After arranging to meet Cleo and Sig at a nearby dessert place called The Creamery, Nick and I started toward the backstage exit. I hoped to leave without encountering Hector Korba. Our last conversation at work had been awkward, and I didn’t relish the prospect of making strained small talk with him backstage.
Nick and I had almost made it outside when we saw that our getaway was blocked. Korba stood in the doorway, talking to the pianist who had played Natasha’s composition. I recognized him as Dr. Leroy Droz, a dermatologist on TMC’s medical staff. Droz was inspecting the back of Korba’s neck.
“It looks like cellulitis,” Droz said. “I’ll call something in for you. Call my office in a week for an appointment. We’ll see how you’re doing.”
I heard Droz ask Korba for the name of his pharmacy as Nick and I excused ourselves, made our way past them, and went out the door.
“Sounds like your bigwig board president is kind of a cheapskate,” Nick said. “Couldn’t he afford an office visit?”
“Of course he could, but if he has some inflammatory process going on, he’s right to take the opportunity to ask about it rather than waiting all weekend for an office diagnosis.”
“Ah, I hadn’t thought of that.” Nick took my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze as he walked me to his car in the parking lot. “This was fun. I’m glad I came.”
“So am I.” My hand tingled when he let it go. “What did you think of Korba? Did you see how he teared up when he took that bow for Natasha?”
“Looked like he was feeling some pretty intense emotions.”
“I thought so, too. He’s obviously a doting grandfather, and I don’t believe his feelings are only about her potential as a money-maker. He genuinely loves that little girl.”
When Cleo and Sig arrived at the Creamery, we all ordered cheesecake and coffee and then spent a few minutes rehashing the concert before the conversation turned to Korba and Natasha.
“Sig, tell them what you heard,” Cleo said.
Sig frowned. “It was nothing, really, honey. Just Korba’s usual bluster.”
“I’m not sure. It might be more than that. Go ahead, tell them what you told me.”
Looking uncomfortable, Sig put his fork down. “Hector’s counting on getting custody after the hearing next week. He made a comment that it’s a sure thing now. He has the testimony of her doctor to back him up.”
I looked at Cleo. “Sybil Snyder must have led Korba to believe she’ll recommend in his favor.”
“That’s no surprise,” Cleo said. “It’s no secret that Dr. Snyder thinks Gailworth is a creep.”
“Even so,” Nick said, “Gailworth is only half of the problem. The judge would need a mighty convincing reason to take the girl away from her mother. I gather the only thing Melissa Gailworth is guilty of is standing by her man.”
“What a dilemma,” Cleo said. “If Natasha is left in the custody of her mother and stepfather, let’s pray the judge orders mandatory counseling by a nutritionist.” She and I knew that was Gavin Lowe’s recommendation, but we both hesitated to bring up the subject of his flash drive in case the notes on it became part of Natasha’s medical record.
“And she should have mandatory medical checkups at regular intervals,” I added. “I keep thinking about the title of her composition: Peaceful Picnic. Maybe I’m placing too much meaning on it, but I’m worried for that child. Both Korba and Gailworth seem determined to exploit her. I’m afraid both those men would demand more than they should from a child her age, especially one whose health is as fragile as Natasha’s.”
“I agree,” Sig said. “Practicing, rehearsing, and performing can sap the energy of an adult musician, and be even more exhausting for a child.” He leveled a serious look at Cleo. “Are you going to tell them your other news?”
“I was waiting for the right moment.” Cleo aimed a rare frown in Sig’s direction, a sure sign she was feeling anxious.
Sig patted her hand. “I think now’s the time, hon. They need to know.”
“Cleo, what is it? You know I’ll hound you until you spill it.” I reached out and pulled her plate of cheesecake out of her reach. “Make it quick or I’m going to finish your dessert.” I dug into her cheesecake with my fork.
“Okay, stop.” Cleo leaned in, lowering her voice. “Loren Davidson called me this afternoon with a new development.”
“On a Saturday?” It had to be something big for him to be contacting Cleo on a weekend. And something he felt he couldn’t trust to Sanjay.
“Yes. He had just finished talking to Jared Quinn. It seems the police asked Quinn to volunteer a DNA specimen.”
“Wow. That means—”
“They think they have the killer’s DNA,” Nick said. “Helluva new development. But why would he call Cleo instead of the guy who’s filling in for Quinn at the hospital?”
“I think I know the answer,” I said. “Sanjay’s new, green, and could even be a suspect himself. The home office legal department has a long, comfortable history of working on medical staff legal issues with Cleo.”
“She’s right,” Cleo said. “I suppose Sanjay might be asked to volunteer DNA, too, but he’s not the only one.” She sent an apprehensive glance my way. “Loren thinks the police will ask Aimee to volunteer a sample.”
Considering my part in the altercation between Quinn and Lowe at the Ethics Committee meeting, I wasn’t surprised, but I wasn’t happy about it, either. I quickly lost interest in the cheesecake.
“Any idea what kind of DNA specimen they have?” I asked.
Cleo looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Is it blood? Skin cells? Saliva? A strand of hair?” My mind raced through several possibilities.
“Oh, that. No. Loren didn’t mention it, so I doubt if Quinn was told.”
I got to my feet. “I guess it’s time to be getting home.” Nick stood and laid a steadying hand on my arm.
“Are you okay? You look a little shaky.”
“I’ll be fine. This news just caught me by surprise.”
“Aimee, don’t let this spook you. They’ll be asking any number of people for samples. It’s actually a good thing. It’ll work in your favor.”
“Nick’s right,” Sig said. “Your DNA won’t do anything but rule you out.”
I thought back to the morning when I held Gavin Lowe in a wristlock in the conference room. Had I somehow mingled my DNA with his? Had he scraped skin cells off my hand with his fingernails while trying to loosen my grip? I didn’t think so. He had given up struggling for fear of damaging his wrist.
I turned to Cleo. “You remember, don’t you? Lowe had a surgery the afternoon of that Ethics Committee meeting. Quinn told him to get his wrist checked out first, in case I’d injured it. I assumed he did that, but we know he scrubbed in, then claimed his wrist was bothering him. He left the operating room before finishing the case.”
“Right,” she said. “And he threatened to go to Korba to get you and Quinn fired. But what’s that got to do with ….” She paused. “Oh, of course. He scrubbed in, so any DNA on his hands and forearms and under his nails would have been scrubbed away preoperatively.”
“And he probably would have showered before getting back into his street clothes. The only DNA of mine they might have found would be a strand of my hair clinging to his clothes or possibly caught in his watch.”
“I get what you’re thinking,” Cleo said. “After his surgery, he would have been wearing the same clothes he had on at the morning meeting. I’ll see if I can find out what kind of DNA they have.”
“I have a question,” Nick said. “Did your legal counsel, this Davidson, say who else had been asked to submit a specimen?”
“No. I doubt if he would have been told. He only knows about Quinn because they talked, and he’s only speculating about Aimee, but he thinks it’s likely because she was questioned about taking Lowe down in the conference room.”
“So you don’t know if anyone else at Timbergate
is going to be asked to volunteer DNA?” Nick asked.
Cleo held up a finger while she swallowed a bite of cheesecake. “I only know about Quinn. But remember, there are probably other persons of interest, not necessarily affiliated with the hospital.”
“True,” I said. “Rita Lowe comes to mind. I plan on getting in touch with her as soon as possible to ask if she’s been contacted about a DNA sample.”
“Too bad she didn’t know the names of any of her husband’s mistresses,” Cleo said. “Seems like they should also be on the police department’s DNA list.”
Later, back in my apartment, Nick tilted my chin and studied my face. “Is this DNA business going to keep you awake worrying?”
“Probably, at least for a while. I can’t help wondering if there’s any possible way my hair or skin cells could have transferred to Lowe’s clothing the morning I took him down during the meeting.”
“It’s possible, but think of the odds. It’s more likely the DNA specimen the medical examiner found is from the actual killer. And even if they do find something of yours, you have a roomful of witnesses who saw your altercation with Lowe. That alone explains how you might have transferred something to him.”
I laid a hand on his arm. “Only if the police believe me when I say I never went near Lowe again after that meeting. Or after he scrubbed in for his surgery that day.”
“You’re getting way ahead of yourself, but I know you,” Nick said. “You’ll keep chewing on this.”
He pulled me against him and wrapped his arms around me in what was intended to be a reassuring hug. It was, at first, but then it became more. He touched his lips to my forehead, then to my ear, and finally to my lips. Just as my last stitch of willpower dissolved, my tender knees bumped against Nick’s legs and I cried out in pain.
Nick stepped back. “What is it?”
“My knees. The hike this morning …. They’re still so sore.”
“Damn, I should have remembered, but holding you felt so good, my autopilot switched on for a moment.”
“So did mine, but I don’t think I should—”
“I know. I’d better go and let you try to sleep. Don’t worry about the DNA. And have someone take a look at your knees. Find out why you’re still having so much pain.”
“I already did. There’s a hairline fracture of my right patella. The orthopedist said it would probably hurt like hell for another two weeks, and to be careful not to bump the knee for a couple of months.”
“Oh.” Nick thought for a moment. “Does that mean …?
“We’ll have to wait and see how it goes.”
After he left I pondered the DNA question while I changed the bandages on my knees. Did I want to refuse and give the appearance of guilt, or volunteer a sample and possibly give tangible evidence of guilt?
Eleven thirty was too late on a Saturday night to call Rita Lowe, but I made up my mind to call her at the earliest decent hour on Sunday morning. I’d beat around the bush a bit, asking if she had any new thoughts about her husband’s murder and whether she might have learned the names of any of her husband’s former mistresses. If the police had asked Rita for her DNA, maybe she would mention it.
Chapter 23
Sunday morning came too soon. After lying awake until two o’clock, I woke at six to the clatter of rain falling on the metal barn roof over my head. Too early to call Rita Lowe. I started coffee and killed time by listing a few things I could accomplish if I weren’t distracted by the Lowe mystery. Laundry, food shopping, and paying bills were the top three, so I stopped there. No heavy cleaning or vacuuming. Doctor’s orders.
Before tackling my mundane chores, I booted up my laptop and started an outline to organize my thoughts about Gavin Lowe’s death and what had been accomplished so far in sorting out how it had happened and who was responsible.
Right away I realized there were too many suspects. Especially if I added everyone I had doubts about to the people the police seemed most interested in. I felt guilty for leaving Quinn on my list—he might have attacked Lowe in retaliation for being sucker-punched in the conference room—but I moved him to the bottom as least likely to be guilty.
Rita Lowe might have killed her husband to put a stop to his affairs. Or a jealous mistress might have done it, as Mrs. Lowe had suggested. The jealousy angle led me to consider Glen Capshaw, but only if it turned out that his wife, Sybil Snyder, was one of Lowe’s sexual conquests. Sanjay D’Costa still seemed like a long shot. I stopped to count suspects. I was already up to five. Abel Gailworth and Melissa, six and seven, seemed to have the strongest motives.
Which suspect had the means to sneak into Quinn’s office through the secret passageway? Quinn, of course, with Sanjay a close second. In spite of Varsha’s conviction that he didn’t know about the passage, he was in and out of Quinn’s office more than anyone else except Quinn and Varsha. The Gailworths were outsiders. They wouldn’t have known about the layout of the hospital and the secret entrance to Quinn’s office. Dr. Glen Capshaw was familiar with the hospital, but I suspected he rarely visited Quinn’s office. And Rita Lowe certainly wouldn’t have known about the access.
I set my notes aside and turned my attention to breakfast. After I poured a bowl of granola, I realized I was out of milk, so I mixed in some yogurt-covered raisins and told myself it was trail mix. A cup of coffee washed it down just fine, along with my prescribed dose of pain pills. Next I dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, pulled a rain slicker over my head, and went downstairs to fill the manger with hay for the llamas’ breakfast. They were already huddled in the shelter of the barn to keep their wool dry. Rain had topped off the watering troughs, and there was no way I could rake out the catch pen or shovel llama dung. I was finished with Sunday morning chores in record time.
Back upstairs, I considered how to approach Rita Lowe. She had been the one to initiate contact with me about her husband’s death. She had given me her phone number and invited me to stay in touch. Since it was still too early to call, I hand-washed some lingerie. Finally, at ten o’clock, I called Rita’s number on my cell phone. When she answered right away, I said I hoped it wasn’t too early.
“Not at all, Miss Machado, to what do I owe this call?”
“Please call me Aimee, Mrs. Lowe. I thought we might compare notes. See if either of us had any new developments to share.”
“Oh, by all means. And you may call me Rita. Do you have something to tell me?”
“Nothing concrete, but I’ve given a lot of thought to your theory that a jealous mistress might be connected to the case. I’m sorry to bring up a painful subject, but I wondered if there was any possible way we might identify even one of the women Gavin was involved with.”
I waited for a long moment, listening while she cleared her throat several times.
“Miss Machado, did you know that Gavin’s body has not been released for burial yet?”
“No, I’m so sorry. I am being insensitive. I probably shouldn’t have called, but you did say to keep in touch.”
“Yes, you’re right. I did.
“Were you told why the—his—body is being held?”
“They were circumspect, but I was asked to volunteer specimens of my DNA, so I suppose it’s a forensics issue.”
Good. Just the opening I had hoped for.
“Was there any mention of what the forensics crew might have found?”
“They didn’t say, but I volunteered a cheek swab and allowed them to take samples of my hair. Seems silly to me. He’s—was—my husband, so finding my DNA on his body or his clothing is to be expected.”
“Yes. Of course it is.” But depending on what the medical examiner found, or where it was found, Rita Lowe might still have trouble explaining it. I guided her back to the subject of her husband’s other women.
“Mrs. Lowe, it might help if you could think of any woman your husband may have been seeing.”
Her heavy sigh signaled reluctance to continue. I gave her a moment,
which paid off.
“Someone he worked with,” she said. “As I told you, I made an effort not to know about his women, but there were signs.”
My antennae started tingling. “What kind of signs?”
“The way he behaved around certain female colleagues, one in particular. When he was around her, and I was with him, he was exceedingly attentive toward me, almost absurdly so. In gambling I believe that’s what they call a ‘tell,’ isn’t it?”
Was it a tell? A way to cover up an affair? Or just a man concerned for his wife’s feelings? “Are you implying that you have a specific woman in mind?”
“I’m afraid so, but you must understand that I could be wrong. I have no proof, and I certainly don’t want to falsely accuse anyone of killing Gavin.” She sounded sincere, but then again, what else would a respectable woman say?
“I understand, Rita. I would feel the same. It’s just that you and I know we’re innocent. Maybe the police should know about this other woman.”
“It’s not the kind of thing I could take to the police. They would only hear the sordid details of an unfaithful husband. They’d either pity me or worse—joke about it behind my back.”
I’d almost given up on coaxing a name out of her when she startled me by spitting it out.
“Sybil Snyder,” she said. “Gavin used to go all nervous if she was around us when we were together.”
Jackpot.
I ended my conversation with Rita Lowe as soon as possible, after assuring her I would keep confidential what she had told me. I wondered if she really meant it, or if she hoped I’d find a way to cast suspicion on Sybil Snyder. Anything was possible, but I was more inclined to take a closer look at Snyder’s husband, Glen Capshaw. I did not tell Rita about the conversation between Snyder and an angry and jealous Capshaw that Harry and I had overheard in the stairwell at TMC a week earlier. I wanted to keep that to myself and brainstorm this new wrinkle about Dr. Snyder with Cleo, Harry, and Nick.
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