The autopsy would certainly prove that Vangie had died around that time. What would they think if he told them he’d walked back to the hospital in that storm?
Edna had to be silenced. His medical bag was on the seat next to him. The only thing in it was the paperweight from his office desk. He didn’t usually bother to carry a bag with him anymore, but he’d taken it out this morning planning to put the moccasins in it. He’d intended to drive into New York for dinner and leave the shoes in separate litter cans to be collected in the morning.
But this morning Hilda had come in early. She’d stood in the foyer talking to him while he put on his gray tweed overcoat. She’d handed him his hat and the bag. It was impossible to transfer the moccasins from the Burberry to the bag in front of her. What would she have thought? But no matter. The Burberry was to the back of the closet. She had no reason to go near it, and tonight when he finished with Edna he would go home. He’d get rid of the shoes tomorrow night.
It was a stroke of luck that Edna lived so near the hospital. That was why he knew her apartment. Several times he’d dropped off work for her when she was laid up with sciatica. He’d just had to check the apartment number to be sure. He’d have to make it look like a murder committed during a felony. Katie DeMaio’s office would be involved, but would certainly never connect the homicide of an obscure bookkeeper with either her employer or Vangie Lewis.
He’d take her wallet, grab any bits of jewelry she had. Racking his brain, he remembered that she owned a butterfly-shaped pin with a minuscule ruby and an engagement ring with a dot of a diamond in it. She’d shown them to him when he’d left some work at her place a few months ago.
“This was my mother’s ring, Doctor,” she’d said proudly. “Dad and she fell in love on their first date and he brought it to her on their second date. Would you believe they were both in their early forties then? Dad gave it to me when Mom died. That was three years ago, and you know he didn’t live but two months without her. Of course, Mom had smaller fingers; that’s why I wear it on my pinkie. And he gave her the pin on their tenth anniversary.”
He’d chafed through the tiresome recital, but now realized that like everything else, it was potentially useful. He’d been sitting by her bed. She kept her cheap plastic jewelry box in the night-table drawer. That ring, the pin and the wallet from her handbag would be easy to carry and would clearly establish a robber-connected murder.
Then he’d get rid of them and the shoes and that would be the end.
Except for Katie DeMaio.
He rubbed the underside of his lower lip over his upper lip. His mouth was dry.
He had to think about Edna’s apartment. How would he get in? Did he dare ring the bell, let her admit him? Suppose she wasn’t alone?
But she would be alone. He was sure of it. She was going home to drink. He could tell from the nervous, eager movements she made while he watched her from the corridor. She’d been excited, agitated, obviously filled with the stories she wanted to tell to the police tomorrow.
Freezing perspiration drenched him at the thought that she might have decided to talk to the patients in the reception room before she talked to him about Vangie. The Ednas of this world want an audience. Listen to me. Notice me. I exist!
Not for long, Edna, not for long.
He was driving into her apartment area. Last time he’d left the car behind her apartment in one of the visitor stalls. Did he dare drive right there now? It was cold, windy, dark. Few people would be standing around. Anyone who was coming in would be hurrying, not noticing a perfectly ordinary dark, medium-priced car. Last time he’d walked around the end of her apartment-building unit. She lived on the ground floor of the last apartment. Thick bushes tried to hide a rusting chain-link fence that separated the complex from a steep ravine which dropped down a dozen feet and terminated in railroad tracks, a spur of the main line.
Edna’s bedroom window backed onto the parking lot. There were high untrimmed bushes under her window. The window was ground level—quite low, if he remembered correctly. Suppose that window was unlocked? By now, if he had any judgment, Edna would be very drunk. He could go in and out by the window. That would lend credence to the burglary. Otherwise, he’d ring the bell, go in, kill her and then leave. Even if he were found out, were seen, he’d simply say that he’d stopped by to drop off papers, then decided not to leave them because she was drinking. Some intruder must have come in later. No one in his right mind would accuse a wealthy doctor of robbing a penniless bookkeeper.
Satisfied, he slowed down as he approached the apartment complex. The double units, all exactly the same, looked stark and forlorn in the cold February night.
The parking area had a half-dozen cars in it. He drove between a camper and a station wagon. His car disappeared into the cavelike space the larger vehicles provided. He pulled on his surgical gloves and put the paperweight in his coat pocket. Sliding cautiously out, he closed the door noiselessly and disappeared into the deep shadows cast by the building. Silently he thanked the gods that Edna lived in the very last apartment. Absolutely no chance of his mistaking where to go.
Her bedroom shade was pulled down most of the way, but she had a plant in the window. The shade rested on the top of the plant, and he could see in clearly. The room was lighted by a foyer fixture. The window was open a crack. She must be in the living room or dining area. He could hear the faint sound of a television program. He would go in through the window.
Glancing rapidly about, he once again assured himself that the area was deserted. With steely-strong gloved fingers he raised the window, noiselessly pulled up the shade, quietly lifted the plant out onto the ground. Later it would be clear proof of the method of entry. He hoisted himself onto the windowsill. For a big man he was surprisingly agile.
He was in the bedroom. In the dim light he absorbed the virginal tidiness, the candlewick bedspread, the crucifix over the bed, the framed photos of an elderly couple, the lace runner on the scarred top of the mahogany-veneer dresser.
Now for the necessary part, the part he detested. He felt for the paperweight in his pocket. He had decided to bludgeon her. Once he had read that a doctor had been proved guilty of murder because of the flawlessly accurate stabbing. He could not risk having his medical knowledge reveal him. It was his medical knowledge that had brought him to this place.
He began to tiptoe down the short foyer. Bathroom to the right. Living room six feet ahead to the left. Cautiously he peered into it. The television set was on, but the room was empty. He could hear the sound of a chair creaking. She must be at the dinette table. With infinite care he moved into the living room. This was the moment. If she saw him and screamed . . .
But her back was to him. Wrapped in a woolly blue robe, she was slumped in a chair at the head of the table. One hand was next to an outsized cocktail glass, the other folded in her lap. A tall pitcher in front of her was almost empty. Her head was on her chest. Faint, even breathing told him she was asleep. She smelled heavily of alcohol.
Quickly he appraised the situation. His eye fell on the hissing radiator to the right of the table. It was the old-fashioned kind with sharp, exposed pipes. Was it possible he didn’t need the paperweight after all? Maybe . . .
“Edna,” he whispered softly.
“Wha . . . oh . . .” She looked up at him with bleary eyes. Confused, she began to rise, twisting awkwardly in her chair. “Doctor . . .”
A mighty shove sent her smashing backward. Her head cracked against the radiator. Blinding lights exploded in her brain. Oh, the pain! Oh, God, the pain! Edna sighed. The soothing warmth of her gushing blood floated her into darkness. The pain spread, intensified, peaked, receded, ended.
He jumped back, careful to stay clear of the spattered blood, then bent over her carefully. As he watched, the pulse in her throat flickered and stopped. He held his face close to hers. She had stopped breathing. He slipped the paperweight into his pocket. He wouldn’t need it now. He wouldn’t hav
e to bother robbing her. It would look as though she’d fallen. He was lucky. He was meant to be safe.
Quickly retracing his steps, he went back into the bedroom. Scanning to assure himself that the parking area was still empty, he stepped out the window, remembered to replace the plant, pulled down the shade and closed the window to the exact place where Edna had had it.
As he did, he heard the persistent chiming of a doorbell—her doorbell! Frantically he looked around. The ground, hard and dry, offered no evidence of his footprints. The windowsill was meticulously clean. No disturbed dust there. He’d stepped over it, so no sign of his shoes marred the white surface.
He ran back to his car. Quietly the engine started. Without turning on his headlights he drove out of the apartment complex. As he approached Route 4, he turned on the lights.
Who was standing on Edna’s doorstep? Would that person try to get in? Edna was dead. She couldn’t gossip about him now. But it had been so close, so terribly close.
Adrenaline pounded through his veins. Now there was only one possible threat left: Katie DeMaio.
He would begin to remove that threat now. Her accident had given him the excuse he needed to start medication.
It was a matter of hospital record that her blood count was low. She had received a transfusion in the emergency room.
He would order another transfusion for her on the pretense of building her up for the operation.
He would give cumadin pills to her. They would short-circuit her clotting apparatus and negate the benefits of the transfusion. By Friday when she came into the hospital she’d be on the verge of hemorrhaging.
It might be possible to perform emergency surgery without administering further anticoagulants. But if necessary he would inject her with heparin. There would be a total depletion of the coagulation precursors. She would not survive that surgery.
The initial low blood count, the cumadin and the heparin would be as effective on Katie DeMaio as the cyanide had been on Vangie Lewis.
♦12♦
Richard and Katie left Scott’s office together. She had known he’d be annoyed if she suggested calling a cab to take her home. But when they got into his car, he said, “Dinner first. A steak and a bottle of wine will set your juices running.”
“What juices?” she asked cautiously.
“Saliva. Stomach. Whatever.”
He chose a cabin-type restaurant that perched precariously on the Palisades. The small dining room was warmed by a blazing fire and lit by candles.
“Oh, this is nice,” she said.
The proprietor obviously knew Richard well. “Dr. Carroll, a pleasure,” he said as he guided them to the table in front of the fireplace and pulled out a chair for Katie.
She grinned as she sat down, thinking that either Richard rated or she must look as chilled and woebegone as she felt.
Richard ordered a bottle of St. Emilion; a waiter produced hot garlic bread. They sat in companionable silence, sipping and nibbling. Katie realized it was the first time she had been with him like this, across a small table, separated from everyone else in the room, looking at each other.
Richard was a big man with a wholesome, thoroughly healthy look that was manifested in his thick crop of dark brown hair, his strong, even features and broad, rangy shoulders. When he’s old, he’ll have a leonine quality, she thought.
“You just smiled,” Richard said. “The usual penny for your thoughts.”
She told him.
“Leonine.” He considered the word thoughtfully. “A lion in winter. I’d settle for that. Are you interested in what I’m thinking?”
“Sure.”
“When your face is in repose, your eyes are very sad, Katie.”
“Sorry. I don’t mean them to be. I don’t think of myself as being sad.”
“Do you know I’ve been wanting to ask you out for the last six months but it took an accident that might have killed you to make it happen?”
“You never asked me out,” she said evasively.
“You never wanted to be asked out. There’s a definite signal you release. ‘Do Not Disturb.’ Why?”
“I don’t believe in going out with anyone I work with,” she said, “just on general principles.”
“I can understand that. But that’s not what we’re talking about. We enjoy each other’s company. We both know it. But you’re having none of it. Here’s the menu.”
His manner changed, became brisk. “L’entrecôte and the steak au poivre are the specialties here,” he told her. When she hesitated, he suggested, “Try the poivre. It’s fantastic. Rare,” he added hopefully.
“Well done,” Katie said.
At his look of horror she laughed out loud. “Of course rare.”
His face cleared. He ordered salads with house dressing and baked potatoes, then leaned back and studied her.
“Are you having none of it, Katie?”
“The salad? The steak?”
“No. Don’t keep weaving and dancing. All right, I’m not being fair. I’m trying to pin you down and you’re a captive audience. But tell me what you do when you’re not at the office or the Kennedys’. I know you ski.”
“Yes. I have a college friend who’s divorced. The winter after John died, she dragged me up to Vermont with her. Now she and I and two couples rent a condominium in Stowe during the ski season. I go weekends as often as I can. I’m not a great skier, but I enjoy it.”
“I used to ski,” Richard said. “Had to give it up because of a twisted knee. I should try it again. Maybe you’ll invite me up sometime with you.” He did not wait for an answer. “Sailing is my sport. I took my boat to the Caribbean last spring and went from island to island . . . ’brilliance of cloudless days with broad bellying sails, they glide to the wind tossing green water . . . ’ Here’s your steak,” he finished lightly.
“And you also quote William Carlos Williams,” she murmured.
She had secretly expected him to be impressed that she knew the quotation, but he didn’t seem surprised. “Yes, I do,” he said. “The house dressing is good, isn’t it?”
They lingered over coffee. By then Richard had told her about himself. “I was engaged during med school to the girl next door. I think you know I grew up in San Francisco.”
“What happened?” Katie asked.
“We kept postponing the wedding. Eventually she married my best friend, whoever he is.” Richard smiled. “I’m joking, of course. Jean was a very nice girl. But there was something missing. One night when for the fourth or fifth time we were discussing getting married, she said, ‘Richard, we love each other, but we both know there’s something more.’ She was right.”
“No regrets; no second thoughts?” Katie asked.
“Not really. That was seven years ago. I’m a little surprised that the ‘something more’ didn’t happen along before now.”
He did not seem to expect her to comment. Instead he began to talk about the Lewis case. “It makes me so angry; any waste of life affects me like that. Vangie Lewis was a young woman. She should have had a lot of years ahead of her.”
“You’re convinced it wasn’t a suicide?”
“I’m not convinced of anything. I’ll need to have much more information before I pass judgment.”
“I don’t see Chris Lewis as a murderer. It’s too easy to get a divorce today if you want to be free.”
“There’s another angle to that.” Richard pressed his lips together. “Let’s hold off talking about it.”
It was nearly ten-thirty when they turned into Katie’s driveway. Richard looked quizzically at the handsome fieldstone house. “How big is this place?” he asked. “I mean how many rooms have you got?”
“Twelve,” Katie said reluctantly. “It was John’s house.”
“I didn’t think you bought it on an assistant prosecutor’s salary,” Richard commented.
She started to open the car door. “Hold it,” he said. “I’ll come around. It may still be slippe
ry.”
She had not planned to invite him in, but he did not give her the chance to say good night at the door. Taking the key from her hand, he put it in the lock, turned it, opened the door and followed her in. “I’m not going to stay,” he said, “but I do admit to an overwhelming curiosity as to where you keep yourself.”
She turned on the light and watched somewhat resentfully as he looked over the foyer and then the living room. He whistled. “Very, very nice.” He walked over to John’s portrait and studied it. “From what I heard, he was quite a guy.”
“Yes, he was.” Uncomfortably, Katie realized that on nearly every table there was a picture of herself and John. Richard went from one to the next. “A trip abroad?”
“Our honeymoon.” Her lips were stiff.
“How long were you married, Katie?”
“One year.”
He watched as a look of pain flickered over her face; it was more than that: an expression of surprise too, as though she were still puzzled about what had happened. “When did you find out that he was sick? It was cancer, I understand.”
“Shortly after we got back from our honeymoon.”
“So you never really had more than that trip, did you? After that it was a deathwatch. Sorry, Katie; my job makes me blunt—too blunt for my own good, I guess. I’ll take off now.” He hesitated. “Don’t you believe in drawing these drapes when you’re alone here?”
She shrugged. “Why? No one’s going to come barging in on me.”
“You, of all people, should be aware of the number of home burglaries. And in this location you’d be a prime target, especially if anyone knew you’re alone here. Do you mind?”
Without waiting for an answer he went over to the window and pulled the draperies shut. “I’ll be on my way. See you tomorrow. How are you going to get to work? Will your car be ready?”
“No, but the service people are going to lend me one. They’ll drop it off in the morning.”
“Okay.” For a moment he stood with his hand on the knob, then in a highly credible brogue said, “I’ll be leavin’ ye, Katie Scarlett. Lock your door, now. I wouldn’t want anyone trying’ to break into Tara.” He bent down, kissed her cheek and was gone.
The Cradle Will Fall Page 6