“Thanks for the offer, but I’d better settle for warm milk and pain pills.”
“Your knee still hurting?”
“Only when I’m awake.”
As I opened my car door, Nick said, “Wait, you’re not escaping that easily.”
“What? I thought we’d covered everything.”
“This is the end of our official Valentine’s date. Tradition says I go in for the goodnight kiss. I won’t hurt your knees, I promise.”
He put his hand behind my neck, easing my face toward his while tingles raced through my scalp. I melted into the heady pleasure of a kiss tasting of hope, desire, and just a trace of catsup. Nobody does it better than Nick, I thought. Not even James Bond.
Chapter 31
I woke Wednesday morning with the remnants of a dream slipping away. Natasha had been sitting cross-legged on the closed top board of a baby grand with an iPhone in her hands. She was texting as the piano carried her across a star-filled night sky like a magic carpet. Not hard to interpret that dream after the events of the previous day. With Abel Gailworth in jail in Washington, I wondered how the judge would handle the morning’s custody hearing. It did not look good for Melissa; I suspected Hector Korba might win this time.
At work I watched the clock inching toward ten. To take my mind off the impending hearing, I walked into the stacks to check on Lola, who had been uncharacteristically subdued ever since she arrived. I found her thumbing through an issue of the Journal of the American Geriatrics Society.
“How’s your morning, going, Lola? Anything I can help with?”
“Oh, I don’t think so, Miss Machado.” She closed the magazine, but not before I noticed that the title of the article she had been reading had to do with intimacy and the elderly. Definitely not my area of expertise. Lola knew almost as much as I did about researching credible sources, so I decided to take her at her word and mind my own business.
The hour between ten and eleven o’clock dragged while I sat at my desk trying to imagine what was going on at the courthouse where Natasha’s immediate future was being decided. Having heard no word that the hearing had been canceled or postponed, I imagined Hector Korba and Melissa Gailworth were both there with their lawyers—and Natasha, of course.
I distracted myself by pulling up the latest draft of my budget. The monies earmarked for the forensic component of the library were insufficient to fulfill its mission. Dr. Beardsley, who had provided the seed money, had underestimated how popular it would become, and how quickly the budget would be depleted. Now that Beardsley had retired, he couldn’t be counted on to fund the project indefinitely, so in addition to my other duties, I would either have to convince home office to chip in with a hefty subsidy, or I would reluctantly add “grant writer” to my job description.
I was reworking the numbers, hoping to come up with a better result, when my phone rang. It was close to noon. Most routine communication at work relied on email, so phone calls suggested the matter was more urgent. As it was in this case. The caller was Quinn, with an update on Natasha’s hearing.
“She’s going with Child Protective Services,” he said.
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. I expected the judge to postpone and let her stay with Melissa. How did you hear?”
“Korba just left my office. He took it better than I expected, since both he and Melissa are under the same restrictions. Neither of them can be alone with Natasha until custody is settled.”
“Did he have any idea how long that would take?”
“No. Gailworth’s arrest has complicated the issue. Melissa has no job and no savings, apparently. Korba mentioned that she received the standard death benefit of a hundred thousand dollars when his son was killed in action. Korba had insisted she invest it and let it grow. Melissa had no formal education and no job skills, so he supported her, allowing her to be a full-time mother until she married Gailworth. Less than a year later, Gailworth had established his church in Timbergate and Melissa’s investment portfolio was gone.”
“So she has no means of supporting her daughter?” I spotted Lola working her way toward me and lowered my voice. “That’s not going to work in her favor.”
“It gets worse. Apparently the judge frowned on the idea of exploiting Natasha’s musical gift as a source of income.”
“Since Korba’s loaded, he must be guessing he has the upper hand. No wonder he’s willing to wait it out.” As Lola approached my desk, I told Quinn I had to go.
“Miss Machado, I’m finished for the day.” Lola stood there, hesitant, as if she had something more to say.
“Is something on your mind, Lola?”
“I’d like to check out a journal, but I’m not sure I’m eligible. Our collection is for medical staff and employees. I’m just a volunteer.”
“Not a problem. We’ll create a guest account for you, so you can check out whatever you like. I’ll set it up so you’ll be able to go online and use it from home as well. I’m sorry I didn’t think of this sooner.”
Lola brightened. “That’s lovely. Do you have time to do it now?”
“I do. It’ll just take a minute.” I suspected which journal she had in mind, but I didn’t invade her privacy by asking. Lola was soon on her way out with her reading material tucked discreetly under her arm.
I wasn’t able to touch base with Cleo about the outcome of the custody hearing until later in the afternoon, when she found a moment to give me a call. Her reaction was similar to mine. We both felt sorry that Natasha and her mother couldn’t be together, but we were glad the judge was not rushing a decision.
At closing time I bundled my budget projections into a tote bag, along with some templates I’d downloaded from various philanthropic websites detailing what they required in their letters of intent. A dreary way to spend an evening, but necessary, if it would help keep the forensic consortium alive.
When I called Nick from home to tell him Natasha was referred to Child Protective Services, he agreed it was the best temporary solution. He said he would pass the news on to Harry, since they were going to be working out at the dojo.
“Did Harry tell you we’re flying tomorrow?” Nick asked.
“No, I haven’t talked to him today. Where are you going?”
“Harry has a late afternoon meeting in Sacramento with the council of instructors from the dojos in our region, so we’re taking Buck’s little Cessna 206. It hasn’t been out of the hangar in a while and needs some air time. We’re going down early so we can visit the state building inspector’s office. Maybe we can dig deeper into the identity of Quinn’s under-the-table freelancer. We know he filed a permit for Quinn’s bathroom, and the permit is public record. Even if he used a phony name, we might find a way to trace him.”
“Then Rella hasn’t had any luck back east?”
“No. Harry says she’s still trying, but nothing so far. We’ll see if the permit might help her.”
“When will you and Harry be back?”
“We’re staying down there tomorrow night and most of Friday for the first day of a black belt tournament. It’ll be a chance to catch up with friends and sharpen our skills.”
“As if you two need sharpening …. I envy you. I haven’t been to a tournament since I started working at the hospital.”
“You’ll get back to it. Things at the hospital are bound to quiet down eventually.”
“I hope so. The troops are restless with Quinn’s status as administrator still in doubt.”
“Keep your fingers crossed that Harry and I come back Friday night with good news on that front.”
Glen Capshaw caught me by surprise Thursday morning by strolling into the library shortly after I unlocked the doors at seven thirty. We knew each other on sight but had never been formally introduced. He walked to where I sat at my desk and held out his hand.
“Good morning, Miss Machado. I’m Glen Capshaw.” His handshake was warm and his smile seemed genuine. His benign demeanor did not fit with the
angry, accusatory voice Harry and I had heard in the hospital stairwell. Nevertheless, I was wary. He was vying for first place as a murder suspect. After the formalities, I asked what brought him to the library.
“This is my third visit, actually. Your helpers may have mentioned that I’ve dropped in twice before.” At least he was being honest about that. I didn’t mention that he had been observed twice rummaging in my desk.
“They did,” I said. “As I recall, on your second visit you told my volunteer you wanted my help with something. That was more than a week ago. Is that why you’re back?”
“That’s the gist of it, but I’m afraid it’s rather complicated and sensitive. I hope you’ll allow me to explain.”
Uh-oh. I felt a flicker of apprehension. I hoped we weren’t going to wade into the quagmire of his personal life.
“I’m afraid I can assist you only with library-related issues, Dr. Capshaw. Is there some medical procedure or treatment you’d like me to research for you?”
“No, but I can’t think that my question would raise any issue of confidentiality. I simply want to know the dates of the Ethics Committee meetings that have been held over the past six months or so. If you’ll pardon the pun, would divulging that information constitute a breach of ethics on your part?”
“Of course not. TMC’s medical staff committee calendar is posted online for any of the doctors to see. You should have the password.”
“I do, and I’ve checked the calendar, but those dates don’t seem to include the ad hoc committee meetings my wife has been attending in the evenings.”
Oops. Sybil Snyder’s ad hoc committee meetings sounded more than a little suspicious. If they were legitimate, I would have been aware of them. No wonder her husband was checking up on her.
“Is this the reason you’ve made three trips to the library in less than three weeks?”
“I’m afraid so. On my first visit, I found no one to ask, so I had a peek at your desk calendar until I was deterred from that approach by your vivacious woman volunteer. Then again, when you were absent, an elderly gentleman with the demeanor of a bar bouncer sent me packing.” He smiled, remembering. “Rest assured, I got the message.”
“I’m not sure why you’re asking, since you say your wife has already given you the dates.”
“She felt she may have some of them wrong. It’s just our way of reconstructing our personal calendar over the past few months. Now please tell me how many Ethics Committee meetings have taken place in the past six months, including ad hoc meetings. I’m confident that you possess that information. I’m most interested in the dinner meetings.”
I wasn’t eager to tell him I had facilitated only the one Ethics Committee meeting since being put in charge, and that no previous meeting had taken place during the past six months. I definitely was unaware of any ad hoc evening meetings. Apparently, Sybil Snyder had given him the impression those meetings happened on a regular basis. What had she been doing on those nights when Capshaw thought she was fulfilling her service to the medical staff? Had she been fulfilling the desires of Dr. Gavin Lowe?
“I’m not aware of any ad hoc meetings of the committee, but that’s not unusual, Dr. Capshaw. Your wife may have called a few members together on the spur of the moment without asking me to assist. If that’s the case, she’ll report the outcome by calling for another meeting of the full committee.”
Capshaw stood. “One would think so.” His effort to smile resulted in a wince of embarrassment. “Thank you for your efforts at diplomacy. I’ve asked you an awkward question, and you’ve managed to neither confirm nor deny that my wife is having an affair. Your explanation would stand if we were talking about one very recent spur-of-the moment meeting. I’m asking about a series of meetings over a period of several months. If those meetings were legitimate, a record of them would be in your files. Isn’t that right?”
The gloves were off. The Capshaw who had reproached his wife in the hospital stairwell was back. I had no choice but to tell him what he wanted to know. I pulled up the medical staff committee calendar on my computer screen.
“I have facilitated only one Ethics Committee meeting, and that was a Monday morning breakfast meeting two and a half weeks ago. Before that, the most recent previous meeting was six months ago, facilitated by Cleo Cominoli. That was before I was asked to add this committee to my job duties. It was also a breakfast meeting. I have no record of any other Ethics Committee meetings this year. Do you want me to look at the previous year?”
Capshaw stood, pushing back his chair. “No, that won’t be necessary.” I suspected his blood pressure was skyrocketing; his usually ruddy complexion had taken on a purple hue. He managed to utter a choked “Thank you” before striding out of the building.
I called Cleo, who answered immediately.
“Cominoli, how may I help you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think I just got Sybil Snyder killed.”
Chapter 32
I explained my remark to Cleo, who agreed that I had no legitimate reason for withholding the information about dates of the Ethics Committee meetings. She convinced me that Glen Capshaw was likely to opt for divorce over homicide. That prompted me to ask if she had made any headway determining Capshaw’s whereabouts on the night Lowe was killed.
“I have one lead," Cleo said, "but I haven’t had a chance to follow up on it. I’m tied up in back-to-back meetings all day today. If I find out anything before quitting time, I’ll let you know.”
“What’s the lead? Maybe I can follow up myself.”
“Trust me. That wouldn’t work. Gotta go.”
With Cleo unavailable and Nick and Harry out of town, I sorely needed someone to talk to. Rita Lowe? Jared Quinn? Both of them shared space with me on Detective Kass’s suspect list, but Abel Gailworth’s recent outrageous behavior and arrest might have bumped him up to first place. He had certainly proven to be a loose cannon.
When Bernie Kluckert arrived at nine, he acted subdued. After offering a polite greeting, he went about his chores without initiating conversation. I recalled the journal Lola had checked out the day before and wondered if that had something to do with Bernie’s mood. I hoped he wouldn’t ask for advice in that area. I could research the challenges that physical intimacy presented for seniors, but I couldn’t presume to speak from personal knowledge on the subject for another forty years yet. At least I hoped it would be that long.
After Bernie left at noon, I locked up and walked across the street to Margie’s Bean Pot, where I was surprised to find Jared Quinn and Varsha Singh sharing a table. When they spotted me, they waved me over. I filled a bowl with the day’s special, Hoppin’ John—a famous dish that combined black-eyed peas, rice, and diced salt pork—and carried it with me to their table.
Quinn stood, pulling out a chair for me. “We’re brainstorming here. Maybe you can help, but I won’t insist if you were looking forward to a relaxing lunch hour.”
To Varsha, I said, “Are you sure I’m not interrupting?” Now that I knew she was single, it occurred to me that she and Quinn might be inching toward something more than a working relationship. Her exotic beauty and her loyalty to her boss would make most men take notice, although her four young children might be an obstacle. It was hard to imagine someone so close to my own age already having a brood like hers. At least she didn’t have to worry about her biological clock ticking away.
“Please do join us,” Varsha said. “Jared was asking me how much I recall about the time when the remodel was done in his office. I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.”
“I’m still hoping we can come up with a scenario that would explain how Lowe and his killer knew about the passage,” Quinn said, again taking his seat. “That has to be the key to solving this damned thing.”
Varsha smiled and held her palm out to Quinn. He fished a quarter out of his pocket and dropped it into her hand. I had to laugh. She had obviously put her swear jar into practice while I was sti
ll hesitating. I held out my palm and Quinn fished out another quarter for me.
“All right, you two,” he said, “quit picking on my vocabulary and let’s get back to the subject at hand.”
I filled them in on Nick and Harry’s excursion to Sacramento and their hope of getting some kind of clue from the construction permit that had been issued for Quinn’s bathroom. I went on to explain about Rella’s connections in D.C. and the chance that she might turn up something there.
“I’ve already scrutinized my copy of that permit,” Quinn said. “I can’t think how that could help, but I appreciate their efforts on my behalf.” I didn’t remind him that their efforts were primarily on my behalf. As far as I knew, I had not been ruled out as a suspect.
Varsha asked, “Aimee, what about the woman you mentioned? Rella, is it? If she manages to identify the person who did the work, what are the chances he can be found?”
I conceded that it was unlikely.
Quinn agreed. “It was a catch-22 for me. I wanted someone who would bend the rules to keep the passage a secret. Now, when I need the guy, he’s nowhere to be found.”
“You’re sure he’s the answer?” I asked. “You think he let it slip to someone about the passage? Maybe that’s not what happened. Can you think of any other way it could have been discovered?”
“I’ve stayed awake nights trying to think of another way, but nothing comes to mind. I had three keys made. One for myself, one for Varsha, and one for Sanjay’s predecessor. That one was returned to me. I keep one with me and the other as a backup in my home safe. I still have both of them.” He nodded at Varsha. “I gave Varsha a key in case she needed an emergency exit if there was a catastrophic event at the hospital. She still has her key, so there’s only one explanation. Someone else has a key.”
“Maybe more than one someone else,” I said. “Lowe was in there and so was his killer. That could mean two more keys. I heard a saying just the other day. ‘If more than one person knows, it isn’t a secret.’ We don’t know how many keys were made once the cat was out of the bag.”
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