But when he went back to the other room, Dr. Salem was already gone. He had left without speaking to Vangie’s parents. Vangie’s mother rubbed swollen eyes with a damp crumpled handkerchief. “What did you say to Dr. Salem that made him leave like that?” she asked. “Why did you upset him so terribly?”
♦22♦
Wednesday evening he arrived home at six o’clock. Hilda was just leaving. Her plain, stolid face was guarded. He was always aloof with her. He knew she liked and wanted this job. Why not? A house that stayed neat; no mistress to constantly give orders; no children to clutter it.
No children. He went into the library, poured a Scotch and broodingly watched from the window as Hilda’s broad body disappeared down the street toward the bus line two blocks away.
He had gone into medicine because his own mother had died in childbirth. His birth. The accumulated stories of the years, listened to from the time he could understand, told by the timid, self-effacing man who had been his father. “Your mother wanted you so much. She knew she was risking her life, but she didn’t care.”
Sitting in the chemist’s shop in Brighton, watching his father prepare prescriptions, asking questions: “What is that?” “What will that pill do?” “Why do you put caution labels on those bottles?” He’d been fascinated, drinking in the information his father so willingly shared with him—the one topic his father could talk about; the only world his father knew.
He’d gone to medical school, finished in the top ten percent of his class; internships were offered in leading hospitals in London and Glasgow. Instead he chose Christ Hospital in Devon, with its magnificently equipped research laboratory—the opportunity it gave for both research and practice. He’d become staff; his reputation as an obstetrician had grown rapidly.
And his project had been held back, retarded, cursed by his inability to test it.
At twenty-seven he’d married Claire, a distant cousin of the Earl of Sussex—infinitely superior to him in social background, but his reputation, the expectation of future prominence had been the leveler.
And the incredible ignominy. He who dealt in birth and fertility had married a barren woman. He whose walls were covered with pictures of babies who never should have been carried to term had no hope of becoming a father himself.
When had he started to hate Claire? It took a long time—seven years.
It was when he finally realized that she didn’t care; had never cared; that her disappointment was faked; that she’d known before she married him that she could not conceive.
Impatiently he turned from the window. It would be another cold, wind-filled night. Why did February, the shortest month of the year, always seem to be the longest one? When all this was over he’d take a vacation. He was getting edgy, losing grip on his nerves.
He had nearly given himself away this morning when Gertrude told him that Edna had phoned in sick. He’d grasped the desk, watched his knuckles whiten. Then he’d remembered. The fluttering pulse that had stopped beating, the unfocused eyes, the muscles relaxing in extremis. Gertrude was covering for her friend. Gertrude was lying.
He’d frowned at Gertrude. When he spoke he’d made his voice icy. “It is most inconvenient that Edna is absent today. I hope and expect that she will be here tomorrow.”
It had worked. He could tell from the nervous licking of the lips, from Gertrude’s averted eyes. She believed that he was furious at Edna’s absence. She probably knew that he’d spoken sharply to Edna about her drinking.
Gertrude might prove to be an ally.
POLICE: And how did the doctor respond when you told him Miss Burns was absent?
GERTRUDE: He was quite angry. He’s very methodical. He doesn’t like anything that upsets the routine.
The missing shoe. This morning he’d gone to the hospital soon after dawn and once again searched the parking lot and the office. Had Vangie been wearing it when she came into his office Monday night? He realized that he couldn’t be sure. She’d been wearing that long caftan, her winter coat buttoned awkwardly over it. The caftan was too large; the coat strained at the abdomen. She lifted the caftan to show him her swollen right leg. He’d seen the moccasin on that foot, but he’d never noticed the other shoe. Had she been wearing it? He simply didn’t know.
If it had fallen off in the parking lot when he carried her body to the car, someone had picked it up. Maybe a maintenance man had seen it; discarded it. Often patients who were checking out had overflowing shopping bags, stuffed with cards or plants and last-minute personal items that didn’t fit in the suitcase, and lost things between the hospital room and the parking lot. He’d inquired at the lost-and-found desk, but they had no footwear. It might simply have been thrown into the rubbish bag.
He thought about lifting Vangie out of the trunk of the car, carrying her past the shelves in her garage. They had been filled with garden tools. Was it possible that the looser shoe had perhaps brushed against something protruding? If it was found on a shelf in the garage, questions would be asked.
If Vangie did not have the shoe on when she left Fukhito’s office, her stocking sole would have become soiled. But the portico between the offices was sheltered. If her left foot was badly soiled, he’d have noticed it when he laid her out on the bed.
The horror of finding that he was carrying the right shoe, the shoe that he had struggled to pull off Vangie’s foot, had unnerved him. The more fool he. After the terrible, terrible risk.
The right shoe was in his bag in the trunk of the car. He wasn’t sure whether to dispose of it—not until he was positive the other one wouldn’t still show up.
Even if the police started an intensive investigation into the suicide, there was nothing that constituted evidence against him. Her file in the office could bear intensive professional scrutiny. Her true records, all the true records of the special cases, were in the wall safe here. He defied anyone to locate that safe. It wasn’t even in the original plans of the house. Dr. Westlake had installed it personally. Only Winifred had known about it.
No one had any reason to suspect him—no one except Katie DeMaio. She’d been on the verge of telling him something when he’d mentioned the view from the hospital room, but she had changed her mind abruptly.
Fukhito had come in to him just as he was locking up tonight. Fukhito was nervous. He’d said, “Mrs. DeMaio was asking a lot of questions. Is it possible that they don’t believe Mrs. Lewis committed suicide?”
“I really don’t know.” He’d enjoyed Fukhito’s nervousness; understood the reason for it.
“That interview you gave to Newsmaker magazine; that’s going to come out tomorrow, isn’t it?”
He’d looked at Fukhito disdainfully. “Yes. But I assure you I gave the distinct impression I use a number of psychiatric consultants. Your name will not appear in the article.”
Fukhito was not relieved. “Still, it’s going to put the spotlight on this hospital; on us,” he complained.
“On yourself—isn’t that what you’re saying, Doctor?”
He’d almost laughed aloud at the troubled, guilty look on Fukhito’s face.
Now, finishing his Scotch, he realized that he had been overlooking another avenue of escape. If the police came to the conclusion that Vangie had been murdered; if they did investigate Westlake; it would be an easy matter to reluctantly suggest that they interrogate Dr. Fukhito. Especially in view of his past.
After all, Dr. Fukhito was the last person known to have seen Vangie Lewis alive.
♦23♦
After leaving Dr. Fukhito, Katie went to the east wing of the hospital for the transfusion. It was given to her in a curtained-off area near the emergency room. As she lay on top of a bed, her sleeve rolled back, the needle strapped in her arm, she tried to reconstruct her arrival at the hospital Monday night.
She thought she remembered being in this room, but she wasn’t sure. The doctor who had sewed the cut in her arm looked in. “Hi, I thought I saw you at the desk. I see Dr. H
ighley ordered another transfusion. I hope you’re looking into that low blood count.”
“Yes. I’m under Dr. Highley’s care.”
“Fine. Let’s take a look at that arm.” He rebandaged it as she lay there. “Good job. Have to admit it myself. You won’t have a scar to show your grandchildren.”
“If I have any,” Katie said. “Doctor, tell me, was I on this bed Monday night?”
“Yes, we had you in here after the X-rays. You don’t remember?”
“It’s all such a blur.”
“You lost a lot of blood. You were in a pretty good state of shock.”
“I see.”
When the transfusion was finished, she remembered that Dr. Highley had told her not to drive for twenty minutes. She decided to go to the admitting office and fill out the necessary forms for an inpatient stay. Then she wouldn’t have to bother with them Friday evening.
When she left the hospital it was nearly six o’clock. She found herself automatically turning the car in the direction of Chapin River. Nonsense, she thought. You’re having dinner with Molly and Bill tomorrow night. Forget about dropping in tonight.
The decision settled, she made a U-turn and drove to Palisades Parkway. She was getting hungry, and the thought of going home did not appeal to her. Who was the poet who had written on the joys of solitude and then had finished the poem with the lines “But do not go home alone after five. / Let someone be waiting there”?
Well, she had learned to cope with loneliness, had taught herself to genuinely enjoy a quiet evening of reading with the stereo playing.
The feeling of emptiness that came over her lately was something new.
She passed the restaurant where she and Richard had eaten the night before, and on impulse swung into the parking area. Tonight she’d try the other specialty, the entrecôte. Maybe in the warm, intimate, quiet restaurant she’d be able to think.
The proprietor recognized her and beamed with pleasure. “Good evening, madam. Dr. Carroll did not make a reservation, but I have a table near the fireplace. He is parking the car?”
She shook her head. “Just me tonight, I’m afraid.”
For an instant the man looked embarrassed, but recovered quickly. “Then I suspect we have made a new and beautiful friend.” He led her to a table near the one she had shared with Richard.
Nodding at the suggestion of a glass of Burgundy, Katie leaned back and felt the same sense of unwinding she’d experienced the night before. Now if she could just collect her thoughts, sort out the impressions that she’d received talking to Dr. Highley and Dr. Fukhito about Vangie Lewis.
Taking out her pad, she began to scan what she had jotted down during the interviews. Dr. Highley. She’d expected him to explain or defend the fact that Vangie Lewis was obviously in serious trouble with her pregnancy. He had done exactly that, and what he told her was completely reasonable. He was going day by day to buy the baby time. The remarks he’d made about Vangie’s reaction to the impending birth rang true. She’d heard from Molly the story of Vangie’s hysterical reaction to a blister on the finger.
What then? What more did she want of Dr. Highley? She thought of Dr. Wainwright, the cancer specialist in New York, who had taken care of John. After John died, he’d spoken to her, his face and voice filled with pain. “I want you to know, Mrs. DeMaio, we tried everything possible to save him. Nothing was left undone. But sometimes God takes it out of our hands.”
Dr. Highley had expressed regret over Vangie’s death, but certainly not sorrow. But of course, he had to stay objective. She’d heard Bill and Richard discussing the need to stay objective when you practice medicine. Otherwise you’d constantly be torn in two and end up useless.
Richard. Inadvertently her eyes slid over to the table where she’d been with him. He’d said, “We both know we could enjoy each other.” He was right. She did know it. Maybe that was why she usually felt unsettled with him, as though things could be taken out of her hands. Is it possible that it could happen twice in a lifetime? From the very beginning you know something is right, someone is right.
When she and Richard were leaving Molly’s after that quick lunch yesterday, Molly had asked them both to dinner Thursday night—tomorrow. Molly said, “Liz and Jim Berkeley are coming over. She’s the one who thinks Dr. Highley is God. You two might be interested in talking with her.”
Katie realized how much she was looking forward to that dinner.
Again she looked down at her notes. Dr. Fukhito. Something was wrong there. It seemed to her that he’d deliberately weighed every word he said when he’d discussed Vangie’s Monday-night visit. It had been like watching someone step by step through a mined field. What was he afraid of? Even allowing for the reasonable concern of protecting the doctor-patient relationship, he’d been afraid he would say something that she would pounce on.
Then he’d been openly hostile when she asked if by any chance Vangie might still have been in the hospital at ten o’clock when she, Katie, was brought in.
Suppose she had glimpsed Vangie? Suppose Vangie had been just leaving Dr. Fukhito’s office; had been walking somewhere in the parking lot? That would explain seeing her face in that crazy nightmare.
Dr. Fukhito had said that Vangie left by his private entrance.
No one had seen her go.
Suppose she hadn’t left? Suppose she’d stayed with the doctor. Suppose he’d left with her or followed her home. Suppose he’d realized that she was suicidal, that he was responsible in some way . . .
Enough to make him nervous.
The waiter arrived to take her order. Before she put away the pad, Katie made one final note: Investigate Dr. Fukhito’s background.
♦24♦
Even before he crossed the George Washington Bridge and drove down the Harlem River and FDR Drive Wednesday evening, Richard knew that he should have cancelled the date with Clovis. He was preoccupied about Vangie Lewis’ death; his subconscious was suggesting that he had missed something in the autopsy. There had been something he’d intended to examine more closely. What was it?
And he was worried about Katie. She had looked so thin last night. She’d been extremely pale. It wasn’t until she’d had a couple of glasses of wine that some color had come into her face.
Katie wasn’t well. That was it. He was a doctor and should have spotted it sooner.
That accident. How carefully had she been examined? Was it possible that she’d been hurt more than anyone realized? The thought haunted Richard as he turned onto the Fifty-third Street exit from the FDR Drive and headed for Clovis’ apartment one block away.
Clovis had a pitcher of very dry martinis waiting to be poured and a plate of hot crabmeat-filled puffs fresh from the oven. With her flawless skin, tall, slender body and Viking coloring, she reminded Richard of a young Ingrid Bergman. Until recently he’d toyed with the idea that they might end up together. Clovis was intelligent, interesting and good-tempered.
But as he returned her kiss with honest affection, he was acutely aware that he’d never worry about Clovis the way he now found himself worrying about Katie DeMaio.
He realized Clovis was talking to him. “ . . . and I’m not home ten minutes. The rehearsal ran over. There was a lot of rewriting. So I fixed the drinks and nibbles and figured you could relax while I get dressed. Hey, are you listening to me?”
Richard accepted the drink and smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’m on a case that won’t let go. Do you mind if I make a couple of calls while you’re getting ready?”
“Of course I don’t mind,” Clovis said. “Go ahead and dial away.” She picked up her glass and started toward the foyer that led into the bedroom and bath.
Richard took his credit card from his wallet and dialed the operator. There was no way he was going to put a call to one woman on another woman’s phone bill. Quickly he gave his account number to the operator. When the connection went through, he allowed the phone to ring a dozen times before he finally gave up
. Katie wasn’t home.
Next he tried Molly’s house. Probably Katie had stopped there. But Molly had not spoken to her at all today.
“I don’t really expect her,” Molly said. “You’re both coming tomorrow night. Don’t forget that. She’ll probably call me later. But I wish she’d gone home by now. She could stand taking it easy.”
It was the opening he needed. “Molly, what’s the matter with Katie?” he asked. “There is something wrong physically, isn’t there? Besides the accident, I mean?”
Molly hesitated. “I think you’d better talk to Katie about that.”
Certainty. Cold fear washed over him.
“Molly, I want to know. What’s the matter with her?”
“Oh, not much,” Molly said hastily. “I promise you that. But it’s nothing she wanted to discuss. And now I’ve probably said more than I should. See you tomorrow.”
The connection broke. Richard frowned into the dead receiver. He started to replace it on the cradle, then on impulse put through a call to his office. He spoke to the assistant on the evening shift. “Anything unusual going on?” he asked.
“We just got a call for the wagon. A body was found in an apartment in Edgeriver. Probably an accident, but the local police thought we’d better take a look. Scott’s people are heading over there.”
“Switch me to Scott’s office,” Richard said.
Scott did not waste time on preliminaries. “Where are you?” he demanded.
“In New York. Do you need me?”
“Yes. This woman who was found in Edgeriver is the receptionist Katie wanted to talk to today at Westlake. Name’s Edna Burns. Supposedly she phoned in sick today, but there’s no question she’s been dead a good twenty-four hours. Body was found by a co-worker from Westlake. I’m trying to get Katie. I’d like her to go over there.”
“Give me the address,” Richard said.
He wrote it quickly and hung up the phone. Katie had wanted to question this Edna Burns about Vangie Lewis, and now Edna Burns was dead. He knocked on Clovis’ bedroom door. She opened it, wrapped in a terry-cloth robe. “Hey, what’s the hurry?” she asked, smiling. “I just got out of the shower.”
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