The next room on the left was larger and cheerier. The ICU waiting room. Yellows and oranges, a television set in the corner, a long couch and a dozen chairs. And Carstens, Klansky, and Mitchell Singer. Carstens was sitting with her face in her hands. Klansky and Mitchell were seated across from her, looking at each other.
“I just don't understand it,” Carstens said. “How could this have happened?”
Mitchell and Klansky turned toward Paula and me as we entered the room. Carstens, evidently sensing that the focus of attention had shifted away from her, looked up as well. Paula and I grabbed chairs and joined them. We exchanged quick greetings.
“How's your husband doing?” I asked Carstens.
“OK, I guess. No news is good news, right?”
“Well, yes and no.” Once I'd transferred Singer's care to Dr. Caldwell I had no further medical standing in his case. But to friends and family I was still a doctor, not just some innocent bystander. How could I explain Singer's prognosis? True, no news was better than worse news. But since most people in comas who eventually recover show signs of improvement within hours or days, no news would eventually be bad news. To my relief Klansky changed the subject.
“I keep telling Stephanie,” she said, “that we should fly Jonathan to a real hospital. In New York. Or Boston. But she keeps refusing.”
Carstens shook her head three times. “No. No. And no again. First of all, he’s too sick to move. Second, this hospital is perfectly good. And last, if the worst happens, it's bad enough that he's in a hospital rather than at home. But to take him away from the Cape, which he loves, to some strange, far-away hospital, he'd never want that.”
“Probably true,” Mitchell said.
“You agree with her, Mitchell?” Klansky asked. Now she shook her head. “Anyway, they keep harping on the alcohol they found in his blood. But it was just a small amount.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Mitchell said. “I've never seen him drunk. And he certainly wasn't drunk when I saw him on the deck last night. Ridiculous to think that he fell overboard because he was tipsy.”
“Maybe they know something and they're just not telling us,” Paula said.
“That's possible,” I said. “But major secrets like that don't stay secret very long.”
“Why don't you find Dr. Caldwell,” Paula asked, “and get the latest?”
Before I could reply Carstens' head sank to her hands once again. “It's all my fault. I didn't give him the Mestinon. But I don't understand how it happened. It was in my pocketbook, then it wasn't, then it was.” She looked up, as if seeking exoneration, or at least sympathy, from the jury.
Klansky cleared her throat. “All right, all right, Stephanie. You have your defects, which I'll be happy to enumerate some other time. But you're not enough of a ninny to have searched your pocketbook and not seen the pill-box.” She paused, allowing her listeners to consider the obvious implications. “So the absence of the pill-box last night was intentional. It only remains to determine if it was your doing-”
“What?” Carstens asked.
“-or someone else's.”
Carstens' shoulders sagged. “Either way, it's my fault.” She looked at each of us, and must not have liked our reactions. “Wait a minute. I'm not saying that I tried to hurt him.” Her face collapsed into her hands once again, and she began to cry.
“Is there anything-” I began, but Carstens shook her head.
I sensed that Paula and I had learned all that we could for the moment. Time to let Jonathan Singer's family, dysfunctional as they might be, return to his bedside. And I was hungry. “Let's go,” I mouthed to Paula. She nodded. We said our good-byes and best wishes, and left. I inquired after Krista Caldwell on our way out, but it wasn't her shift.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sunshine, blue skies, and a light breeze greeted Paula and me as we exited the hospital, as though rebutting our gloom. And then a solitary black cloud passed overhead, dousing us with light rain.
“Where did this rain come from?” I asked, and ran to Paula's car. Her locked car.
Paula walked with exaggerated slowness to join me, knowing full well that I don't like to get my hair or clothes wet. As I waited, I shielded my head with my hand, and shuffled my feet like a child with a full bladder. Paula's broad smile showed that she was enjoying my discomfiture a little too much.
No sooner had we settled in our seats than her cell phone rang. “Damn,” she said. Paula considers her cell phone a necessary evil, and is often annoyed when it rings. I was far too magnanimous to gloat at her discomfiture.
Her conversation was brief, and I couldn’t make it out. “That was Tracey Shanley,” Paula said. My eyebrows rose. “She wants to join us.”
“That's too bad,” I said.
“I know, I know. I said we were on our way to lunch. But she said she wouldn't disturb us for long.”
I raised my eyebrows again.
“True or not,” Paula continued, “I didn't know how to put her off. On the positive side, she could be a powerful ally.”
“If she's not an attempted murderer, that is.”
“Details, details,” Paula said. “By the way, where are we going for lunch?”
“How about the Dunbar Tea Room?”
Paula smiled. “Perfect,” she said.
I liked the sound of that. Paula called Tracey to tell her our destination, and we took off.
#
Paula chose to drive along our favorite cross-Cape route, 6A. So we spent the thirty-minute trip in silence, basking in familiar sights. Restaurants, hydrangeas, bed-and-breakfasts, trees and grass, ice cream parlors, glimpses of bodies of water, libraries, historic homes and antique shops. The occasional weeds along our path--I mean mini-malls--weren’t numerous enough to spoil the beauty. But I hoped that towns were applying enough weed-killers--I mean regulations--to prevent their spread.
The Tea Room is near the end of the route, in Sandwich, near the beginning of the Cape. It purports to be British, but it's really Cape/British, with English teas and teapots co-mingling with Cape jams, condiments, books, and artisanry.
We drove up the Tea Room's driveway and parked in its ten-car lot. Our tires crunched on the gravel, a sound and feel I usually find grating. But not here. The pleasantness of associations past and expectation of enjoyment to come overcame all. The hostess led us through the shop and up four steps, to a table on the covered patio in the back.
We ordered our usual Afternoon Tea, with its assortment of finger sandwiches and desserts. Paula ordered her usual Earl Grey tea. When I selected a black raspberry tea, however, Paula stared at her menu, refusing to acknowledge my daring break with our tradition. Maybe she was too frightened.
While we awaited our food we sat back, the better to inspect and enjoy the beautiful gardens behind the patio. Each year brought some small change, such as new flowers, or a new stone sculpture. And then I remembered that Tracey Shanley was coming. We had to talk quickly if we wanted to discuss anything on our own.
“You were right,” I said. Seemed like a good way to begin a conversation.
“Of course.”
“Don't you want to know what you're right about?”
“Oh, that's obvious. I knew from the beginning that someone deliberately pushed Jonathan Singer off the boat, and that Mitchell didn't do it.”
“So much for my big concession. I was slower than you. Which I don’t think has ever happened before.” We both laughed. “Anyway, I'm not ready to give Mitchell Singer a free pass. But I do agree that we have an attempted murder on our hands, not an unfortunate accident.”
Our teas arrived in their cozies. As we poured our teas through strainers, I reflected that on our trip to England we'd discovered that even some premier hotels had sunk to substituting tea bags for loose tea leaves. We looked at each other as we took our first sips. I knew that she was remembering the same thing.
“So what made you arrive at this revolutionary conclusion?” she asked.
“I'm so glad you asked. You were also right when you said that the episode of the missing Mestinon pills was too coincidental to be accidental-”
“Of course.”
“-but I wasn't prepared to agree with you until more of the picture began to be filled in.”
Our food arrived on its traditional three-tiered tray. We munched; I resumed talking. “It's not just that two odd things happened roughly simultaneously. It's that there's a logical connection. Despite his age Jonathan Singer is physically fit, and no easy mark. It wouldn't be easy to throw him overboard. Without his Mestinon, however, he would be drastically weakened. Samson shorn of his hair.”
“You're so poetic,” Paula teased. “Does this mean we have to look for Delilah?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Hello, Paula. Hello, David.” Tracey Shanley was standing above us. She had changed into a pale blue T-shirt, apparently proud of her muscular upper arms. “Thank you for allowing me to join you.”
She sat down, our waitress appeared, and Tracey ordered Lapsang Souchong tea.
“I've already eaten,” she said. “But I've heard that the tea here is delicious.”
Paula and I finished our meals in silence. We waited for Tracey to speak, our own conversation hamstrung in her presence.
“I'll get right to it,” Tracey said. “I've heard that you're investigating what happened to Jonathan. I want to help.”
I wasn't happy to hear that. The first rule of amateur detecting is “don't trust anyone.” Or was that “safety first?” Anyway, how could we reject her offer graciously?
“How did you hear about what we're doing?” Paula asked.
Tracey smiled. “Lieutenant Hansen happened to mention it.”
“He did what?” I asked.
“Well, he was supposed to be interviewing me. But as Paula certainly knows, every psychologist has to be a good listener. And listening well gets people to talk. Even police officers.”
So how could we get rid of her?
“We can use any help we can get,” Paula said. “If you're good at talking to people, that's what you can do for us.”
Paula was not quite following my plan. We'd have to discuss this later.
“So what do you know so far?” Tracey asked.
She is good at this, I thought.
“We're focusing first on Dr. Singer's missing, or rather temporarily missing, Mestinon pills,” Paula said.
“You know,” Tracey said, “Stephanie has her, ah, virtues. But precision and intelligence aren't included among them.”
I decided that I might as well join in. “If you're suggesting that Carstens simply didn't see the pill-box in her pocketbook, we agree that it's on the list of possibilities. But not high on it.”
Paula gave me a brief glare. She must have wanted to handle Tracey by herself.
“And, of course,” Paula said, “Stephanie could have lied about the whole thing. But that's not the point. The point is that we're trying to reconstruct what did happen. That's where you can help, Tracey. By talking to everyone who was on the boat. Reconstructing their movements and timing.”
“Interesting. Sounds similar to what Hansen’s doing. He's trying to figure out who was up on the deck with Jonathan, and when.”
“I suppose you're right,” Paula said. “But maybe we're a step ahead of him. We actually believe that there was foul play. Is that what you believe, too?”
“Weeell,” Tracey answered. “I'm not sure. But if there is a problem I want to be part of solving it.”
“That's good to hear. So you'll do what we asked?”
“Yes, definitely. But with one caveat. It'll be easy for me to talk to anyone who's at the conference. Anyone who was on the boat, but isn't at the conference, is a different matter.”
“No problem,” Paula said. “You have plenty to act on. If we decide later that other people have to be questioned, we'll deal with that then.”
She looked at our teacups. They were all empty. “We should get started right away,” she said. “The conference ends in three days. We'd better wrap this up before everyone scatters.”
She began to stand up, but Tracey spoke. “Wait. What are you two going to do?”
“Oh,” Paula said. “We're going to check out the Green Panthers.”
I did a double take. So much for my poker face. Paula continued. “The Green Panthers were on the scene at the right time, and had a major conflict with Dr. Singer.”
“Are you including my parents as suspects?” I asked.
“What?” It was Tracey's turn to be surprised.
“Yes,” I said. “Believe it or not, two of the Green Panthers were my parents. Always ready to participate in a good cause. But not murder!”
Tracey smiled.
“Don't be silly,” Paula said to me. “We're just investigating. Now let's get going.”
“Wait, Paula.” It was my turn to apply the brakes. “Please sit down for just another couple of minutes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Paula hesitated, then slid back into her seat. “OK. Why should I wait?”
“Let's take advantage of having Tracey on our side. She knows just about everyone who's involved. Let's get her opinion of them.”
Paula's look changed from annoyance to anticipation. She turned to face Tracey.
Tracey’s smile, on the other hand, dissolved as she shifted in her seat. “What exactly do you mean?”
“Just a one- or two-second sketch of each person,” I said. “Including, of course, their likelihood as suspects.” It would be hard for her to wriggle out of my seemingly simple request. Even if she were usually the one extracting information. “Let's start with someone who's not a suspect,” I said. “Dr. Singer. Jonathan.”
Tracey looked at Paula, maybe seeking a reprieve, then back at me. “What can I say? He's unique. One of the titans in our field. But you know that.”
A crazy thought leaped into my head. “Could he have wanted to kill himself?” I asked.
Both women’s mouths opened. “No way,” Tracey said. “He’s ninety, but still trying to live every moment to the fullest.”
“Let’s ask serious questions,” Paula said. “Does he have enemies?”
Tracey laughed. “Every other person is his enemy. I sometimes think that what drove his career was a need to prove other people wrong. Starting with Freud.”
Paula and I exchanged a glance. Tracey noticed, and smiled. “Yes,” she said. “The Oedipus complex was Freud's idea. Freud was a father figure to Jonathan. And Jonathan attacked him...not quite, but he did contribute to alternative theories.”
“Amazing,” I said. “Was Singer anywhere near Mrs. Freud?”
Tracey laughed again. “Stop it, David,” Paula said, but I caught her smiling, too. “You were saying,” she prodded Tracey.
“Yes. About Jonathan's combative nature. He enjoys provoking people, then besting them in word-to-word combat. When I accused him of that once, he told me that the biggest enemy of truth is the word ‘yes.’”
Good thought, but maybe truth isn't always the ultimate value. “So would anyone want him dead?” I asked.
“No, no,” Tracey said. “He's had three wives and countless professional rivalries. But dead, what's the point? He's ninety years old. How much longer could he last?”
“Mitchell Singer.”
“No. Of course he wouldn't kill his father.”
“That's not what I meant,” I said. “But I appreciate your answer. What I meant was: what do you think of him, in general?”
“Great guy. Great psychologist.”
I sensed diplomatic doublespeak, but we were looking for dirt--I mean the truth. “He and his father were estranged for years,” I said.
“Yes. But they resolved all that.”
“Are you sure?”
“So far as I know, yes.”
“Why did they split up?” I asked.
“Oh, personal and professional reasons. You should ask
him...them.”
Did her eyes mist up? “Come on. You know more than that.”
A sudden look of anger, her eyes boring into mine. As I was reconsidering my aggressive strategy her expression returned to neutral position. She looked away. “Jonathan and Mitchell's mother split up when Mitchell was a baby. Way before my time, of course. Mitchell doesn't remember his mother, but at some point decided to blame his father for the break-up. Things got bitter between them. You know about the Stephanie thing, of course. And then Mitchell rejected Jonathan's approach to the practice of psychology.”
She looked back at me and smiled, but I felt no warmth. “Probably one of those ‘mine's bigger than yours’ things. But you'd know more about that.”
“I don't-”
“What I've told you are just my impressions. But that's what you wanted, right?”
“Yes, definitely,” Paula said. “And we appreciate it.”
I nodded, shocked as much by Tracey's emotion as by her revelations. “Yes,” I said. “Me, too.” I tried a different tack, maybe catch her off guard. “Is he the right person to lead the Singer Institute?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Tracey stiffened, and Paula kicked me under the table. I smiled to cover my wince. How much crap would Tracey--and Paula--accept from me?
“It's Jonathan's Institute,” Tracey said. “I'm sure he knows what's best for it.”
“But you've been his second-in-command for years, right?”
Paula interjected. “Is it possible that Mitchell lied? We have only his word for it that his father named him as successor.”
Tracey cocked her head. “No, I doubt that. Anything's possible. But I can't picture Mitchell going that far.”
I didn't know about that. My impression of Mitchell was favorable. But everyone lies sometimes, don't they? It was also interesting that Tracey’s defense of Mitchell seemed lukewarm.
Speculate later, David. Back to the interrogation. “Rafael Rincon,” I said.
Our waitress came by and asked if we needed anything else. Which must have been code for “if you're finished eating, give me my table back.”
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