by Norah Wilson
Unless . . . Had Sylvia known all along about Dr. Gunn’s involvement in his and Josh’s birth and covered it up? Deliberately misdirected them to protect her dearest friend?
Time to feel her out.
“I can’t stress enough how sorry I am for your loss, Dr. Stratton, but I presume you’ve deduced why Dr. Walsh and I called on Dr. Gunn this morning?”
“I presume Angus must’ve had some information for you relating to your search?”
“He did.”
“And now, given my decades-long friendship with him, I imagine you must be wondering if I knew that all along.”
He held her now-steely gaze. “The thought did cross my mind,” he admitted.
She lifted an eyebrow. “You realize that would mean I’d been misleading first your brother, and then you, in order to help Angus escape the consequences of whatever it is he might have done.”
“Dr. Stratton—”
She held up a hand to stop him. “You’re absolutely right to wonder. Had I been in possession of such knowledge, I might well have tried to protect him.” She shrugged and grimaced, in a what-are-you-going-to-do sort of gesture. “Angus was one of my oldest friends. But as it happens, I had no knowledge of any improprieties.” She clasped the strand of pearls at her throat, looking as distressed as Boyd had ever seen her. “So, what did you learn that led you to Angus?”
He thought about declining to answer, but he knew all too well how it felt to lose someone you loved and be denied answers to the most basic of questions. He knew full well how the need to understand burned in your brain and twisted your gut.
“I found a note that Josh had written, with Dr. Gunn’s name and number,” Boyd said. “When I called him and introduced myself, he didn’t seem at all surprised to hear from me. In fact, I told Hayden at the time that he almost seemed relieved. He confirmed that he had spoken to Josh and was prepared to share with me everything he’d told Josh.”
“I see.” Her arched eyebrow invited him to continue.
“He said he was present when Josh and I were born, which I presume means he delivered us. I didn’t get to talk to him, though, as I’m sure you know. Nor was I able to examine the file he’d laid out on his desk before . . .” He let the words trail off. “However, I did catch a glimpse of the name on the file. It seems our birth mother was a young woman by the name of Arianna Duncan.”
He watched her face as he said the name, searching it for a start of guilt or a flicker of recognition. Her expression did indeed change, but not in a negative way. Instead, a faint smile touched her lips.
“My goodness, you’ve been successful in your search, then? Well, that is a very big consolation. Is there a reunion in the offing?”
“I’m afraid not. My subsequent research shows that she died within three months of our birth.”
“I’m so sorry. You must be terribly disappointed.”
Was he? He hadn’t even had time to sort that out. But he made an affirmative sound. It seemed to be what was expected. He was certainly sorry that a young woman had died, possibly after being coerced into giving up her children. But he didn’t have so much as a mental picture of Arianna Duncan to hang those feelings on.
“I’m sorry for your loss too.” And he was. She and Dr. Gunn had had a long-standing friendship. As rigid as she could be, she seemed vulnerable now somehow.
“In truth, I’m having a hard time crediting it,” she said, fingering the pearls again. “The evidence will no doubt speak for itself, but I will have to reserve judgment until I’ve seen that proof laid out.”
“Of course.” Boyd would have liked to offer some comforting thought about Gunn just having made a mistake, one that he’d paid dearly for, but he knew nothing of the man or what motivated him to do what he’d done.
She sniffed, and Boyd suspected she was fighting tears.
He put a hand on her shoulder, which felt incredibly frail for all the command presence she managed to assert most of the time, and squeezed gently. “Again, I’m very sorry, particularly if our visit precipitated Dr. Gunn’s decision.” He dropped his hand, part of him marveling that he’d dared to touch this seemingly untouchable woman.
“Thank you, Boyd,” she said, using his first name for perhaps the second time since they’d met. She straightened her spine, which she’d allowed to relax the slightest bit. “But I hold no ill will about your visit. Much as I hate to think Angus might have made a misstep somewhere, I also have to recognize that if he had nothing to be ashamed of, your visit would have been . . . less eventful. And I know how important your search was, particularly after your brother’s unfortunate death.”
“Thank you.”
Her eyes sharpened. “Do you happen to know how your mother died? You say she passed within months of your birth, so she must have been fairly young.”
“It sounds like sudden cardiac arrest. I haven’t been permitted access to the file, of course, but the detective—Ray Morgan—told me that much. He figured I needed to know it. And, yes, I appreciate this means there’s probably a genetic issue.”
“Oh, dear, yes! I presume Dr. Walsh has warned you against avoiding possible aggravating agents? Certain drugs can be proarrhythmic.”
“She has,” he confirmed. “And I’m good there. About the only thing I ever take is ibuprofen for muscle aches if I overdo something, but I won’t even be taking that.”
“Nothing recreational either,” she warned sternly.
“Again, nothing but a beer or two. No worries.”
She nodded, apparently satisfied. “Well, good night, Detective. I believe I’ll fix a hot milk and retire.”
“Good night, Dr. Stratton.”
She turned and tap-tapped off in the direction of the kitchen. Boyd went up to his room, but he didn’t go to bed. All that sleep through the afternoon and evening, though desperately needed, had knocked his circadian rhythm off.
Instead, he sat down, opened his laptop, and Skyped his parents. When his mother asked how the fishing was going, he wanted to tell her the truth. But it was too early. So he told her he’d taken the day off and driven to Fredericton for supplies. She teased him that it was a beer run, while his father speculated he’d gotten tired of ugly male mugs and had gone looking for female companionship.
Before he could stop himself, he blurted out that he’d looked up Hayden Walsh, Josh’s friend. That led to tons of questions. Will you see her again? How is she doing? It was so kind of her to come all this way for the funeral. We got the nicest letter from her afterward. Did you see the letter before you left for your fishing trip? No? Well, it was a very lovely letter.
He told them Hayden was still very broken up about Josh but was keeping busy with work. He added that he was planning to stay in Fredericton for a few days, to visit with her longer. There was only so much fishing and poker playing a man could do. Ella expressed her approval and asked him to thank Hayden again for being such a good friend to Josh. He assured her he would. Feeling better for having told them even a tiny fraction of the truth, he signed off.
Of course, his wide-awake mind went back to the events of the day. He played it over in his head, again and again, and every time he came back to one question. Well, lots of questions, but the main one was, was it suicide?
He kept coming back to that phone conversation. Frankly, Gunn hadn’t sounded like a man on the verge when they’d talked. More like a man who wanted to get something off his chest. Of course, maybe the relief Boyd had thought he’d heard was relief at having committed to a course of action, like that long-ago jumper on the overpass he’d told Hayden about.
He had to admit it did look like suicide. The detective’s and the coroner’s assessments seemed to support that. And what had Morgan said? The ME thought there might be an anticoagulant in the mix. What better way for a doctor to ensure success than doubling down on the blood thinners? And
the angle of the cuts seemed to bear out the idea that they were self-inflicted.
On the other hand, Boyd could probably have stood behind the guy, if he was already unconscious, and with the scalpel squeezed into the guy’s own grip, made a credible slash that looked self-inflicted. He made a note to mention that to Morgan, who would hopefully not roll his eyes and accuse him of being crazy.
Next question. Presuming it was suicide, what had Gunn done that was suicide worthy? Yes, the whole reputation thing. And who knew? Maybe the doctor had just been handed a pancreatic cancer diagnosis or something. Maybe he was ready to check out anyway and wanted to do it before any blemish on his career could surface.
Or . . . Jesus Christ—maybe he’d killed Arianna Duncan!
Boyd leapt up from the table, almost knocking his laptop to the floor, catching it at the last second.
He pushed the computer farther back on the desk, out of harm’s way. His blood pumping, he forced himself to sit down and think about it.
Okay, if Gunn had killed Arianna Duncan, or caused her death somehow, that would ratchet up the guilt levels. But if he’d lived with it this long—thirty-five years—why now? Did he think his actions were about to be outed? That would be ironic, since Josh’s notebook had disappeared and neither Boyd nor the police had anything to tie Dr. Gunn to Arianna Duncan, let alone tying Boyd and Josh to Arianna.
What if Gunn killed Josh?
He couldn’t believe he was even thinking that. The idea was insane.
Unless it wasn’t.
Maybe it made a sort of sense. If Gunn had been his mother’s physician and knew she’d died of cardiac arrest, maybe he’d taken a gamble that Josh had inherited the same susceptibility. Maybe when Josh went to see him, Gunn had slipped him some noxious agent—or aggravating agent, as Sylvia had called it—in the hopes that Josh would meet the same end as their mother had.
Boyd forced himself to sit down again. Think it through, man.
Okay, if Gunn had slipped Josh something, surely the forensic toxicology report would uncover it. Depending on what that agent was, of course, it still might look like an unfortunate natural occurrence. But if it was some esoteric substance, or some prescription drug that couldn’t be explained away, surely that would be enough to establish foul play. As long as it wasn’t so esoteric that the forensic techs wouldn’t even think to check for it.
But if Gunn had done it, how could they prove anything now?
And damned if that didn’t leave him in waiting mode again. Waiting for the tox report. The genetic testing seemed superfluous now, but eventually it would land, no doubt confirming long QT syndrome or some other genetic problem with the heart’s electrical wiring. And now they were waiting for the coroner’s ruling on Dr. Gunn, either confirming suicide or suggesting something else. At this point, he hoped suicide would be a slam dunk. Only because if someone had killed Gunn, that meant a killer—likely Josh’s killer—was still out there.
Whether it was the cast of his thoughts or the fact that he’d had all that extra sleep earlier, he was suddenly restless. So restless he couldn’t stay in this room a minute longer.
Sylvia would be in bed by now. So would Mrs. Garner. He could creep down to the kitchen and make some of that warm milk like Sylvia had done. Or better yet, maybe there’d be a bottle of opened wine in the refrigerator or maybe a beer or two he could replace.
After easing out of his room, he closed the door softly behind him and started along the landing toward the stairs. But the sound of coughing stopped him. Male coughing, he realized. He waited to see if anyone would respond, but when no one moved in the house, he backtracked. For the first time since setting foot in Stratton House, he made his way down the hall past his own suite. At the end of the hall in what had to be a sunny corner room in the daytime, he found Senator Stratton.
CHAPTER 24
No nurse sat in the room, which surprised Boyd. He’d gotten the impression the Senator was never left alone. Of course, the rails on his hospital bed were probably rigged to alarm if he tried to crawl out, if he could even move. Hell, he was probably fully wired to alarm if his heart faltered or respirations dropped. For all Boyd knew, Sylvia’s room might be as well equipped as an ICU nurses’ station.
The Senator coughed again. Glancing behind him and seeing no one, Boyd entered the room. The man in the bed had probably been a big man once. Even now, he was clearly tall and large-framed, but he looked like he’d suffered muscle wasting, either from age or from his confinement in the bed, or both. Boyd moved into the pool of light around the bed.
“Sir?”
The Senator looked up and his eyes widened. Then he coughed again. Boyd glanced around and saw a Styrofoam cup of ice chips, largely melted now.
“Can you have some ice chips to ease that tickle?”
The old man gave a slight but distinct nod.
Boyd took the spoon from the cup, gathering the largest of the remaining ice chips. The Senator opened his mouth obligingly.
After a few seconds, Boyd offered him more. The old man nodded again. After a few more repetitions, the Senator declined more ice with a shake of his head.
Boyd put the cup back down. “I guess you’re not able to talk?”
Another shake of the head.
“I should go. I’m not supposed to be in here. But when I heard you coughing—”
The Senator shook his head, much more vigorously this time, and his eyes begged Boyd to stay.
Boyd looked back at the empty door, sighed, and pulled up a chair. “Your wife will be perturbed if she finds me here.”
The Senator nodded gravely.
Boyd smiled. “So you can’t sleep either, huh? Right. You probably get way more sleep than a body can stand.”
The Senator lifted his eyebrows.
“What’s keeping me awake?”
He nodded.
“The same thing that keeps me awake most nights since Josh—that’d be my identical twin brother—died last month.”
The old man’s face suffused with obvious emotion.
“Had you met him?” Boyd asked. “He was staying here, but I thought Dr. Stratton’s rules forbade visitors. Of course, here I am, right? I guess Josh might have wandered in too.”
The Senator nodded.
“That sounds like Josh. He was too curious for his own good. I don’t know whether he talked to you or not, but he’d come to Fredericton from Toronto to look for our birth parents. From a message he left me on my phone, I gather he’d found the answer, but, unfortunately, he didn’t leave me the details. Then he died.”
The Senator’s face contracted.
“Are you okay, sir?” Boyd bent closer. “Should I call for someone? Your wife?” At his vehement head shake, Boyd subsided. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I shouldn’t have raised the topic. It’s sad, a man so young dying. Not that he was super young. Thirty-five, and lots of miles on him. He had a good job—he was an award-winning investigative journalist. Great career, great friends, a great life. It’s just . . .” He shrugged helplessly. “It just ended too soon. And though I hate to say it, I fear it wasn’t natural causes.” Boyd dragged a hand through his hair. “But that’s in the hands of the coroner now. We’re waiting on forensic toxicology and genetic tests.”
The Senator raised his eyebrows again.
“The genetic testing? That’s because he died of sudden cardiac arrest. Sitting in his car after a lunch-hour jog, actually.”
Boyd wasn’t sure why he was volunteering all this information, but it felt good. Maybe because the Senator couldn’t talk back or repeat anything. Or maybe because he seemed so interested. With the old man’s eyes imploring him to continue, Boyd obliged.
“He was really healthy—fitter than me, probably, because he had a better diet. The thing is, today I found out who our mother was, but apparently she died i
n a similar way within months of giving birth to us and giving us up for adoption. Which makes a genetic link look pretty inescapable.”
Or a killer had poisoned both of them to keep his dark deeds from the past from coming back to haunt him. But Boyd didn’t suggest anything like that to the old man. He looked upset enough. In fact—shit—he looked to be getting more agitated by the moment. Maybe more of the ice chips—
“What on earth are you doing in here?”
The voice from the door arrested Boyd’s reach for the ice chips. He swiveled to see a middle-aged nurse or personal care worker of some kind standing in the doorway, holding a steaming mug. She must have left her post just long enough to put the kettle on and brew some coffee or tea.
“Sorry, I was on my way downstairs when I heard him coughing and coughing. When no one turned up to help him, I came in and give him some of the ice chips.”
The woman bustled over to the other side of the bed, put her beverage down on a wheeled tray, and turned to the Senator.
“Oh dear, he looks agitated. Dr. Stratton will be so upset.”
Boyd blinked. “Surely he’ll be calm by morning?”
“Just leave.” She whipped out a blood pressure cuff, put it on the Senator’s unresisting arm, and started pumping it up. “And please stay away. Dr. Stratton forbids anyone else being in here. I could lose my job for this.”
“Sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t know you were downstairs or I’d have gone down and fetched you. He just sounded so—”
She took the stethoscope out of her ears and removed the blood pressure cuff briskly. She gave him a dark look. “Go.”
He went.
Geez, what was wrong with visiting the old man? Okay, the subject matter he’d raised wasn’t all that uplifting, but he’d have moved on to better things. The poor bastard, confined to that bed with nothing but a procession of nurses. Probably not one of them a hockey fan. No doubt the old guy pulled for the Ottawa Senators. Boyd could have razzed him about that. Everyone knew anyone with heart was a Maple Leafs fan. Well, heart and a lot of long-suffering patience. And maybe a wide streak of masochism.