Richard shrugged. He was here on business. It was his job to
look for any medical signs that might indicate Vangie Lewis had
not taken her own life. Later in the day he'd perform an autopsy.
A young cop from Chapin River let him in. A man in an airline
captain's uniform was sitting in the living room, clasping and unclasping
his hands. He was pale and trembling. Richard felt a
twinge of sympathy. Some brutal kick to come home and find
your wife a suicide. "Which way?" he asked the cop.
"Back here." He nodded to the rear of the house. "She's in the
master bedroom."
In death Vangie Lewis was not a pretty sight. The long blond
hair seemed a muddy brown now; her face was contorted. Her
coat was buttoned, and the soles of her shoes were barely showing
under a long flowered caftan. Richard pulled the caftan up past
her ankles; the sides of her right shoe bit into the flesh of her
swollen foot. Expertly he picked up one arm, held it for an instant,
let it drop. He studied the mottled discoloration where the poison
had burned her mouth.
Charley Nugent, the detective in charge of the Homicide Squad,
was beside him. "How long you figure?"
"Anywhere from twelve to fifteen hours. She's pretty rigid."
Richard's voice was noncommittal, but his sense of harmony was
disturbed. Coat on. Shoes on. Had she just come home, or had she
been planning to go out? The tumbler was beside her on the bed.
Bending down, he sniffed it—the unmistakable bitter-almond scent
of cyanide. He straightened up. "Did she leave a note?"
Charley shook his head. "No letters; no nothing. Been married
ten years to the pilot. He seems pretty broken up. They're from
Minneapolis; moved east less than a year ago. She always wanted
to have a baby. Finally got pregnant and was in heaven. Starts
decorating a nursery; talks baby morning, noon and night."
"Then she kills it and herself?"
"Her husband says lately she's been afraid she was going to
lose the baby. Other times she'd act scared about giving birth.
Apparently she was showing signs of a toxic pregnancy."
"And rather than give birth or face losing the baby, she kills
herself?" Richard's tone was skeptical. He could tell Charley
wasn't buying it either. "Who found her?" he asked.
"The husband. He just got in from a flight."
Richard stared at the burn marks around Vangie Lewis' mouth.
"She must have really splashed that in," he said, "or maybe tried to
spit it out. Can we bring the husband in here?"
"Sure." Charley nodded to the young cop at the bedroom door.
When Christopher Lewis came in, he looked sick. His complexion
was now green; perspiration beaded his forehead. He had
pulled open his shirt and tie. Richard studied him appraisingly.
Lewis looked distraught, nervous. But not like a man whose life has
just been shattered.
Charley questioned him. "Captain, this is tough for you, but we
won't be long. When was the last time you saw your wife?"
"Two nights ago. I was on a run to the Coast."
"And you arrived home at what time?"
"About an hour ago."
"Did you speak with your wife in those two days?"
"No."
"What was your wife's mental state when you left?"
"I told you. Vangie was worried that she might miscarry. She'd
become quite heavy, and she was retaining fluid."
"Did you call her obstetrician to discuss this with him?"
"No."
"All right. Captain Lewis, will you look around this room and
see if you notice anything amiss? It isn't easy, but will you study
your wife's body carefully and see if there's anything that in some
way is different."
Chris obeyed, his face going white as he looked at every detail
of his dead wife's appearance.
Through narrowed eyes, Charley and Richard watched him.
"No," he whispered finally. "Nothing."
Charley's manner became brisk. "Okay. As soon as we take
some pictures, we'll remove your wife's body for an autopsy."
"I have some calls to make," Lewis said. "Vangie's father and
mother. They'll be heartbroken. I'll phone them from the den."
After he'd left, Richard and Charley exchanged glances.
"He saw something we missed," Charley said flatly.
Richard nodded grimly. "I know."
CHAPTER THREE
BEFORE she'd hung up, Katie had told Molly about the accident
and invited her over for lunch. But Molly's twelve-year-old, Jennifer,
and her six-year-old twin boys were home from school recovering
from flu. She would pick up Katie and bring her back to
her own house.
While she waited, Katie bathed quickly, then put on a red wool
sweater and tweed slacks. As she got herself ready, she tried to
rationalize last night's hallucination.
Had she even been at the window? Or was that part of the
dream? It had seemed so real: the trunk light had shone directly
on the staring eyes, the long hair, the high-arched eyebrows. What
frightened her was the clarity of the image.
Would she tell Molly about it? Of course not. Molly had been
worried about her lately. "Katie, you're too pale. You work too
hard. You're getting too quiet." Molly had bullied her into the
operation scheduled for Saturday. "You can't let that hemorrhaging
condition go on indefinitely. It can be dangerous."
From outside, a horn blew loudly as Molly pulled up in her
battered station wagon. Katie struggled into a warm beaver jacket
and hurried out as fast as her swollen knees would allow. Molly
pushed open the car door and eyed her critically. "You're not
exactly blooming. How badly were you hurt?"
"It could have been a lot worse."
The car smelled vaguely of peanut butter and bubble gum. It
was a comforting, familiar smell, and Katie felt her spirits lift.
But the mood was broken when Molly said, "Our block is some
mess. Your people have the Lewis place blocked off, and some
detective from your office is going around asking questions. Big
guy. Beefy face. Nice."
"Phil Cunningham. He's a good man. What kind of questions?"
"Pretty routine. Had we noticed what time she left or got back-
that kind of thing. We hadn't, of course."
They were approaching the turn to Winding Brook Lane. Katie
bit her lip. "Molly, drop me off at the Lewis house, won't you?"
Molly looked at her, astonished. "Why?"
Katie tried to smile. '"Well, I'm an assistant prosecutor and adviser
to the Chapin River Police Department. As long as I'm here,
I think I should go in."
The hearse from the medical examiner's office was just backing
into the driveway of the Lewis home. Richard stood in the doorway,
watching. He came over to the car when Molly pulled up.
Quickly Molly explained. "Katie's having lunch with me and
thought she should stop by here. Why don't you come over with
her, if you can?"
He agreed, and helped Katie out of the car. I'm glad you're
here," he said. "There's something about this setup I don't like."
Now that she was about to see the dead woman, Katie felt her
mouth go dry. She remembered the face in her dream.
"The husband is in the den," Richard said.
In the bedroom, Katie forced herself to look at the face. She
recognized it instantly. She shuddered and closed her eyes.
"You all right, Katie?" Richard asked sharply.
"I'm fine. I'd like to talk to Captain Lewis now."
When they got to the den, the door was closed. Without knock
ing, Richard opened it quietly. Chris Lewis was on the phone, his
back to them. His voice was low but distinct. "I know it's incredible,
but I swear to you, Joan, she didn't know about us."
Richard closed the door noiselessly. He and Katie stared at
each other. Katie said, "I'm going to recommend that we launch
a full investigation."
"I'll do the autopsy as soon as they bring her in," Richard said.
"Come on, let's make the stop at Molly's a quick one."
Molly's house, like her car, was a haven of normality. The smell
of good food cooking, the blare of the television set, the kids shouting.
When Katie went there, it was like reentering the real world,
especially after a day of dealing with murderers, muggers, vandals
and crooks.
The twins came whooping up to greet them. "Did you see all
the cop cars, Katie? Something happened next door!" Peter, older
than his twin by ten minutes, was always the spokesman.
"Next door!" John echoed. Molly called them Pete and Repeat.
"Get lost, you two," she ordered.
"Where's Jennifer?" Katie asked.
"She's in bed. Poor kid still feels lousy."
They settled at the kitchen table. Molly produced corned beef
sandwiches and poured coffee. But when Katie tried to eat, she
found her throat was closed. She glanced at Richard. He was eating
with obvious pleasure. She envied him his detachment. On
one level, he could enjoy a good sandwich. On the other, she was
sure that he was concentrating on the Lewis case. His forehead
was knitted; his thatch of brown hair looked ruffled; his blue-gray
eyes were thoughtful. She'd have bet they were both pondering
the same question: Who had been on the phone with Chris Lewis?
She remembered the only conversation she'd had with the airline
captain. It had been at Molly's New Year's party, and he'd
been interesting, intelligent, pleasant. With his rugged good looks,
he was very appealing. She also remembered that he'd been unenthused
when she congratulated him on the coming baby.
"Molly, what was your impression of the Lewises' marriage?"
she asked.
Molly looked troubled. "I think it was on the rocks. Whenever
they were here, she kept yanking the conversation back to babies,
and he was upset about it. Since I had a hand in the pregnancy, it
was a real worry for me."
Richard looked up. "You had what?"
"I mean, well, you know me, Katie. The day they moved in,
last summer, I went rushing over and invited them to dinner. Right
away Vangie told me how much she wanted a baby, and I told
her about Liz Berkeley. She never was able to conceive until she
went to a gynecologist who's something of a fertility expert. Liz
had just given birth to a little girl. So I told Vangie about Dr.
Highley. She went to him, and a few months later she conceived."
"Dr. Highley?" Katie looked startled.
Molly nodded. "Yes, the one who's going to ..."
Katie shook her head, and Molly's voice trailed off.
EDNA Burns liked her job. She was receptionist-bookkeeper for
the two doctors on the Westlake Maternity Concept team.
Dr. Edgar Highley was a gynecologist-obstetrician. As Edna
told her friends, "It's a riot to see the way his patients act when
they finally get pregnant; so happy you'd think they invented kids.
He charges plenty, but he's a miracle worker. On the other hand,
Highley is also the man to see if you've got an internal problem
that you don't want to grow. If you know what I mean."
Dr. Jiro Fukhito was the psychiatrist on the team. The Westlake
Maternity Concept was one of holistic medicine. It was based on
the idea that mind and body must be in harmony to achieve a successful
pregnancy.
Edna enjoyed telling her friends that the Westlake concept had
been dreamed up by old Dr. Westlake, who had died before he
could act on it. Then, eight years ago, his daughter Winifred had
for her father and set up her husband there. "She and the doctor
were crazy about each other," Edna would sigh. "She was ten
years older than he and nothing to look at, but they were real
lovers. It was some shock when she died. No one ever knew her
heart was that bad.
"But," she'd say philosophically, "he keeps busy. I've seen
women who never were able to conceive become pregnant two and
three times. Of course, a lot of them don't carry the babies to term,
but at least they know there's a chance. You can read about it
yourself," she'd add. "Newsmaker magazine is doing an article
about him. They photographed him last week in his office, and if
you think we're busy now, wait till that article comes out."
Edna was a born bookkeeper. Dr. Highley always complimented
her on the excellent records she maintained. The only
time he gave her the rough side of his tongue was once when he
overheard her talking to one patient about another's problems.
He had finished by saying, "Any more talking and you're through."
Edna sighed. She was tired. Last night both doctors had had
evening hours, and it had been hectic. Now, while it was quiet,
she'd check the calendar to make sure she'd made all the necessary
future appointments. She had been told by Dr. Highley that she
was to make follow-up appointments with people as they left.
Frowning, she leaned her broad, freckled face on a thick hand.
She was an overweight woman of forty-four who looked ten
years older. Her youth had been spent taking care of aging parents.
When Edna looked back at pictures of herself from secretarial
school, she was always surprised at what a pretty girl she'd
once been. A mite too heavy, but pretty nevertheless.
Her mind was only half on the page she was reading. Then
something triggered her full attention. Last night. The eight-
o'clock appointment Vangie Lewis had with Dr. Fukhito.
Vangie had come in early and sat talking with Edna. She was
sure upset. Vangie had put on a lot of weight during the pregnancy;
she really wasn't well. Last month she'd started wearing
moccasins because her other shoes didn't fit anymore. She'd shown
them to Edna. "Look at this. My right foot is so swollen, I can only
wear these clodhoppers my cleaning woman left behind. The left
one is always falling off."
Edna had tried to kid her. "Well, with those glass slippers, I'll
just have to start calling you Cinderella. We'll call your husband
Prince Charming." Vangie was nuts about her husband.
But Vangie had just pouted and
said impatiently, "Prince
Charming was Sleeping Beauty's boy friend, not Cinderella's."
Edna had just laughed. "Never mind—before you know it, you'll
have your baby and be back in pretty shoes again."
Last night Vangie had pulled up that long caftan she'd started
wearing to hide her swollen leg. "Edna," she'd said, "now I can
hardly even get this clodhopper on. And for what? For what?"
She'd been almost crying.
"Oh, you're just down in the dumps," Edna had said. "Good
thing you came in to talk to Dr. Fukhito. He'll relax you."
Just then Dr. Fukhito had buzzed and asked her to send in Mrs.
Lewis. As Vangie started down the corridor to his office, she
stumbled. She'd walked right out of that loose left shoe.
"Oh, to hell with it!" she cried, and just kept going. Edna had
picked up the moccasin, figuring Vangie would come back for it
when she finished with Dr. Fukhito.
But when Edna was ready to go home around nine o'clock,
Vangie still hadn't come back. Edna decided to ring Dr. Fukhito
and tell him she had the shoe, but there was no answer. Vangie
must have left by the door that led directly to the parking lot.
That was crazy. She'd catch her death of cold getting her foot wet.