“The superintendent’s wife—name’s Gana Krupshak—was a buddy of Edna Burns. Fact is, she was with Mrs. Fitzgerald when the body was found. We let her go to her own apartment just before you came. She’s shook up bad. Anyhow, last night she came over here around eight o’clock. She said Edna already had a bag on. She stayed till eight thirty, then decided to put out the ham, hoping Edna would eat something and start to sober up. Edna told her about Vangie’s suicide.”
“Exactly what did she tell her?” Katie asked.
“Nothing much. Just mentioned Vangie’s name and how pretty she’d been. Then Mrs. Krupshak went into the kitchen and she heard Edna dialing the phone. Mrs. Krupshak could hear most of the conversation. She swears Edna called whoever she was talking to ‘Captain Lewis’ and told him she had to talk to the police tomorrow. And get this. Krupshak swears she heard Edna give Lewis directions for driving here and then Edna said something about-Prince Charming.”
“Prince Charming!”
Charley shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. But the witness is positive.”
Richard said, “Obviously we’ll treat this as a potential homicide. I’m beginning to agree with Scott’s hunch about Chris Lewis.” He glanced into the living room. “Mrs. Fitzgerald looks pretty washed out. Are you through talking to her, Katie?”
“Yes. She’s in no condition to question now.”
“I’ll get one of the squad cars to drive her home,” Charley volunteered. “One of the other guys can follow in her car.”
Katie thought, I do not believe Chris Lewis could have done this to Edna; I don’t believe he killed his wife. She looked around. “Are you sure there’s nothing valuable missing?”
Charley shrugged. “This whole place would go for about forty bucks in a garage sale. Her wallet’s in her pocketbook; eighteen dollars there. Credit cards. The usual. No sign of anything being disturbed, let alone ransacked.”
“All right.” Katie returned to Dr. Highley and Gertrude. “We’re going to have you driven home, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” she said gently.
“What are they going to do to Edna?”
“They must investigate the extent of her head injuries. I don’t think they’ll probe beyond that. But if there is even the faintest chance that someone did this to Edna, we have to know it. Think of it as a way of showing we valued her life.”
The woman sniffled. “I guess you’re right.” She looked at the doctor. “Dr. Highley, I had an awful nerve asking you to come here. I’m sorry.”
“Not at all.” He was reaching into his pocket. “I brought these sedatives along in case you needed them. As long as you’re being driven home, take one right now.”
“I’ll get a glass of water,” Katie said. She went to the sink in the bathroom. The bathroom and bedroom were off a rear foyer. As she let the water run cold, she realized that she hated the idea that Chris Lewis was emerging as a prime suspect in two deaths.
Taking the water glass back to Gertrude, she again sat beside her. “Mrs. Fitzgerald, just to satisfy ourselves, we want to be positive there’s no possibility of Edna’s having been robbed. Do you know if she kept any valuables—any jewelry, perhaps?”
“Oh, she had a ring and a pin she was so proud of. She only wore them on special occasions. I wouldn’t know where she kept them. This is the first time I’ve been here, you see. Oh, wait a minute. Doctor, I remember that Edna said she showed you her ring and pin. In fact, she told me she showed you her hiding place for them when you were here. Perhaps you can help Mrs. DeMaio.”
Katie looked into the cold gray eyes. He hates this, she thought. He’s really angry to be here. He doesn’t want to be part of this.
Had Edna had a crush on the doctor? she wondered suddenly. Had she exaggerated the number of times he might have dropped off work, maybe even hinted to Gertrude that he was a little interested in her? Maybe without even meaning to shade the truth, she’d invented a little romance, fantasized a possible relationship with him. If so, it was no wonder Mrs. Fitzgerald had rushed to summon him, no wonder he looked acutely embarrassed and uncomfortable now.
“I really don’t know of hiding places,” he said, his voice stiff with an undercurrent of sarcasm. “One time Edna did show me a pin and ring that were in a box in her night-table drawer. I hardly consider that a hiding place.”
“Would you show me, Doctor?” Katie asked.
Together they walked down the short foyer into the bedroom. Katie switched on the lamp, a cheap ginger-jar base with a pleated paper shade.
“It was in there,” Dr. Highley told her, pointing to the drawer in the night table on the right side of the bed.
Using only the very tips of her fingers, Katie opened the drawer. She knew that there’d probably be a complete search for evidence and the fingerprint experts would be called in.
The drawer was unexpectedly deep. Reaching into it, Katie pulled out a blue plastic jewelry case. When she raised the lid, the bell-like tinkle of a music box intruded on the somber silence. A small brooch and a thin old diamond ring were nestled against cotton velvet.
“Those are the treasures, I guess,” Katie said, “and that, I would imagine, eliminates the robbery theory. We’ll keep this in the office until we know who the next of kin is.” She started to close the drawer, then stopped and looked down into it.
“Oh, Doctor, look.” Hastily she set the jewelry box on the bed and reached into the drawer.
“My mother used to keep her mother’s old battered black hat for sentimental reasons,” she said. “Edna must have done the same thing.”
She was tugging at an object, pulling it out, holding it up for him to see.
It was a brown moccasin, heavily scuffed, badly worn, battered and shabby. It was shaped for the left foot.
As Dr. Edgar Highley stared at the shoe, Katie said, “This was probably her mother’s and she considered it such a treasure she kept it with that pathetic jewelry. Oh, Doctor, if memorabilia could talk, we’d have a lot of stories to hear, wouldn’t we?”
♦28♦
At precisely eight A.M. Thursday morning, the Investigative Squad of the Homicide Division of Valley County pulled up to the Lewis home. The six-man team was headed by Phil Cunningham and Charley Nugent. The detectives in charge of fingerprinting were told to concentrate on the bedroom, master bath and kitchen.
It was admittedly a slim possibility that they would find significant fingerprints that did not belong to either Chris or Vangie Lewis. But the lab report had raised another question. Vangie’s fingerprints were on the tumbler that had been lying next to her, but there was some question about the positioning of those prints. Vangie had been right-handed. When she poured the cyanide crystals into the glass, it would have been natural for her to hold the glass with her left hand and pour with her right. But only her right prints were on the tumbler. It was an inconclusive, troublesome fact that further discredited the apparent suicide.
The medicine chests in both bathrooms and the guest powder room had already been searched after the body was found. Once again they were examined in minute detail. Every bottle was opened, sniffed. But the bitter-almond scent they were looking for was not to be found.
Charley said, “She must have kept the cyanide in something.”
“Unless she was carrying just the amount she used in the glass and then flushed the envelopes or capsule she had it in down the john?” Phil suggested.
The bedroom was carefully vacuumed in the hope of finding human hair that did not come from the head of either Vangie or Chris. As Phil put it: “Any house can have hairs from delivery people, neighbors, anybody. We’re all shedding hair all the time. But most people don’t bring even good friends into the bedroom. So if you find human hair that doesn’t belong to the people who sleep in the bedroom, you just might have something.”
Particular attention was given to the shelves in the garage. The usual half-empty cans of paint, turpentine, some garden tools, hoses, insecticides, rose powder and weed killer were there in abundan
ce. Phil grunted in annoyance as the prong of a hand spade pulled at his jacket. That prong had been protruding over the edge of the shelf, its handle wedged into place between the end of the shelf and a heavy paint can. Bending to free his sleeve, he noticed a sliver of printed cotton hooked on the prong.
That print. He’d seen it recently. It was that faded Indian stuff; madras. The dress Vangie Lewis was wearing when she died.
He called the police photographer out to the garage. “Get a picture of that,” he said, pointing to the tool. “I want a close-up of that material.” When the picture was taken, he carefully removed the piece of material from the prong and sealed it in an envelope.
In the house, Charley was going through the desk in the living room. Funny, he thought. You can get a real slant on people from the way they keep their records. Chris Lewis obviously had taken care of all the bookkeeping in the family. The checkbook stubs were precisely written, the balances accurate to the penny. Bills were apparently paid in full as they came in. The large bottom drawer held upright files. They were alphabetically arranged: AMERICAN EXPRESS; BANK AMERICARD; FEDERATED ANSWERING SERVICE; INSURANCE; PERSONAL LETTERS.
Charley reached for the personal-letter file. Quickly he leafed through it. Chris Lewis maintained a regular correspondence with his mother. Many thanks for the check, Chris. You shouldn’t be so generous. That was written only two weeks ago. A January letter began: Got Dad the TV for the bedroom and he’s enjoying it so much. One from last July: The new air conditioner is such a blessing.
If Charley was disappointed at not finding more significant personal data, he did admit grudgingly that Christopher Lewis was a concerned and generous son to aging parents. He reread the mother’s letters, hoping for clues to Vangie and Chris’s relationship. The recent letters all ended the same way: Sorry Vangie isn’t feeling well or Women do sometimes have difficult pregnancies or Tell Vangie we’re rooting for her.
At noon, Charley and Phil decided to leave the rest of the team to complete the search and return to the office themselves. They were scheduled to meet Chris Lewis’ plane at six o’clock. They had ruled out forced entry. There was no trace of cyanide in the house or garage. The contents of Vangie’s stomach revealed that she’d eaten lightly on Monday; that she had probably had toast and tea about five hours before she died. A new loaf of bread in the bread box had two slices missing. The soiled dishes in the dishwasher told their own story: a single dinner plate, cup and saucer, salad dish, probably from Sunday night; a juice glass and cup, Monday’s breakfast; a cup, saucer and plate with toast crumbs from the Monday supper.
Vangie had apparently dined alone Sunday night; no one had eaten with her Monday night. The coffee mug in the sink had not been there Tuesday morning. Undoubtedly Chris Lewis had made himself instant coffee sometime after the body was found.
The driveway and grounds were being searched with minute care and so far revealed nothing unusual.
“They’ll be at this all day, but we haven’t missed anything,” Charley said flatly. “And other than the fact that she tore her dress on that prong on the garage shelf, we’ve come up with a big zero. Wait a minute. We still haven’t checked the answering service for messages.”
He got the Federated Answering Service number from the file in the desk, dialed and identified himself. “Give me any messages left for either Captain or Mrs. Lewis starting with Monday,” he ordered.
Taking out his pen, he began to write. Phil looked over his shoulder: Monday, February 15, 4:00 P.M. Northwest Orient Reservations phoned. Mrs. Lewis is confirmed on Flight 235 at 4:10 P.M. from LaGuardia Airport to the Twin Cities of Minneapolis/St. Paul on Tuesday, February 16.
Phil whistled silently. Charley asked, “Did Mrs. Lewis receive that message?”
He held the phone slightly away from his ear so that Phil could hear. “Oh, yes,” the operator said. “I was on the board myself Monday evening and gave it to her at about seven thirty.” The operator’s voice was emphatic. “She sounded very relieved. In fact, she said, ‘Oh, thank God.’”
“All right,” Charley said. “What else have you got?”
“Monday, February fifteenth, nine thirty p.m. Dr. Fukhito left word for Mrs. Lewis to call him at home as soon as she got in. He said she had his home number.”
Charley raised one eyebrow. “Is that it?”
“Just one more,” the operator replied. “A Miss Edna Burns called Mrs. Lewis at ten P.M. Monday. She wanted Mrs. Lewis to be sure and phone her no matter how late it was.”
Charley doodled triangles on the pad as the operator told him that there were no further messages on the service for either Tuesday or Wednesday, but that she knew a call had come through Tuesday evening and had been picked up by Captain Lewis. “I was just starting to answer when he came on,” she explained. “I got right off.” In reply to Charley’s question, she affirmed that Mrs. Lewis had not learned about either Dr. Fukhito’s or Miss Burns’s call. Mrs. Lewis had not contacted the service after seven thirty on Monday night.
“Thank you,” Charley said. “You’ve been very helpful. We’ll probably want a complete file of messages you’ve taken for the Lewises going back some time, but we’ll be in touch about that later on.”
He hung up the receiver and looked at Phil. “Let’s go. Scott’s going to want to hear all about this.”
“How do you read it?” Phil asked.
Charley snorted. “How else can I read it? As of seven thirty Monday evening Vangie Lewis was planning to go to Minneapolis. A couple of hours later she’s dead. As of ten o’clock Monday night, Edna Burns had an important message for Vangie. The next night Edna’s dead and the last person who saw her alive heard her talking to Chris Lewis telling him she had information for the police.”
“What about that Japanese shrink who called Vangie Monday night?” Phil asked.
Charley shrugged. “Katie talked to him yesterday. She may have some answers for us.”
♦29♦
For Katie, Wednesday night seemed endless. She’d gone to bed as soon as she returned from Edna’s apartment, remembering first to take one of the pills Dr. Highley had given her.
She’d slept fitfully, her subconscious restless with images of Vangie’s face floating through a dream. Before she woke up, that dream dissolved into a new one: Edna’s face as it had looked in death; Dr. Highley and Richard bending over her.
She’d awakened with vague, troubling questions that eluded her, refusing to come into focus. Her grandmother’s battered old black hat Why was she thinking about that hat? Of course. Because of that shabby old shoe Edna obviously prized; the one she had kept with her jewelry. That was it. But why just one shoe?
Grimacing as she got out of bed, she decided that the soreness throughout her body had intensified during the night. Her knees, bruised from slamming into the dashboard, felt stiffer now than they had right after the accident. I’m glad the Boston Marathon isn’t being run today, she thought wryly. I’d never win.
Hoping that a hot bath might soak some of the achiness away, she went into the bathroom, leaned down and turned on the taps in the tub. A wave of dizziness made her sway, and she grabbed the side of the tub to keep from falling. After a few moments the sensation receded, and she turned slowly, afraid that she might still faint. The bathroom mirror revealed the deathly pallor of her skin, the faint beads of perspiration on her forehead. It’s this damn bleeding, she thought. If I weren’t going into the hospital tomorrow night, I’d probably end up being carried in.
The bath did reduce some of the stiffness. Beige foundation makeup minimized the paleness. A new outfit—a shirred skirt and matching jacket in heather tweed and a crew-neck sweater—completed the attempt at camouflage. At least now I don’t look as though I’m about to fall on my face, she decided, even if I am.
With her orange juice she swallowed another of Dr. Highley’s pills and thought about the still-incredible fact of Edna’s death. After they left Edna’s apartment, she and Richard had g
one to a diner for coffee. Richard ordered a hamburger, explaining that he’d planned to have dinner in New York. He’d been taking someone out. She was sure of it. And why not? Richard was an attractive man. He certainly didn’t spend all his evenings sitting in his own apartment or in family situations at Molly and Bill’s. Richard had been surprised and pleased when she told him that she’d gone back to the Palisades restaurant. Then he’d become preoccupied, almost absentminded. Several times he’d seemed to be on the verge of asking her a question, then apparently changed his mind. Even though she protested, he’d insisted on following her home, going into the house with her, checking that doors and windows were locked.
“I don’t know why I feel uncomfortable about you alone in this place,” he’d told her.
She’d shrugged. “Edna was in a garden apartment with thin walls. No one realized she was hurt and needed help.”
“She didn’t,” Richard said shortly. “She died almost instantly. Katie, that Dr. Highley. You know him?”
“I questioned him about Vangie this afternoon,” she’d hedged.
Richard’s frown had lightened. “Of course. All right. See you tomorrow. I imagine Scott will call a meeting about Edna Burns.”
“I’m sure he will.”
Richard had looked at her, his expression troubled. “Bolt the door,” he’d said. There had been no lighthearted good-bye kiss on the cheek.
Katie put her orange-juice glass in the dishwasher. Hurriedly she grabbed a coat and her handbag and went out to the car.
Charley and Phil were beginning the search of the Lewis house this morning. Scott was consciously drawing a web around Chris Lewis—a circumstantial web, but a strong one. If only she could prove that there was another avenue to explore before Chris was indicted. The trouble with being arrested on a homicide charge is that even if you prove your innocence, you never lose the notoriety. In years to come people would be saying, “Oh, that’s Captain Lewis. He was involved in his wife’s death. Some smart lawyer got him off, but he’s guilty as sin.”
The Cradle Will Fall Page 13