heart quickened and she turned to stare at the gate. Only a spring breeze, taunting her. She knelt back to the cool earth and grabbed a handful of dead honeysuckle vine.
To his credit, Tony had been subdued. Pouting, probably, but she didn't care. As soon as he saw she was planning to work in the back yard all day, he'd mumbled something about checking in with his parole officer and hightailed it out of there on foot to ward off an invitation to help. After the degrading interrogation yesterday, she'd considered taking a short trip herself to sort through the mess that was her life, but she could barely afford gas for the lawnmower, much less a ticket to paradise. Besides, she couldn't risk leaving Tony with the keys to the house.
"Dr. Carmichael, how lovely to see you out and about."
She peered up from under the brim of her hat to see her neighbor smiling over the whitewashed side fence. "Good morning, Mrs. Ratchet."
"I see you're thinning the garden—Rose Marie would be pleased."
"Yes."
"How are you doing, my dear?"
"Just trying to stay busy."
"Gardening is so therapeutic. When my Pauly died, I threw myself into a pond."
Our Husband (a humorous romantic mystery) Page 10