The Busy Woman's Guide to Murder (27 page)

“I didn’t know.”

“She was a physician, doing a residency at Woodbridge General. He followed her, but he had to start all over building up clients.”

“Sometimes it’s good to start over,” I said. “It certainly was for me.”

“And it would have been for him too, if Janelle had lived. They bought this house together. She hired me first so they could have some of the comforts of home even though they were both slogging away long hours. She was a very thoughtful person and the love of his life. I think that’s why he stays here, rattling around in this place. He can never leave it. It’s a long time for a man to be alone.”

This was a fascinating glimpse into Dr. Partridge’s life, but it was off topic for me. “I was hoping he could tell me about the bullies and the outlook for them.”

She straightened up and pursed her lips. “He’d never talk about his patients.”

“I know that. And rightly so, but I wanted more general information. I need to know if a bully can ever truly change. One of the—I guess I could say guilty parties—is now volunteering with very vulnerable people and I’m very worried about that. Also one of the bully’s earlier victims seems to be falling apart. I was hoping for advice on how to help her. So I urgently needed to talk to Dr. Partridge.”

“I am sure he would have helped.”

“This accident of his troubles me.”

“Of course, it’s tragic. Beyond tragic.”

“And it could be convenient for someone.”

Her teacup crashed onto the saucer. “What? Who could find something like that convenient?”

“Perhaps one of those bullies he treated.” I didn’t say perhaps the victim. I hated the idea of Mona being guilty, but while I had to face up to it, I could keep it to myself in this case.

“But why?”

“Because people are dying. There have been several hit-and-runs in Woodbridge, resulting in three deaths. You must have heard about them.”

She turned even paler.

I pressed my point. “The people involved are connected with this bullying business. I don’t believe these are accidents, although the police seem to. I am sure Dr. Partridge would figure that out. I don’t know if the guilty party might have wanted to make sure he was—Lydia? Are you all right?”

She was swaying in her chair, her face now white as the porcelain cup, her eyes staring.

“What is it?” I said. “Do you know something about this?”

She shuddered as she spoke. “Hit-and-run deaths?”

“Yes. That’s right.”

“Oh my God.”

“What is it? The hit-and-runs?”

“Janelle.”

“His wife?” I was desperate to stay on topic and didn’t want to digress to discuss the tragedy of the long-dead wife.

She nodded. “Didn’t you know?”

“Know what?”

“That’s how she died.” Her hands shook. “This is so shocking.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “He never mentioned it.”

“He wouldn’t. He still finds it hard to talk about it. She got home late from the hospital one night and was hit just as she got out of the car. The driveway was being repaired and she had to park the car across the street. It was a dark night, raining, but the driver must have known he’d hit her. How could he not have? Sam found her body hours later when he went out searching for her. That was the end of their storybook marriage.”

I shivered.

Lydia sputtered. “That driver left her for dead on the road. I am still so angry about that.”

I actually felt a pounding in my ears. This explained Dr. Partridge’s odd reaction to my questions. “Hit-and-run” would have triggered powerful emotions in him.

Thinking about Dr. Partridge, I’d tuned out Lydia, who was still sounding off. “He should have been caught and put on trial. But the police were quite useless.”

“Tell me about it. I can’t get them to listen to me at all. Do you mean they never found the person who killed Mrs. Partridge?”

“She was also Dr. Partridge.”

“Sorry, of course.”

“That doesn’t matter. I don’t know why I snapped at you. It’s just so upsetting, that’s all. And no. They never found the man who did it. He’s probably having a happy comfortable life while Janelle lies cold and dead for fourteen years and Sam has had his life ruined.”

“There’s something—”

She cut me off, taking my hand. Tears were welling in her eyes again. “Talking about these hit-and-runs triggers all these memories and feelings. I can’t believe it. Is he doing it on purpose? Could it be the same man? I suppose it couldn’t be.”

I took a deep breath. “You keep saying ‘he’ for the driver. Is there any reason to think it was a man?”

She shuddered. After a long pause she said, “It never entered my mind that a woman could do something like that. Do you think it’s possible for a woman to deliberately smash into someone with a vehicle? Such violence.”

I understood her feelings. It would have to be someone who enjoyed inflicting pain and misery for the victims and the families. “I do. Horrible, but possible. I believe it is a woman who’s committing these hit-and-runs. And I am beginning to wonder if it was a
girl
who ran down Dr. Janelle Partridge all those years ago.”

She turned pale. “A girl? But why?”

“I don’t know for sure, but Dr. Partridge saw at least one person who was involved in the bullying episodes.”

“That might make sense. You know, something strange. The night Janelle died, she was driving Sam’s car. It was a snowy night and his tires were better than hers. She was bundled up. Perhaps someone thought they were getting rid of him.”

“That makes sense. And that’s why I am here. I didn’t even know how his wife died, but I was pretty sure that Dr. Partridge was not the type of person to mix up his medications. Do you disagree with that?”

Her mouth hung open. She closed it and shook her head violently. “No. No, he wasn’t the type to do that. He was very methodical. Are you suggesting that someone . . . ? I don’t even know how anyone else could have done that.”

“I don’t know how. But I am convinced that someone did. I also know that the police won’t believe me. So I am hoping for help from you.”

“Anything I can do. It’s horrifying to consider that someone would do that to Sam, but it makes more sense. I don’t believe he made that mistake himself.”

“Exactly.”

“But I would have known if someone was in the house last night. There was no sign of anyone breaking in and we are the only two people with a key.”

“I have a glimmer of an idea. The medications didn’t have to be mixed up. Someone just needed to ensure that he had an overdose.”

She blinked. “But how could someone do that?”

“Could someone have come by here?”

“I don’t know. I was out at my bridge club. Sam was already in bed when I came home at about ten.”

“Do you live here?”

“Yes. I get my accommodation and Sam gets a bit of TLC. I have a separate entrance and we both guard our privacy, but it’s nice to have a bit of company. At any rate, ten was a bit early even for him, although he gets up at dawn. The lights were all out except the hall light, which he always leaves on for me.”

“Is there any way for you to know if he had clients last night?”

She shrugged. “He rarely sees them in the night, but he has an appointment book. It’s in his office.” She stood up, resolute. “Let’s go.”

I followed her down the hall and into a large office that would have originally been a dining room. The cool blue walls were lined with books, neatly organized. The large teak desk was as I might have expected; neat with a small in-basket and a twin out-basket. The in-basket was empty, I noticed admiringly. The out-basket held a few documents.

Lydia said, “It should be right there.”

“Where?”

“On his desk. He leaves it right there every day. Where is it?” She checked the out-basket, then whirled around as if expecting to find it on one of the two comfortable chairs or lying on the plush oriental carpet. “That is very strange. Someone must have taken it. Unless it’s upstairs in his bedroom.” She hesitated and then made straight for the staircase and upstairs in good time. I followed her, hoping to get away with it.

At the door, she said, “I haven’t let myself come back in here. I suppose I’ll have to face it sooner or later.”

In the bedroom, the bed was still made but rumpled, as if someone had slept on top of the covers. A glass of water had been knocked from the bedside table onto the floor. A jumble of clothing lay on the floor—pants, shirt, hand-knit brown sweater, socks, and underwear. Nothing else was out of order to my mind. There was no sign of an appointment book.

“But understandable,” I said. “My guess is that somebody didn’t want anyone to find out that she had been to see him.”

“That would explain it,” she said, frowning, as she bent to pick up a pair of pants and a shirt. “Now, that’s odd.”

“Let me guess. He always hangs everything up before he goes to bed.”

“And his laundry’s in the hamper. I don’t think Sam’s clothes would have ever touched the floor before this. I’ve never had to pick them up. What does it mean?”

I could feel the answer explode in my head. I knew what it would mean for me. “It means that he was drugged before he went upstairs. Someone slipped him an extra dose of whatever medications he was taking.”

“But how?”

“Perhaps they slipped something into his coffee or tea.”

“Oh, coffee. He was always drinking coffee.”

“And he took it very sweet.”

She smiled. “Three sugars in each one.”

“So perhaps he wouldn’t notice the taste. Did you find a cup or a mug?”

“Mug. He always used a mug. Oh my heavens. I washed them up when I saw them.”

“Them?”

“Yes. There were two in the living room. If there was something in one of them, that would be gone now.”

“You had no way of knowing. He would have been extremely groggy by the time he got up here and that might explain the clothes on the floor. It would have been all he could have done to get on the bed. He must have knocked over the glass of water then and fell and hit his head trying to get it. Or maybe he had been reaching for the phone to call for help and lost consciousness.”

“Who could have done such a terrible thing?”

“Like I said before, it’s someone with a lot to lose, perhaps. I’m guessing it was a bully-turned-murderer who was afraid that Dr. Partridge would reveal her secret.”

A small voice in the back of my head said, Don’t forget Mona.

You would think with all the social networks in our lives that it would have been easy to find photos of Serena and her nasty little clique. But you would be wrong. I tried Google Images. I stuck my nose into Facebook. Serena was represented by a large golden retriever. Haley wasn’t even on Facebook. Tiffanee was represented by a yoga symbol and Jasmin by a bouquet of flowers. I called the library and asked Ramona to see what she could turn up. An hour later, Ramona called back and said, “No luck.”

I struck out with my next tactic, even though I’d been counting on Sally.

“High school yearbooks? You must be kidding. That wasn’t a good time for me and, except for you and Margaret and Jack, I hoped never to be reminded of it.”

“So, long gone then?”

“Right. Don’t you have yours?” Sally was teasing. “Or did you declutter it?”

“It would have been worth keeping actually, but every memento of my life was disposed of when I went away to college. Thanks to my mother. She views sentiment the way some mothers view germs.”

Sally chuckled. “Try Margaret.”

“I did. No luck. She felt the same way you did.”

“Jack?”