“Don't be overconfident, Dad. Our system of justice isn't always systematic.”
“Well, they tried to intimidate me. But they didn't know who they were dealing with.”
Paula and I looked at each other. If we could have smiled under the table we would have. Our caution was unnecessary, however. My parents were looking at each other, not at us.
“I want you to go straight home, Charlotte. Get some rest.”
“I will, as soon-”
“And if you're not better tomorrow, you must see a doctor.”
“We'll be sure to take care of all that,” Paula said. “Can we get anything for you? Clothes? Toothbrush? Food?”
He looked at his clothes, as if surprised they were there. “No thanks. I'll just rough it with these clothes. They promised to supply the rest. I'll pretend I'm at the Ritz, and I don't even have to leave a tip when I go.”
“Seriously, Dad. Why are they holding you? What makes them think you did such a terrible thing?”
“Probably because I'm an outsider. That's probably their motto: when in doubt, pin it on an outsider.”
“And in a previous era, being Jewish might have been strike two,” I blurted out. Both of my parents jolted to attention. As Holocaust survivors they're exquisitely sensitive to such issues. “I'm sorry I said such a thing for no reason. The subject was on my mind because Paula and I had to deal with an anti-Semite today. You remember. Your boat captain, Thomas Haydock.”
“It seems like a year ago,” my father said. “But I remember that you mentioned it at Maguire's. I'll make sure to talk to Bitty Smyth about cutting ties with him.”
“And to be fair to the Cape police, I've seen examples of ‘blame the outsider first’ in our very own Centreville. There's something natural about not wanting to see someone you know or live next to as a bad person.”
“Good point, David.” Whoa. A compliment. Maybe jail had changed him.
“We all witnessed your argument with Jonathan Singer,” I said. “But there must be something else for the police to have latched onto you.”
“Yes, well. Somehow they got the idea that we went back to Singer's boat. When he was alone on the deck.”
“Is that true?”
“Yes, but-”
“Why didn't you tell me? What happened when you went back?” Answer the second question first, I thought.
“Nothing happened. We all stayed on our own boats. I tried to talk to him, but gave up because we couldn’t hear each other.”
I smiled, picturing a shouting match between Singer and my father.
“So nothing happened,” he repeated. “I went back downstairs--on our boat, I mean--to join your mother. She was napping. We soon left.”
“Did you leave Haydock alone with Singer?”
He considered my question. “I’m not sure. I think the other Green Panthers drifted away while Singer and I were having our, ah, discussion.”
I looked at Paula. “So Haydock's still a suspect.” Then back to my father: “Are you sure nothing else happened, something someone could blame you for?”
“No. Nothing.”
“So why would the police do this to you?”
“Remember what I said, David? I'm an outsider.”
“Actually, I can answer my own question. I know how they operate. They have suspicions, they put pressure on, and they see what gives. Maybe the case will crack the easy way. If not, nothing's lost, and they let you go.”
“And how exactly do you know this?” Paula asked.
The police officer appeared in the doorway. “Please wrap up your visit. We're about to close up for the night.”
I stood up. “Paula was right. My comment on police tactics was based on extensive research--watching TV shows. Still,” I said to my father. “Don't say anything else until your lawyer gets here.”
“Sure, sure,” he replied, dismissing my obvious and correct, but useless advice. “Just take care of your mother,” he concluded. Now that made sense, though.
I kissed him and stepped out of the way. Paula helped my mother out of her chair. My parents embraced, but I could see that my father held back for fear of overtaxing my mother. Paula waved good-bye and we left.
We walked out to the parking lot taking six-inch steps. Paula and I supported my mother from both sides, acting as a human walker. When we offered to stay the night with her she thanked us, but said she'd be fine with Griselda. And I did feel more at ease back at the cottage when Griselda put her arm around my mother and told us not to worry.
I kissed Paula good-night at her hotel room door, and retreated to my own room. A wave of loneliness swept over me as I lay in bed pondering my mother’s illness, my father’s incarceration, and Jonathan Singer’s coma. How I yearned to have Paula in my arms!
TUESDAY
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I find it amazing that people can be in the same place, yet exist in totally different worlds. As I walked into the conference's snack room, bearing the weight of a dozen stresses, my colleagues seemed obliviously cheerful. Coffee and danish go on, even with Jonathan Singer near death.
I headed for the buffet tables, but nothing appealed to me. A recommendation I give to my depressed patients occurred to me. When I ask them to try to lift their spirits by having fun, and they reply that there's nothing they feel like doing, I tell them to think of what they used to like and do that. Orange juice, bagel with cream cheese, and slices of cantaloupe and honeydew melon fulfilled my formula.
I found Paula sitting at a table with Mitchell Singer again, but this time with Tracey Shanley as well.
“Good morning,” I said, as I deposited my dishes on their table. I pulled an empty seat from another table and sat in it. “I hope you don't mind if I join you.”
“No, of course not,” Mitchell said. “But we're almost finished eating.” And I thought Mitchell never finished eating.
“How's your father?” Tracey asked me. “Paula just told us about his troubles.”
“Thanks for asking,” I replied, quickly swallowing my food. “I called my mother-”
“How is she doing?” Paula interrupted.
“She said she was feeling better. But I’ll believe she's better when I see it for myself.” I addressed Tracey and Mitchell. “She hasn't been feeling well. Stomach virus.” And back to Paula. “She said she was on her way to the police station. By taxi. We'll check on them later.”
Tracey cleared her throat. “I hope I'm not getting too personal. But what do the police have against your father to even consider him a suspect?”
“It was the argument they had on board ship,” Paula answered for me, dispensing what was sure to be common knowledge.
“That's a good one,” Mitchell said. “If they arrested everyone who ever argued with my father, the jail would be more crowded than the conference.”
“And speaking of ridiculous accusations,” Tracey said to Mitchell. “I'm sorry that Stephanie got you into so much trouble with the police.”
“How did you know about that?”
“How did I know?” she echoed.
“Someone called the police last night,” Mitchell said, looking at Paula and me. “And accused me of throwing my father overboard.”
His eyes moistened. I wanted to comfort him by saying that the accusation was ridiculous--but was it? I couldn't read Tracey's expression. When I looked at Paula she opened her mouth, but Mitchell spoke again.
“I should be angry with my anonymous accuser. But I'm just too numb. What kind of mind would come up with that?”
A witness or an enemy, I answered in my head.
“I see no reason,” Mitchell continued, “to keep the accusation secret. Although you seem to know all about it, Tracey.” He chuckled.
“Mit-chell,” Tracey said.
“Not that I should be surprised,” he persisted. “It's the same way all the time at the Institute.”
“Mitchell,” Tracey said. “Remember, I was there.”
&
nbsp; He smacked his temple. “Of course. Where is my head these days? You were there when Lieutenant Hansen pulled me away from my father's bedside for re-questioning. What a waste, just rehashing the same stupid questions.”
His voice trailed off and he looked away, but he recovered to refocus on us. “So the anonymous call isn't a secret. Which as far as I'm concerned is just as well. To paraphrase my father, ‘what's the worst that could happen’...if people find out about it?”
They might think you tried to kill your father, I thought but stifled. Paula patted a brown leather book-bag leaning against her chair. “Funny. ‘What's the worst that could happen’ is the title of the talk Dr. Singer prepared. The one I'll be delivering for him, using his notes.”
Mitchell turned away. When he turned back his eyes were red again, but it didn't last. “You did that, Tracey?”
“Yes. Judith told me where to find your father's notes. I hope you don't mind.”
“No. Not at all.” He turned to Paula. “Paula's a rising star. No doubt about it.” Back to Tracey. “Good choice. But Tracey, what made you say that Stephanie's the one who called the police about me? The Lieutenant didn't tell me that.”
Tracey looked down. “I'm sorry. I have some idea of how you must feel about her.” She looked up, and locked her gaze to Mitchell's. “But let's face facts. If we accept the premise that the accusation against you is false, even absurd, whoever made it must have done it to hurt you. Who else here has anything against you?”
“But-” I began, but was interrupted by Andrea Peterson, standing in the doorway.
“It's nine o'clock, everyone. Time to finish breakfast and head next door.” Several people groaned. “I'm sorry to interrupt your networking. But there'll be plenty of time later.”
Too bad. I would have wanted our conversation to continue. As conference participants filed obediently out of the room Andrea walked to our table. “And without you folks we can't start at all,” she said.
When neither Mitchell nor Tracey responded, Andrea shrugged and left. The four of us, the last group remaining in the room, finally stood up and bussed our dishes. I began to follow Mitchell and Tracey out, but Paula restrained me by the arm.
“But what?” she asked.
“Oh, you mean from before. I didn't have a good ending for my sentence in mind. It's just that I found it hard to believe that Stephanie made the anonymous call. Didn't we both say that she cares more about Mitchell than Jonathan?”
“It was just a theory.”
“That's true. It’s also true that whoever called must have had a good motive for wanting to hurt Mitchell. And, as Tracey said, who else but Stephanie?” I still didn't buy it, but we were only speculating. “I'll keep an open mind.”
Paula poured herself a cup of coffee. “Second cup?” I asked.
“Third, actually. I got up very early today. I have a lot to tell you, but we have to get going. Come, help me.”
She handed me her bag and scooped up Singer's book-bag. I watched her as she rushed to the conference, and sighed. Time alone with Paula is always special to me, no matter how brief.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
When the first two lectures of the day were over I touched Paula's arm. “Let's get going. We have a lot to talk about.”
“Sure. But let's grab some snacks first.”
As usual, Paula and I were last ones in, last ones out of the conference room. When we walked through the refreshments doorway I spotted Rafael Rincon and Andrea Peterson off to the side, laughing. Friends again so soon? Mutually assured deception, more likely.
Rafy was expostulating, arms outflung. Andrea was looking up at him with that gaze of admiration that always appeals to men, even when they sense its artificiality. Why is it so easy to spot other people's little games but not one's own? I turned away to avoid being drawn into their conversation. Too late.
“Good morning, David,” Rafy waved to me. “I missed you at breakfast. And the beauteous Paula, more ravishing than ever.”
I liked neither Rafy's compliments nor Paula's smile. At least Andrea's grimace indicated agreement with me.
“So have you decided to join our research team yet?” Rafy asked me.
“You really should,” Paula said. “It's a great research project, and it would be good for your career.”
“Thanks, Paula,” I said, my jealousy tweaking me. “Still thinking,” I told Rafy. I turned to Andrea and segued. “Whatever you've been doing has been working. The conference is a success. In spite of all the troubles.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I'm glad someone noticed.” But when she looked up at me--as much “up” as my five-foot-eight would allow--and squeezed my arm, I decided that prudence dictated a prompt escape.
“Paula, we, ah...have something to do.”
Paula laughed. “All right. But let's get our snacks first.”
We said our good-byes, grabbed soda cans, cookies and cut-up fruit, and left.
#
It was quite a challenge juggling our snacks along with Paula's and Jonathan Singer's book-bags. I wondered how we'd handle opening a door.
“Rafy's starting to get on my nerves,” I said.
“Don't be jealous. You can learn something from him about how to treat a woman.”
“Or women. He's married, you know.”
“No need to dwell on technicalities.” She laughed again. “But now it's just the two of us. So where are we going? How about the fountain area?”
“It's nice there, I agree. But with all our colleagues around we're too likely to be interrupted. I really want to talk to you in private.”
“OK. So where is private?”
“How about my place?” I asked. “I haven't yet shown you my room with a view.”
“Sounds good to me.”
I led her through the hotel's corridors to my room. Placing my belongings on the floor was my elegant solution for freeing my hands. I unlocked the door. “Après vous,” I said.
Paula excused my French and entered the semi-dark room, holding the door open for me. I scooped up my stuff and followed her in, then walked past the queen-sized bed to the table for two at the far end. When I deposited my food and bag on the table Paula did the same. I walked to the window and drew the curtains open.
“Voila,” I said, pointing at the view--of the hotel's parking lot.
Paula shook her head and displayed a rueful grin. “I should have known. This hotel doesn't have any real views. But at least there's bright sunlight.” Which served to illuminate all the beauty of the generic hotel room, whose key features besides the bed were its television and mini-bar. Don't leave home without your credit card.
We sat at the table. I watched Paula flip up the tab of her soda can, insert her straw, and take a long, slow sip.
“Aren't you going to eat something?” she asked.
“Yes, sure.” I opened my soda can and drank, but without Paula's panache. Paula reached for Singer's book-bag. She reeled it in, unzipped it, and pulled out a manila folder brimming with loose papers.
“Look at this,” she said as she spread out Singer's notes on the table. “How can such a brilliant mind be so disorganized? Although I shouldn't talk.”
Singer’s oversized script befit his poor vision. Flared letters and multiple cross-outs typified his temperament. Something about those pages and Paula's remarks nudged my subconscious, but I couldn't specify it. We ate our cookies and fruit, and wiped our hands on napkins to avoid smudging Singer's papers.
“It's going to be some challenge sorting this out,” Paula said. “The pages aren't numbered.”
“You could play fifty-two pick-up with them. I bet that they're so full of insights that you could come up with a great talk no matter what order they end up in.”
“You're a big help.” She gathered up Singer's papers--and then dropped them on the floor. We stared at each other and burst out laughing.
Shaking our heads, we picked up the papers. Paula replaced them i
n Singer's bag. “I shouldn't complain,” she said. “It's a unique opportunity to look into the mind of a great man. Now let me tell you what I did this morning. Guess.”
She hand-fed me a piece of melon. “You're distracting me,” I said, my mouth full.
She smiled. “Are you complaining?” I shook my head while I chewed. “So I told you,” she said, “that I didn't sleep well, and got up early. About six o'clock. I got the idea to do something that I've often talked about but never done. I went to the hotel gym.”
I nodded. “I remember you mentioning that some time ago.” I opened my mouth, inviting the next spoonful.
“Have I spoiled you already? You have to earn special treatment.”
As I hung my head she picked up a strawberry by the stem, and slowly sucked on the fruit. I was having trouble concentrating on our conversation.
“So I bring my gym clothes on every trip,” she said, “but never get to wear them. Until today.” I pictured her. Black workout Tee. Form-fitting. Hmmm.
“When I got to the gym,” she continued, “I discovered that the party had begun without me. Rafy, Mitchell, Tracey, and Andrea were already there, all merrily working out. Treadmill, weights, punching bag. With all those muscles bulging it was actually a little intimidating. Except for Mitchell--who's more teddy than grizzly.”
I picked up a piece of melon and extended it toward Paula's mouth. She tilted her head side to side to side, mulling over my offer. “OK,” she said, and opened her mouth. I obliged, and watched her chew.
“Early morning exercise must be part of the Singer Institute's culture,” she said. “Jonathan Singer and Judith Klansky are probably there under normal circumstances.”
“I imagine it’s a good bonding activity,” I said. “Not to mention the physical and mental health benefits.”
“We can sure see how well it’s been working,” she said with another rueful grin.
“Got it!” I said, snapping my fingers. “Sorry for interrupting. But I know what's wrong with this picture. And I don’t mean your gym activities. The Singer case. Singer's papers are disorganized, and organization is a key to our case. We've been saying that the disappearance of his Mestinon was intentional. That it was part of a plan to weaken him, to allow the villain to throw him overboard.”
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