Family Practice (26 page)

“Dr. Barrington?” Susan wondered whether the woman's mind was tracking.

Marlitta blinked. “You said Vicky was dead.”

“Can you tell me about this evening, when you were at Dorothy's house?”

“Ellen. She said Dorothy was killed because someone had stolen a painting. A painting.” Marlitta shook her head, bewildered, and stared at the tips of her frilly green slippers, as though they didn't make any sense either.

“You think that's why Dorothy was killed?”

Marlitta rubbed fingertips over one eyelid. “I don't understand anything.”

Susan started Marlitta at the beginning: What time did you get there? Where did everyone sit? What did Vicky say? What did each of the others say? The only thing Marlitta seemed to remember for certain was that it was Ellen who'd asked them to come.

“What time did you leave?”

“It must have been—” Marlitta looked around in confusion. “Close to eight o'clock.”

They came straight home. She drank a cup of tea and went to bed.

Brent?

“He had something he had to do, and then he was here.”

Brent sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee. The ceiling light sparkled on white appliances and cabinet tops, bright enough for surgery. Officer Tullick, standing just inside the door, stiffened to attention when Susan came in. She gave him a nod, and he left to keep an eye on Marlitta. Susan sat across the table from Brent.

He studied her over the brim of his mug, then set it down. “Coffee?”

“No thank you.”

“Not really the best thing to drink at two in the morning, I guess.” He sighed. “Sleep is out of the question anyway.”

“Tell me about this evening, Dr. Wakeley.”

He looked at her and smiled a quick smile with no humor. “Seeing if my story matches?”

“I need to get all the information I can.”

He turned sideways in the chair, stretched out his legs, and propped an elbow on the table. He sipped coffee, looked down at his mug, and tipped it back and forth. “You've already talked with the others?” It was more a statement than a question.

“Does it make a difference?”

Another quicksilver smile. “Only that it might clue me in on what to say.”

“This isn't a game, Dr. Wakeley.”

He sobered instantly. “No. I'm sorry about Vicky.”

She started him out with what time he and Marlitta had arrived at the Barrington house, where they were in the house, who said what. He answered with no evasions that she could spot until he got to Taylor's remarks; then she could see him sort through, choose, and discard.

“What time did you return home?”

“I'm sure Marlitta's already told you. Somewhere around eight o'clock.”

“And then?”

“I'm sure she's already told you that too.” There was a little hint of impatience in his rich, resonant voice. He waited a moment, then said. “I always swim on Tuesday evenings. My only bow toward exercise.” He slapped his flat stomach.

She didn't believe it for a minute. He probably watched every calorie that went in his mouth, rode a stationary bicycle, and did isometrics at idle moments.

“Then I went to the clinic to catch up on some professional reading. You wouldn't believe the amount of journals that come out.”

“You got home at what time?”

“Shortly after eleven, I'd guess. Marlitta was asleep.”

She took him back to the conversation in the Barrington music room. “Taylor accused Vicky of shooting Dorothy?”

“I think he was simply scattering words to shift the focus from himself.”

“Vicky got upset, angry?”

“Angry, perhaps frightened. Responded before she thought. She did that often.”

“She mentioned seeing somebody parked by the side of the road. To whom was she referring?”

Brent did everything but squirm to indicate his reluctance to answer. If he hadn't been such a showman she might have been more quick to accept it, but he overdid it a hair in his attempt to make sure she got the point.

“She may have meant”—he drew out each word, a man uncomfortable but, under the circumstances, obliged to relate what he knew—“Taylor.”

“Why Taylor?”

Brent got up, went to the coffee pot, refilled his mug, and set the pot back on the warming plate. He sampled the coffee before he spoke. “I happened to see Taylor parked on a country road.”

“When?”

“Last week sometime.”

“Where?”

“Near Ellen's place.”

“Who was he with?”

“Holly Dietz.”

For a moment, Susan didn't know who Holly was; then memory kicked in. Holly was the woman gathering old photos for a book about early Hampstead. Taylor and Holly? Love by the side of the road? Thus far there'd been no whiff of Taylor straying from marital bliss. Brent, on the other hand, smelled like a veritable bouquet. A little misdirection?

*   *   *

Rain sprinkled on the roof of the squad car when Susan and Tullick drove back to Willis Barrington's house. Jagged streaks of lightning crackled through the black sky, and Susan tensed in anticipation of thunder. It boomed like a cannon, rumbled away, to be followed by another crack and rumble. And she used to love rain. One thing she could say about Kansas, it knew how to put on a thunderstorm.

Carl and Ellen had gone off with Willis. She found Osey in the master bedroom, going through drawers. It was a large room with a four-poster bed, bright flowered bedspread with ruffled edges, two dormer windows with matching ruffled curtains. The sterility of the downstairs had been carried on up here. The room was neat, bed made, two white provincial chests with the tops bare, one large picture of three herons.

Osey shoved in the bottom drawer of a chest, swiveled around still in a crouch, noticed her, and uprighted himself in jerky movements like unfolding a ruler.

“Anything?” she asked.

“No, ma'am. 'Less you want to hear about Miss Vicky's underwear. Pretty fancy.”

“No suicide note?”

“No, ma'am.”

“You about finished here?”

Osey raked straw-colored hair off his forehead. “Downstairs. Still got a ways to go up here. Haven't checked on the bathroom yet. Reckon we might find a few meds.”

“Bag everything.”

“Yes, ma'am. I figured I might do that.”

She smiled apologetically. She was simply holding him up. “Any word from Parkhurst?”

“Not since he left to find Taylor Talmidge. You want me to get him for you?”

“Never mind.” She went back downstairs and started to speak to Yancy, stationed at the front door, when Parkhurst's Bronco pulled up outside. He sprinted through drizzle to the house.

“Did you find Taylor?” she asked.

He ran a hand down his face, wiping away water. “Yeah. He drove up just as I got there.”

Hail peppered the porch roof, and she moved closer to hear better. “Where had he gone?”

Parkhust grinned, with a flash of white teeth. “When I asked, he told me to get lost.”

“I assume you asked him again. Politely.”

“Only when I pointed out the serious interest I had in his whereabouts, and that if I didn't get an answer he was not going to be thrilled with my displeasure, did he say he'd been with a friend.”

“What friend?”

“Holly Dietz.”

“He say why he went to see her?”

“After an evening with his in-laws, he needed to be with someone who didn't look at him cross-eyed about Dorothy's murder.”

“Times?”

“He got there about nine-fifteen.”

Hell. Nobody had an alibi worth shit. Vicky was last seen alive at nine. Ellen found her body at close to eleven. Carl claimed to be home. He could have come over and fed her poison. Ditto for Marlitta or Brent. Ellen could have come earlier, then come back to find the body. Taylor could have stopped off before going to see Holly. Willis could have poisoned her before he hightailed it to the river to commune with memories.

Assuming Vicky was poisoned. Speculating ahead of the evidence again.

Lack of sleep was catching up with her. Her mind started thoughts that turned to smoke before she could finish them. She told Parkhurst about her questioning of Carl, Marlitta, and Brent.

He raised an eyebrow. “Am I hearing a few doubts about this handy suicide?”

“Why would she kill herself?”

“All overcome with remorse, felt we were snapping at her heels.”

“I'd be more inclined to buy that if we had any teeth to snap with, or if she'd left a note.”

“Suicides don't always.”

“I know that.”

She stared out at the rain spilling over the porch eaves. “What's the name of the janitor?”

“Who?”

“Maintenance man of the medical building. Kreps?”

“Murray, yeah. Why?”

“Ask him if he'd let us into the building. I'll meet you there.”

*   *   *

Murray Kreps didn't mind at all being roused at almost four on a rainy Wednesday morning to let them in. He was bright-eyed and interested, all set to be helpful. Only Parkhurst's firm assurance for the second time that they would secure the building before they left sent Kreps back out in the rain.

Parkhurst hit the lights in the waiting room. “You feel like telling me what we're doing here?”

The bloody carpet where Dorothy's body had fallen had been replaced, in the same pale-oatmeal color. Not just one section, but the entire corridor.

“Brent said he was here for two hours,” she said. “He could have dropped in on Vicky before he came here.” She moved down the corridor, opened the door to Willis' office, and snapped on the light.

“You do realize,” Parkhurst said, “we have no legal right to go anywhere but Dorothy's office.”

“I'm not searching, I'm just looking.” They had not yet released Dorothy's office, so they were still covered under the search warrant.

“Willis and Vicky, Carl, Marlitta and Brent, Ellen, Taylor. They had an emotional gathering this evening. Anxiety, suspicion, grief all got mixed up together, and some of it spilled over. They took pot shots at each other.”

“Normal.”

“Yes.” She opened the door of Carl's office. “Marlitta was whacked, barely knowing which end was up. Brent takes her home and says, ‘Here's a cup of tea, dear. I have to go swimming and then to the office.'”

“So, he's a sensitive guy.”

“I just wondered if there was a reason he needed to be here.” She opened the door of Brent's office and let her eyes take in the room: oak desk under the window, blind slats closed, stack of nine-by-twelve envelopes sitting in the center ready for mailing, bookcase full of books, desk chair, patient chair, print on the wall of a skier flying down a slope.

She backed out, closed the door, and went to Dorothy's office. “The seal's been broken.”

Parkhurst shrugged. “You're surprised? A crime scene works like a magnet. Each one of them probably went in to look. Only way to prevent it was stake a man at the door. We didn't do that; we didn't think there was anything left to find.”

“It occurred to me to wonder if Brent wanted to remove something, destroy something.”

“Something we were so stupid as to overlook?”

Dorothy's office looked no different than when Susan had last seen it: desk blotter, marble pen holder with two pens, desk chair slightly pulled out as though the occupant had just gotten up, telephone, medical texts stacked on one corner. Even the tulip in the cut-glass vase was still there, wilted and brown.

Everything looked exactly the same. Oh, hell. Maybe it's time to pack it in. The long day's task is done, and we must sleep. Or something like that.

Parkhust had the intent look of a cop taking in the surround, comparing with the mental picture.

“Anything different?” she asked.

“Not that I can see.”

Did you write it down?
The voice belonged to Captain Reardon, San Francisco cop and former boss.
Get this in your head and get it good. Ten rules for investigation. Rule number one. Write it down. Got that? Plant it firmly. Rules number two through five. Write it down. Rule six. Write it down. Rule seven, eight, nine, ten. Write it down. Write it down. Write it down. Write it down. The first question out of the mouth of the defense attorney is going to be whatever the fuck you didn't write down. Screws all to hell credibility with the jury. The hell with whether it's pertinent. Cases are lost in court because some cop didn't write down whether the curtains were dark blue or dark gray. If you can't even remember the color of the curtains, how can you be trusted in anything else?

The habit was so instilled, it was automatic. Digging through her shoulder bag, she found her notebook and flipped back pages to find the rough sketches of Dorothy's office and the jotted notes. Two medical texts, lower right corner of desk. Prescription blanks used as bookmarks. Porphyria.

She picked up the top book—
Mendelian Inheritance in Man
—and opened it where it was marked. Adrenal Hyperplasia IV. Adrenal Hyperplasia V.

Arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe, Parkhurst watched patiently.

“Know anything about adrenal hyperplasia?” she asked.

“Can't say I do. Can't say I want to.”

She picked up the other book—
Genetic Diseases
—and opened it. Guillain-Barré syndrome. Acute febrile polyneuritis, neuronitis. Uh-huh. Well, then. “The day Dorothy Barrington was shot,” she said, “prescription blanks were inserted in the section on porphyria.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Mean something?”

“I can't think what the hell it might.”

“Somebody looked up something, then replaced the bookmarks in a different spot.”

“Probably. Let's go home.”

*   *   *