by K. L. Murphy
Cancini sat back and studied the widow. She was tall, possibly taller than he. She wore a well-fitted ivory linen business suit and large pearl earrings. No trace of tears stained her smooth skin or mussed her lightly applied mascara. Her manner, icy and distant, contrasted with the sensual curve of her mouth and cheeks. On her ring finger, he spied a plain gold ring. Her fingers, long and shapely, were marred by short, stubby nails.
She pulled a creased piece of paper from her purse and placed it on the table. “I’ve never believed my brother’s death was an accident.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Cancini said. He wrote Brother? in his notebook.
Nora Michael unfolded the page. “I’m sorry. I’m not making any sense, am I? My brother was killed a year ago in a hit-and-run accident, run down in the street. The police never found the driver or the car. They ruled it an accident. But I never believed that and I still don’t.” She paused, her tone a little quieter. “Neither did my Edmund.”
Her husband had just been murdered, brutally stabbed, and she was babbling on about her brother being killed in a car accident a year earlier. Cancini was baffled. She sounded sane, but so did a lot of people who were stark raving mad. “Mrs. Michael, you do understand that I’ve been assigned to the murder investigation of your husband, right? I’m afraid I can’t help you with your brother’s accident.”
“No! No, you’re not listening,” she said, her voice rising an octave. “This is about my husband. That’s why I’ve brought you this.” She slid the paper across the table. “It’s why I’m more convinced than ever my brother was murdered, too.”
Cancini took the page, holding it between his thumb and index fingers. He read the words twice. After a few moments, he raised his eyes to meet her gaze. “If I’ve got this right, you’re telling me you think the deaths are related?”
“Yes, Detective, I do.”
He sat back, studying Mrs. Michael. “Okay,” he said, “I think I see what you mean.”
Her shoulders slumped and she let out a long sigh. “I knew it. They were both murdered then. It’s connected.”
“I didn’t say that exactly.” Cancini glanced from the paper to the woman. “It could be important. But I don’t know that yet.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Could be?” She reached for the paper to snatch it back. “That’s all you have to say? It could be important?”
Cancini pulled the page out of reach, leaving the lady’s long fingers grabbing at air. “It’s evidence, Mrs. Michael, and as such will need to be checked out. The deaths being connected is possible, but until I know more, that’s all I can say.”
“But the threat is clear!”
“Maybe, but your husband was a head doctor, a shrink.”
“That’s an offensive expression, Detective.”
“Sorry. It could just be a crank note from one of his more colorful patients or former patients.”
“Or one of my brother’s.”
The detective frowned. “Your brother was a shr— psychiatrist, too?”
“Yes. They went to medical school together. After my brother died, some of his patients started seeing my husband. Not all of them, but some.” She paused, her dark eyes wandering to the glass. She plucked absently at her skirt. “That’s why when the letter came I got so upset. Edmund though, he didn’t give it a thought. Said I was making too much of it.”
“But you didn’t think so?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know what I thought.”
He looked at the note again. “When was the letter sent?”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t sent. It was pushed through the mail slot in our front door. We went to bed one night and in the morning, it was just there, lying on the floor.”
“How long ago was that?”
Tiny lines appeared between her arched brows. “A few days ago maybe. I’m not sure the exact day.”
“But you didn’t go to the police?”
“My husband didn’t want to. As I said, he thought I was overreacting, but I knew I wasn’t. Sean’s death was not an accident.” She paused, taking a deep breath.
“Sean was your brother?”
“Yes. Dr. Sean Burns. They could never locate the car that ran him over and it had dark windows and none of the witnesses could give a good description. But I talked to one of the witnesses myself and—”
“What?” Cancini interrupted. “You talked to a witness? On your own?”
She brushed aside his question. “That’s not the point. The woman I spoke with said the car sped up when my brother came out of the building. She knows because she works at the magazine stand on the corner and she’d noticed the car circling the block a few times before my brother came out. Then she said the car sped up and practically flattened him to the ground!” The widow paused and rubbed her arms “The detective—Harrison, I think was his name—he wouldn’t listen and said he had no proof of anything suspicious.”
Cancini examined the slip of paper he held between his fingers. “Did your brother have any enemies? Had there been any threats?”
“No,” the lady said, eyes flashing. “And I know what you’re going to ask next, but he wasn’t in any kind of trouble or anything like that. I had my own suspicions. When Edmund took over some of my brother’s patients, I told him I didn’t like it.”
“Why’s that?”
“My brother liked a challenge. No neurosis or paranoia was too much for him. Edmund thought I was being silly. He actually thought it was cute.” She waved a hand at the memory. “I don’t know how many of my brother’s patients he was seeing, but some.”
“You suspected a patient then?”
“Yes, but the police couldn’t question the patients much because of privilege. Edmund, of course, agreed.” She clucked her tongue. “Just like him, too.”
“The investigation stalled,” Cancini said.
“I guess you could put it that way, but from my vantage point, it never got started. They swept it under the rug and slapped the word ‘accident’ on it.” Her chin tilted up, her full mouth set in a hard line.
“You think the note proves a connection?”
“I do. Like I said, after my brother died, some of his patients began seeing Edmund. I had a bad feeling about it.” Mrs. Michael hesitated, cocked her head to one side. “There was one he seemed determined to take. I wouldn’t be surprised if—” She stopped mid-sentence when the door slammed against the wall.
“Don’t say anything, Nora.” A tall man in a gray suit rushed to the woman’s side. He placed a hand on her shoulder and glared at Cancini. “Detective, you should know better than to question Mrs. Michael without an attorney present.”
Smitty, a why-am-I-not-surprised expression pasted on his face, followed the man into the room and closed the door behind him.
Gesturing for Smitty to approach, the dark-haired detective said, “I wasn’t aware she needed a lawyer.” Cancini folded the note, careful to touch the edges only. He handed it to his young partner, then whispered instructions to have it placed in evidence and dusted for prints. Aloud, he said, “As far as I know, she isn’t being charged with anything.”
The attorney looked from the letter to his client. “Nora, is that what I think it is?”
They all watched Smitty leave the room, the note dangling from his fingertips. She touched her lawyer’s arm. “Yes, Gerard, and don’t get yourself in a tizzy about it.”
“I thought we agreed I needed to see that first,” the man said, thin lips pursed.
“No, Gerard, you agreed.”
He sucked in his cheeks. “Nevertheless,” he said, “you shouldn’t have turned it over to the police, nor should you have spoken to them without me present. I told you that on the phone.”
Cancini leaned back on the hard wooden chair. “Are you suggesting the lady has
something to hide?”
“Of course not!” The lawyer wagged a long, bony finger in Cancini’s direction. “Everyone has the right to the presence of an attorney, you imbecile, and you know it.”
Sitting forward, his face darkening, the detective said, “For your information, Mrs. Michael came to me with this letter. She phoned me and insisted on coming in right away. This investigation is barely under way and I’m happy to take any leads I can get. I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself, Gerard.” He allowed a trace of sarcasm to creep into his tone. “But if you think she needs a lawyer, maybe there’s something I need to know about.” Cancini’s eyes lit on the widow. “How about it, Mrs. Michael?”
“How dare you?” The lawyer’s pale skin turned a blustery red. “I am merely pointing out that it’s in her best interest to have the advice of counsel when she is being interrogated by the police. And don’t give me that crap about her coming to you. We both know you’ll take advantage of her goodwill given the opportunity. It’s my job to protect my client and I don’t think there’s a respectable attorney in this town who wouldn’t do the same.”
“Stop it!” Mrs. Michael jumped to her feet. “Gerard, please stop treating me like a child. I know what I’m doing. I may not practice criminal law, but I’m still a lawyer, too.” She faced Cancini, one hand on her hip. “Detective, as absurd as this question is, am I a suspect in the murder of my own husband?”
Rising to his feet, Cancini found he had to look up at the widow. In three-inch heels, she stood two inches taller than he. “It’s too early for us to have any suspects, ma’am,” he said. “I meant it when I said we’re just getting started. So for now, the answer is no, but I can’t tell you for sure where the investigation might lead.”
She stared at him for several minutes, then nodded. Her hand dropped to her side. “Fair enough.”
“Detective,” the lawyer asked, “is it true that the secretary discovered the body?”
“She did.”
“Well, assuming you’ve had the chance to question her, is there anything you can share with Mrs. Michael? Anything that might shed some light on the reason for this terrible tragedy?”
Smitty reentered the room. “No,” Cancini said.
Holding the detective’s gaze, the attorney seemed to consider the brief answer. “I see.” Leaning toward his client, he whispered in her ear.
With a nod, she hooked her purse on her shoulder and smoothed her skirt. “You’ll let me know what leads you get from the letter?”
“We’ll look into it.” Gerard took Nora Michael’s elbow, steering her toward the door. “Oh, by the way, Mrs. Michael, there was a patient you started to tell me about?”
Squeezing the lady’s elbow, the lawyer answered for her. “The next time Mrs. Michael speaks to the police will be under the advice of counsel and I think she’s said enough for today. She needs time to grieve. This has all been very shocking for her.”
Cancini sat down again, watching the pair leave. “Shocking, huh? How could he tell?”
“Yeah, she doesn’t seem too broken up, does she?”
“No, she doesn’t.” Cancini’s eyes crinkled. “Kinda reminds me of my ex on the day of our divorce.”
Smitty pulled out a chair and flipped it around. He sat with his long legs splayed out in front of him. “What’s your read on the lady then?”
Cancini’s smile faded. His ex had kept her emotions close and at arm’s length. Mrs. Michael appeared to be cut from the same cloth. Still, the nails of her long and elegant fingers were chewed and broken. In spite of her outward calm, she’d swung one leg nervously for the duration of the interview. “I don’t know. People deal with bad news in all different ways, I guess. What I do know is that asshole lawyer isn’t doing her any favors. It’s just all the more reason for you to do a thorough background check on her. You know the drill.”
“And the note?”
“A death threat. Allegedly,” Cancini said. “Dropped through the mail slot in their door a few days ago.”
“Do you think it’s for real?”
“Who knows?” Cancini said. “The thing was written in block letters on a plain piece of notebook paper, like the kind kids use at school. So even if it is legit, if there aren’t any prints, it’ll be impossible to trace.”
“But if she is telling the truth, the two deaths could be connected.”
“That’s a pretty big if.” Cancini stood again and slid his notebook into his pocket. “I need some coffee. Want some?”
“Sure. What did the letter say anyway?”
“Just this . . .” Cancini recited the short message, having memorized the words after only one reading.
“Stop pushing or you’ll end up in a body bag like your brother-in-law.”
Chapter Seven
“PLEASE DON’T GO.” George sat up on one elbow, his eyes drinking in the lush curves of her body. A light sheen of sweat glistened on her olive skin. “Stay.”
She pulled the white shirt across her breasts. “I can’t.” She moved to the edge of the bed, her back to him, and pulled on her shoes.
“Sarah, I love you,” he said. “I want to make this work.” Raising her head, she said nothing. “What can I say to make you believe me?”
She rose, her almond eyes wet with tears. “I think I need to be alone right now, George.”
“But—”
“No, I mean it.” Shaking her long dark hair, she tipped her chin in the air. “I’m not asking you to marry me, George. I don’t even know if that’s what I want. I need time. Don’t you get it? I don’t know what I want yet. This baby . . .” She sighed. “I don’t know what’s best for us yet.” Her dark eyes softened. “Try to understand I need a little more time to make up my mind. Okay?”
He forced a smile, swallowing back the doubts pricking at his brain. “Sure, I guess. How long?”
“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “A couple of days maybe.”
“Can I call you?”
“No, and don’t come by, either. Wait for me to call you. Please.” She made him promise.
An hour later, he still lay on the bed, his hand absently reaching over to the opposite side, long grown cold. A light from the hall cast a soft glow about the room and shadows danced across the floor and walls. A warm breeze blew the cotton curtains aside, bringing in the heady aroma of wildflowers mixed with the scent of the James River. The thought of a future without Sarah made him tremble. Still, he fought the desire to go after her. He’d promised, and blinded by the kind of idealistic love that is bestowed only on the young, he remained convinced that everything would turn out all right.
More than two decades later, George wished desperately he could do it all again, rewrite history, make her stay with him that night. But he couldn’t and she hadn’t. A car horn sounded behind him and forced him to pay attention to the heavy traffic and let go of the daydream. He turned the radio up. The drive to Richmond was slow and arduous, and for once, he was grateful for the delay. What would he face when he arrived home? Mary Helen had never been the easiest of wives, and from the tone of her voice during their last conversation, he doubted it would be any different on this particular day.
She hadn’t always been like that, of course. Once they’d been young and in love. Their relationship had seemed so natural. Their families had known each other for decades. A wedding was just assumed. Then he’d met Sarah.
It wasn’t supposed to affect Mary Helen. It was supposed to be a fling, just a townie girl working in a bar, someone to spend time with before he settled down into the life planned for him. Then a funny thing happened. Sarah had made him laugh. She’d made him act silly. With her, he’d relaxed. And he’d liked it. A lot. She was bright, unrefined but gentle, and gracious in all the ways that counted. He’d felt drawn to her, wanting to spend more and more time with her. Pul
ling away from Mary Helen, he’d told neither girl about the other. In retrospect, however, he realized that Mary Helen had probably known all along. Far more sophisticated than George, she’d simply decided to wait things out, assuming the affair would take its natural course and he would return to her more devoted than ever, ready to begin their lives as Mr. and Mrs. Vandenberg. The baby had taken her by surprise.
“Well,” she’d said, after she slapped him, “you just tell her to get rid of it.”
Rubbing his cheek with his hand, George had flinched. “She wants to keep it, Mary Helen.”
Both of the sorority girl’s hands were on her hips. “She can’t. We have our future to think of and I don’t think we need her interfering.”
Stunned, George wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. “What do you mean?”
“It will ruin everything.” Her eyes had welled up. “My father told me he’s already booked the club for a September wedding. She’s got to get rid of it before then.”
He’d stopped rubbing his cheek, staring. Her father was planning their wedding? “But I haven’t even proposed!”
With a wave of her hand, she’d ignored the obvious. “Well, not yet, but we’ve talked about it. These things have to be done in advance. You know that. I wish you hadn’t complicated things with this . . . this person. You can’t tell anyone, you know. You haven’t, have you?”
Shaking his head dumbly, he hadn’t been able to comprehend what she was talking about, understand why she was still standing there, or why she would still want to marry him. “Mary Helen, have you been listening to me at all? It’s my baby, too.”
“Yes, honey. I heard you.” She’d reached up and pushed a stray lock of hair off his forehead. “You made a mistake, that’s all. It’s natural to need a final fling before you make a big commitment like marriage. It’s too bad she got pregnant, but with her kind, I shouldn’t be surprised.” The soft lilt of her voice had acquired an edge he’d never noticed before, a brittleness that hardened her delicate features, pulling the skin tightly into a mask. “Never mind about that—what’s done is done. We’ll get through this, George, I promise.” Standing on tiptoe, she’d reached up and pecked him on his red cheek. “Call me tonight.” And with those words, she’d spun away, leaving him to gape after her, awed by her sheer bravado and will.