Playing God (32 page)

The woman nodded toward the activity. "Give 'em ten, fifteen years, and see if you can get three women in the same kitchen gettin' along like that."

She was about to set the baby down when Aucoin held out his arms. "May I?"

"Sure." She handed him the baby. "His name's Declan. And one of you is bound to be arresting him before he's fifteen. Looks like a doll-baby, but he's bad to the bone." She said it with satisfaction, as though born to be bad was the best type of boy. Aucoin took the future juvenile delinquent to the window to show him some birds at a feeder.

The woman stared after them with a grin. "Maybe it's some sorta male bonding thing. Declan's father's a cop. Cream and sugar?"

"Declan's yours?"

She nodded. "Thought I was too old but life's a funny thing." She bent down and detached the two clinging children from her legs, dumping one in a high chair and the other into the playpen. The one in the pen howled, and one of the girls came over and started making faces. The howling stopped. She dropped a handful of Cheerios in front of the other, and the child, solemn-faced, began eating them one by one. "Always like a three-ring circus around here. You got kids?"

He shook his head. "Too young until I was too old. I've got nieces and a nephew." He sat at the table and pulled out another letter. "You're Sherri Davis?"

"Since I married Donnie Davis. Used to be Sherri Elwell. But that was a while back. Never married Declan's father. Not yet, anyways. Tired of changing my name. What you got there?" He handed her the letter. She set it on the counter, poured three cups of coffee, got out cream and sugar, and three spoons. "Here's the cake," she said.

Aucoin was rubbing his chin over the baby's downy hair and making silly little noises, the baby giggling with delight. He joined them at the table, scooping up a couple toys on the way, holding the baby on his lap.

"You ever decide to give up being a cop, go into daycare, you call me first," Sherri said. "There aren't near enough men around who are good with kids. Or willing to show it. You want cake?" The toddler in the playpen started to fuss. She picked him up and set him on the changing table. "Phew!" she said. "Luke, you are a little stinker, aren't you? Don't worry, detective. You're next."

"Take your time," he said. "Remy's still bonding." Aucoin gave him a worried look. He'd temporarily forgotten about Bad Joe Burgess, the meanest cop in Portland, who had once been the most popular babysitter in his neighborhood. Many a meal had been laid on the table courtesy of his babysitting, when his father had drunk up the grocery money. But that was not for publication.

She put the child back in the pen and gave him a bowl and a wooden spoon. "Future drummer," she said. "You'll see. Now, what did you want to know about this letter?"

"Your late husband was one of Dr. Pleasant's patients?"

"Donnie? Yeah. Guess I shouldn't have written it, huh? My sister says I shoot my mouth off too much. But I believe in speaking my mind. And what I thought's right there. That he didn't do Donnie any favors, and he sure didn't know a hell of a lot about human beings, for someone who's a doctor. Am I in some kind of trouble? Is it like, a crime or something to criticize a doctor?"

She looked at the letter again, biting her lip as she reread what she'd written. "So I said I'd like to kick his ass all over Portland." She shrugged. "Donnie was a good man. Didn't deserve that crap. The cancer or that doctor's attitude. I didn't mean that about cutting him up for lobster bait. I'm usually pretty good at keepin' my temper. Have to, around these guys." She picked up her mug. "So why are you here?"

"Dr. Pleasant was killed a few days ago."

The mug paused in mid-air. "Killed like murdered?" He nodded. "Sorry. I never read newspapers. Just one more thing to pile up. Which you can see I don't need. Don't watch TV, either. By the end of a day, I like some peace and quiet. But you don't think..." The mug finished its journey to the table, making a rather rough landing. She stared at him with worried brown eyes. "You don't think that I..."

The child in the high chair started pounding on the tray. "Juice, juice, juice, juice."

She grabbed a sippy cup and held it out. "Here, Charlie. Here's your juice."

Declan burped loudly, beginning to fuss as he nuzzled Aucoin's shirt. "Give him here," she said. "This is one case where you haven't got what it takes." She pulled up her sweater and popped the baby underneath. When he was settled, her eyes traveled back to Burgess. "Why me?" she asked. "Why would you think I'd do something like that?"

"We've got a number of these letters. We're checking everybody out. When a person gets killed, we look to see who might have had a grudge."

"Oh, I've got a grudge all right. Person you care about gets treated bad, it sticks with you. I just don't see how more people dyin' is supposed to make things better." Over in the corner, a squabble broke out over a saucepan. "Officer Aucoin, I think we've got us a domestic dispute." She winked at Burgess. "As good a way to train cops as any," she said, handing the letter back. "I wish you luck finding who did it, but it wasn't me. I kept hopin' something would come along, make him see the light. Healin' isn't just about medicine and machines. Guess not, huh?"

"Did your husband have any friends or relatives who might have wanted to get back at Dr. Pleasant?"

"His brother, Lenny, was some pissed, but Lenny's too disorganized to get himself down to Portland to kill someone. By the time he'd got his gun and his dog and couple six packs, and got on the road, he'd get distracted. Drink the beer. Lose the dog. Shoot out some street lights and come home."

Burgess wrote down an address for the brother. Put his coffee cup in the sink, folded his napkin so the crumbs wouldn't spill, and threw it in the trash. "Thank you for your time." He gave her a card. "If you think of anything." In the corner, three adoring girls were serving Aucoin tea. He looked so young and appealing and optimistic. Burgess wondered if he'd ever been any of those things. "Remy, you got things sorted out over there?"

"At this moment, polygamy looks very appealing."

"Their combined ages aren't old enough for you."

"I'm coming, sir." Aucoin untangled his long legs and bid his harem farewell. "Thanks for the coffee and cake."

"You're welcome. You're both welcome. And good luck," she said. "I think."

One of the little girls toddled up to Burgess and tugged on his pants. "Did you got a boo boo on your head?" she asked. He nodded. "Does it need a kiss?" In the end, it needed three kisses to avert female rivalry.

"Where next?" Aucoin asked, when they were back in the car.

"Wiscasset."

"That was fun."

"Yes and no. Talking to nice people is fun. She even made good coffee, which is rare. Be better if we didn't have a murder to solve. If they weren't all hurting so much."

"Sorry, sir."

"Goddammit, Aucoin. You say 'sir' once more, I'll push you out and drive myself."

"Sorry, sir."

Burgess had to laugh. "I told you. I don't bite."

"Are you planning to stop for lunch?"

"You hungry?"

"I will be. I'm like my Uncle Guy. Eat all the time, never gain weight."

"You're lucky. I miss about half my meals, and look at me."

The interview in Wiscasset was brutal—the emotional equivalent of rubbing himself and the bereft family with sandpaper. Young mother dead, leaving her own grieving mother. Heartbroken, listless husband. Motherless twins. He left there drained, ready to sit in a dark bar and drink himself into oblivion. But he'd come this far. Might as well finish what he'd started, so he gave Aucoin the nod and they headed for Boothbay Harbor.

Chapter 25

If this was paint-by-number, the picture of Pleasant was pretty clear. Had the man had any idea how much he was disliked? Had he cared? And was that knowledge bringing them any closer to solving the homicide? The killer remained a blur.

The road was a swooping roller-coaster ride to a nice place way at the end of a peninsula. You could see the water from all over town, and the harbor and the ocean beyond looked exactly like Maine was supposed to look—a sheltered, rocky cove opening to a broad expanse of blue water dotted with little tree-covered islands and boats of all sizes and descriptions. He'd brought his nieces here when they were little—go for a boat ride, buy some souvenirs and fudge. In summer, the town got clogged up with traffic and pedestrians. Now, in February, things were cold and quiet.

He directed Aucoin through town, past the hospital, to a small cottage high on a spruce-clad point. Aucoin pulled out a Tom Clancy paperback. "Picked this up in Wiscasset. I figured you'd get tired, wouldn't want me tagging along."

Burgess nodded. "You figured right. That last one about did me in." He shut the door and walked up the icy stone path to the house. There were cross-country skis in a rack beside the door, a pair of snowshoes on a nail. He knocked. It was so dark inside he could barely see the woman who answered. "Sergeant Burgess, Portland Police," he said.

"You're the detective?" she asked. He followed her down a dim flight of stairs and through a door, stopping suddenly, blinded by the brightness. He put his hand up to shield his eyes. The room he was in was two stories high, with glass on three sides. On the fourth side, on the second level, was a balcony. From the balcony hung a series of bright quilts. In the center of the room a quilt was laid out on a huge counter. Nearby, on a smaller table, was a sewing machine.

"Sorry," she said. "It's a mean trick, but I can't help it. People think they're coming to a little shack in the woods and then they find themselves here." She waved a hand around. "This is where I live. Where I work. Come sit down, detective." He followed her to a sitting area in front of the windows. On a small raised hearth, a white enamel stove threw off masses of heat. On top sat a cast iron pot shaped like a dragon with steam pouring its mouth. The oversized denim sofas were deep and inviting. The huge coffee table was piled with magazines and books.

"Just shove some of that stuff aside if you want to put your feet up," she said.

"That's okay."

"Can I fix you some tea? Conventional? Gerbil?"

"Gerbil?"

"Sorry. That's what my traditional friends call it. Herbal? I've never entertained a policeman before. Maybe you'd prefer coffee?"

So he was being entertained. "Tea is fine."

"I'll just be a minute. The water's hot." She disappeared through a door in the wall. She was a middle-sized, middle-aged woman with sun-streaked brown hair, probably artificial sun, and a smart, friendly face. Worn blue jeans fit snugly over a nice bottom. She wore a man's flannel shirt over a thermal undershirt. Cozy-looking thick red socks. No wedding ring. Her name was Sarah Merchant.

She was back in minutes with a tray. The teapot was covered with a tea cozy his mother would have loved, bright colors and a cat. The mugs were a blueberry pattern. A matching plate held an assortment of cookies. "Girl Scouts," she said. "I can't say no, and then I eat the damned things. On a bad night, I can do in a whole box of the mint ones. You want sugar or honey? It's Firelight orange spice. Good with honey." She smiled as she bent to pour. "Sound like a commercial, don't I?" She slid his mug toward him, along with the honey and a spoon. "You were cryptic on the phone this morning. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"What do you think?"

"Dr. Stephen Pleasant. May he roast in hell."

"You believe in hell?"

"Hope, maybe? Hell or purgatory. I'd like him to be treated to a few thousand years of his own brand of supercilious indifference. From what I've read, I imagine his death was reasonably quick. In a just world, he would have been incompetently misdiagnosed, more incompetently mistreated, and finally died a horrible and lingering death at the hands of clumsy nurses and exhausted interns and residents. Maybe desperately ringing his call bell and getting no human response."

"Guess you didn't like him, huh?"

She leaned forward, gripping her cup. "About most things, I am very balanced. But not on the subject of Dr. Pleasant."

She'd had a lot of time since his call to brood about this. "Did you kill him?"