My mother resumed: “When my doctor came in today to give me the test result--he was so professional and caring--we told him about Sloan. He was very nice about it. Even made the phone calls himself.”
She paused, appearing to gather the energy to continue. “I have an appointment on Monday. So my troubles won't ruin our vacation.”
I almost cried over her last remark. Instead, I picked up her satchel. It was surprisingly light, as she now appeared to be. “Let me help you.”
The fact that she did let me help was clearly a concession to her illness. “Have you checked out yet?” I asked.
“Yes,” my father answered. “The paperwork's all done.”
We found my parents' car in the lot. I tossed her belongings into the back seat. Paula helped her into the front passenger seat. My father “supervised,” then settled into the driver's seat. I knocked on my mother's window, and she opened it. Paula startled me by linking her arm in mine, but I tried not to react in front of my parents.
“You know, a CAT scan isn't perfect, either,” I said. “I've seen cases-”
“I'm prepared, mon cheri. Don't worry. I hope you'll join us for dinner tonight. At our place. I’d rather not go out.”
“Of course. I'll call later.” My mother began to close her window. “There is treatment for ovarian cancer,” I said, “even if-”
Her window closed, and they drove away. Paula squeezed, then relinquished my arm.
#
Paula proceeded to cry. When I put my arm around her she nestled into my shoulder. I was shaken, too, but a bit ahead of Paula in the grieving process. Having no words of wisdom to share, I hugged her a little harder.
Time pressure, however, forced me back to practicality. “Let's go to the ICU,” I said. “See Dr. Singer, and get Stephanie to take us to their house so we can search for the dicta-pen.”
Paula squeezed me back, nodded, and wiped her eyes with a tissue she pulled out of a pocket.
Stephanie Carstens and Judith Klansky were seated on opposite sides of Jonathan Singer's barely warm body. It must have been due to his pre-terminal state that no one made a fuss about exceeding the visitor capacity.
“It's almost over,” Stephanie said.
“Don't say that,” Judith countered.
“How many times do I have to tell you that saying it won't make it happen? Anyway, I’ve changed his status to DNR. If there’s no improvement soon, we'll...take the last step.”
Judith looked away. I saw her hands grip the sides of her chair.
I addressed Stephanie. “Can I talk to you? In private?” Judith's head swiveled toward me. “Maybe we can step outside for a moment,” I added.
Stephanie looked at Singer, then at Judith.
“I'll stay,” Paula said. “I'll keep you company,” she said to Judith, as though that's what Judith had requested. When Stephanie stood up, slowly, Paula slipped into her seat.
I walked out to the hallway, trusting Stephanie to follow me, then turned around. “If you remember last night, I asked you to let us search your house for clues.” She didn't speak. “You said yes.” Still no response. “Someone shot a gun at Paula and me last night. It's really important for us to keep investigating.”
That got her to look directly at me, but I could see that Paula and I were not her primary concern. I tried again. “You want to catch the person who did this to your husband, don't you?” She blinked. “You don't really believe that Mitchell did it, do you?”
“No I don't.” Finally a response. “I do have a sense of justice,” she said. “And even self-preservation. If they come to their senses and release Mitchell, I don't want their next scapegoat to be me. It's just the timing. To leave Jonathan now...”
“I understand. But it has to be done. And surely earlier's better than later.”
“OK,” she said. “Let's do it.”
That was a surprise. I'd had to work to get any response from Stephanie, and now she gave in to my request. Should I be worried for my safety, just the two of us in Singer’s house? She turned back toward the ICU.
“Wait,” I said. “I don't want anyone else to know what we're doing if possible. Which includes Judith.” And Paula, at least not yet. If Stephanie was indeed dangerous I preferred to keep Paula out of it.
“I get it,” Stephanie said. “I can't believe that Judith would hurt Jonathan. But someone must have.”
Good point. The same one Paula and I were grappling with. And speaking of Paula, I changed my mind. I couldn't leave her behind. She'd never forgive me and she'd be a valuable ally, injured or not. And I wanted to be with her in crisis time.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
“You probably noticed,” Stephanie added, “that I didn't want to leave Judith alone with Jonathan.”
I nodded--although my nod was a lie. Odd, though. Stephanie was ready to pull Singer's plug, but was apparently afraid that Judith might finish him off.
“I feel awful,” she said, “having selfish feelings at a time like this. But I can't help it. Jonathan's mine. I can't bear the thought of that woman alone with him. Not now.”
So I’d misjudged her motivations--unless she was even more devious than I thought.
“I’m sure it’s also the way she's been treating you,” I said.
“You bet,” Stephanie said. “So let's keep our trip to the house short.”
“I really appreciate it,” I said. “Let's use a pretext for getting away. How about Paula and I are taking you out for a quick ice cream?”
“I don't know. But I can't think of anything better.”
Judith either bought our story, or didn't bother to contest it. More likely she was happy to have Jonathan Singer to herself, maybe for the last time. Out at the nurses' station I reminded a nurse to keep an eye on Singer--meaning Judith. I still believed in being cautious.
“We know what to do,” she reassured me.
Paula and I followed Stephanie to Jonathan Singer's house. While I drove I asked Paula: “What did you talk to Judith about?”
“I told her about the shot in the parking lot last night.”
“Was that wise?” I'd told Stephanie, but Judith was the more serious suspect, and therefore more dangerous.
“I wanted to see her reaction.”
“And?”
“She seemed genuinely shocked.”
“As shocked as Claude Rains in Casablanca?” I asked.
“Maybe,” Paula smiled. “She also told me that she consulted a lawyer. Stephanie does have the legal authority to make life-and-death decisions for Jonathan Singer. And there's nothing Judith can do about it.”
“I pity the poor lawyer who had to tell her this,” I said.
“Unless her keep-him-alive gestures, which are clearly fruitless, are just ruses to deflect suspicion.”
“Now that would be devious,” I said. “Certainly worked on me.”
As we parked at Singer's house I spoke again. “Now that we're getting closer to the killer, I think it's best that we stay together as much as possible.”
“I understand.”
#
Stephanie insisted on being present for every step of our search. “It's our summer home,” she said, “but there's still a lot of personal stuff lying around. None of your business.” She had a point...but so did we.
Since I knew that the police had searched the bedrooms, I asked to begin in Singer's work area. Which turned out to be his study, his library, and...his bedroom and bathroom! I smiled as I imagined Singer himself making the journey.
Each stopping point featured books and journals, mostly lying open, and scrap papers of various sizes, mostly crumpled and scribbled on. Magnifying glasses propped open several of the books and journals. Singer's presence and vitality were more palpable here than in the ICU bed his body now occupied. I felt awed by the visible manifestations of his genius. And privileged to witness it.
But while pens and pencils of multiple colors abounded, there were no dicta-pens in sight.
We'd hardly completed searching the first room when Stephanie began to check her watch. After three rooms she asked: “How much longer, David? I want to get back to the hospital. If something were to happen to Jonathan while I was here...This is useless anyway.”
I feared that her last comment might be correct, but was reluctant to concede it. “Just a few more minutes. Please.”
Paula and I searched as many areas as we could, opening drawers, picking up papers to see what was hidden underneath. Our efforts grew frantic as our hopes ebbed.
“Enough,” Stephanie announced at 2:45 PM.
“Maybe we can try again later,” I suggested.
“Maybe. But don't count on it.”
Stephanie locked the door behind us, but ran ahead of us to her car. She drove off while Paula and I were entering our own car.
“If we don't find that dicta-pen,” I began.
“Remember what Ellis and Singer teach. Stop thinking that you “should” find the pen. We'll do the best we can, and deal with whatever happens.”
Was she talking about the pen, or about our break-up? The gloomy gray skies I saw through the windows mirrored my mood. Paula's words may have been true, but had provided me no encouragement or consolation.
“Let's go see Lieutenant Hansen,” I said.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
Paula and I were fortunate to once again catch up to Lieutenant Hansen, at the police station.
“I owe you some thanks, Dr. Sherlock,” Hansen said as he ushered us into his office. “That little trick of wearing the collar in bed helped my back pain. So what can I do for you?” Good trade for both sides: medical advice in return for granting an audience.
“Anything new on the Singer case?” I asked.
“Case? There's no more case for me. It's in the DA's hands.”
“Do you know what's in his will?” I persisted.
“Not giving up?” he asked back. “If you're looking for a motive, forget it. Outside of his house on the Cape he doesn't have much money. In Princeton he lives in an apartment on the Singer Institute premises.” I raised my eyebrows. “The Institute bears his name,” Hansen explained, “but doesn't belong to him. It's a not-for-profit corporation.”
It all figured. Singer seemed like a live-for-today type. I caught Paula's mouth twitching a smile.
“Right,” Hansen continued. “Not much of a saver. And what he does have, he's leaving mostly to his Institute.”
That figured, too. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”
“How's your rib, Dr. Jane?”
“Fine. Thank you.”
“And your mother, Dr. Sherlock? They keep me informed of Dr. Jonathan Singer's condition because it's a police matter, but not much else.”
I told him. “Sorry to hear that,” he said. “I hope everything works out for her. Now is there anything else?”
“Actually, there is.” I told him about the shooting in the parking lot.
“Dammit! Excuse my language, Dr. Jane. This happened last night and you're reporting it now? What did I tell you about playing cop?”
I answered first. “We didn't think there was anything you could do about it. Also, it was late and we were tired.” I hoped that Paula appreciated my sharing the heat for her decision.
“Tired. Hah.” He shook his head. “Probably a kid with a beebee gun, or a hunter. But still.”
“In a hospital parking lot?”
“You'd be surprised. The Cape has urban cowboys and mountain men. They all keep me busy.”
“Don't you think that this means that you've got the wrong man?” Paula asked.
“What? The real murderer is out there and gunning for you? No. We've got our guy. And what happened to you has a million other explanations. The lesson is obvious. Leave the police work to the police--but fill out a report before you leave. Now is there anything else?”
His tone, once gracious, was now approaching angry. He was behaving as Paula had predicted, which I hoped wouldn't dilute the credit she “should” accord me for supporting her. I had one more question. “You mentioned that you were having the hard drive from Singer's computer shipped here. May we look at his e-mails, and at whatever else is stored on his hard drive?”
He leaned back and relaxed as he considered my request. “I guess so. You've earned it, I suppose. But I can't let you actually touch the computer. It's evidence. What I can do, though, is have one of my officers help you. The young ones are good with computers.”
He made a telephone call, then stood up. There was no “is there anything else” this time. “It was nice knowing you both. I hope you'll return to the Cape someday, and have a nice, enjoyable vacation. Give my best to your mother.”
Paula and I rose, shook his hand, and were escorted out by the officer he'd called.
After completing our reports about the shooting in the hospital lot, we were given full access to Singer's computer. The officer sat at the keyboard, mostly following our requests, sometimes improvising. Paula and I stood at first, looking over the officer's shoulders. When we had to read those e-mails in standard font, however, I had to pull up a chair.
We found the e-mails Mitchell and Jonathan had exchanged. Overall, we saw plenty of Jonathan Singer’s quirkiness and genius; but nothing surprising, much less incriminating. I found it hard to focus as my discouragement grew. We thanked the officer, asked him to convey our thanks once again to Lieutenant Hansen, and walked out of the police station at 4 PM.
#
It was cold and gloomy outside. This time we both shivered. Neither of us had brought a jacket.
“What should we do next?” Paula asked.
“Frankly, my dear, the only lead I can think of is the dicta-pen. After dinner with my family we should return to the hospital. Get Stephanie to let us search Singer’s house again.”
“So we'll go back to the hotel now and re-group?”
Was she implying that she might take a nap? That was my province. “I have an idea,” I said. “Do you know what's near here? The Sturgis Library.” Her eyes widened. “Let's go see if they're having a book sale.”
“You know I can't resist that. No matter how I feel.”
Paula and I share a love of books. We read them, we touch them, we acquire them--and Paula outdoes me on every level. We delight in the Cape’s bookstores, including antiquarian and secondhand. But the summer library sales are nirvana. Large selection, good-condition books--and cut-rate prices.
We found the Sturgis Library open until 5. Not much time, but enough for today. The book sale room was in back and on the right, in a wing built in the 1800s. We spent a half hour in what was a respite room for us, the mysteries, novels, and nonfiction books elbowing out our worries. I even pretended that Paula and I were a couple again.
She filled up three shopping bags with books, and paid for them. I threw in my three--books. As I carried the first two bags out to the car I passed the library room with computers for public use. There were a dozen children, plus a couple of gray-hairs. Looking over the shoulder of one of the children, I marveled at the colorful graphics on her screen. I was proud of myself when I successfully used a computer as a glorified typewriter.
When we were back in the car Paula called my parents on her cell phone, and confirmed our 6 PM dinner date at their place.
“Thank you,” Paula said when we returned to our hotel. “Books always cheer me up. If you carry the books to my room, I can play with, I mean catalogue them.” (I knew that she was referring to her “home library” listings). “You can bring them back to the car later,” she concluded.
She gave me her cheek to kiss at her hotel room door as I said good-bye.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
“I can't believe you cooked dinner tonight,” I told my mother.
“I tried to stop her,” my father said. “But you know what she's like when she makes up her mind.”
“Don't exaggerate, Moshe. It's not like I cooked a six-course meal. It's just a big pot of spaghetti. And
I let you do all the heavy lifting.”
“I wanted to bring in restaurant food-”
“But I'm not ready to eat that, and this is perfect for everyone. Olive oil and a touch of garlic for those who want to eat light. Bottled spaghetti sauce for the less discriminating.”
“I know that Rachel loves your spaghetti,” Paula said.
“Especially when she shlurps the long strands,” I said.
My mother wagged her finger at me. “You're just jealous.”
I laughed. “I can't fool you.” I appreciated our normal conversation. Even if it was really pretend normal.
The kitchen in my parents' cottage opened into the dining area and living room. As the four of us sat in the living room, I saw my mother checking her watch periodically, clearly timing the spaghetti.
“I’ll be right back,” I said. I stepped out onto the back deck, leaned on the railing, and basked in the beauty of the Anchorage and its setting. The undulating waters of the Cove, the soothing summer breeze, the end-of-day blue skies and puffy white clouds happily coexisting. The serenity of the scene was the antithesis of my murder investigation--and I had no choice but to return to battle.
As I reentered the living room through the back door, Griselda and Rachel walked in from the bedroom area. Griselda was reading to Rachel from a comic book.
“You're letting Rachel read comic books?” I asked my parents, while putting on my mock horror face. “I know they're colorful, but aren't you worried that she won't want to graduate eventually to real literature?”
Paula had approached Griselda to investigate. “I think you should check this out, David, before you say any more.”
I joined them, and my jaw dropped. “Only my parents. A Green Panthers comic book!” I bent over and kissed Rachel on the temple. She squawked as usual with the invasion of her space. “Sorry, Rachel. I just wanted to congratulate you for reading socially conscious comic books.”
We all laughed together. Even Rachel joined in, although she kept her gaze averted. People with autism often find eye contact uncomfortable.
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