He jumped clear of the spattered blood. As he watched, the
pulse in her throat flickered and stopped. He bent over her carefully.
She had stopped breathing. He slipped the paperweight back
into his pocket. He wouldn't need it now. He wouldn't have to
bother robbing her. It would look as though she'd fallen.
Quickly retracing his steps, he went back into the bedroom. He
scanned the parking area, then stepped out the window, replaced
the plant, pulled down the shade and closed the window to the
exact place where Edna had had it. As he did, he heard the persistent
chiming of a doorbell—her doorbell! Frantically he ran back
to his car. He started the engine and drove out of the apartment
complex, not turning on his headlights until he approached
Route 4.
Who was standing on Edna's doorstep? It had been close, so terribly
close. Adrenaline pounded through his veins. Now there was
only one threat left: Katie DeMaio. He would begin to remove
that threat at once. Her accident had given him the excuse he
needed to start medication.
It was a matter of hospital record that her blood count was low.
He would order another transfusion for her on the pretense of
building her up for the operation. He would give her large doses
of Coumadin pills to short-circuit her blood-clotting mechanism
and negate the benefits of the transfusion. By Friday, when she
came to the hospital for surgery, she'd be on the verge of hemorrhaging.
The surgery would then be very dangerous, and he would
make it even worse by giving her heparin, another anticoagulant.
The initial low blood count, the Coumadin and the heparin would
be as effective on Katie DeMaio as the cyanide had been on Vangie
Lewis.
AFTER THE MEETING IN SCOTT MYERSON'S office, Richard drove
Katie to a rustic restaurant perched precariously on the Palisades.
The small dining room was warmed by a blazing fire and lighted
by candles. The proprietor obviously knew Richard well. "Dr. Carroll,
a pleasure," he said as he guided them to the table in front
of the fireplace.
Richard ordered a bottle of wine; a waiter produced hot garlic
bread. They sat in companionable silence, sipping and nibbling.
Richard was a big man with a wholesome look, a thick crop of
dark brown hair, strong, even features and broad, rangy shoulders.
"Do you know I've been wanting to ask you out for months?" he
said. "But you release a do-not-disturb signal. Why?"
"I don't believe in going out with anyone I work with."
"I can understand that. But that's not what we're talking about.
We enjoy each other's company. We both know it. And you're having
none of it. Here's the menu."
His manner changed, became brisk. "L'entrecote and steak au
poivre are the specialties here," he told her. When she hesitated,
he suggested, "Try the steak au poivre. It's fantastic." He ordered
salads and baked potatoes, then leaned back and studied her.
"Are you having none of it, Katie?"
"The salad? The steak?"
"All right, I'm not being fair. I'm trying to pin you down and
you're a captive audience. But tell me what you do when you're
not at the office or your sister's. I know you ski."
"Yes. I rent a condominium in Vermont with some friends."
"Maybe you'll invite me up sometime with you." He did not
wait for an answer. "Sailing is my sport. I took my boat to the
Caribbean last spring. . . . Here's your steak."
They lingered over coffee. By then Richard had told her about
himself. "I was engaged during med school to the girl next door."
"What happened?" Katie asked.
"We kept postponing the wedding. Jean was a very nice girl.
But there was something missing."
"No regrets; no second thoughts?" Katie asked.
"Not really. That was seven years ago. I'm a little surprised that
the 'something missing' didn't turn up long before now."
to talk about the Lewis case. "It makes me so angry, the waste of
life. Vangie Lewis had a lot of years ahead of her."
"You're convinced it wasn't a suicide?"
"I'll need much more information before I pass judgment."
"I don't see Chris Lewis as a murderer. It's too easy to get a
divorce today if you want to be free."
"There's another angle to that." Richard pressed his lips together.
"Let's hold off talking about it."
It was nearly ten thirty when they turned into Katie's driveway.
Richard looked quizzically at the handsome fieldstone house.
"How big is this place?" he asked. "How many rooms?"
"Twelve," Katie said reluctantly. "It was John's house."
Richard did not give her the chance to say good night at the
door. Taking the key from her hand, he unlocked it and followed
her in. "I'm not going to stay, but I do admit to an overwhelming
curiosity as to where you keep yourself."
She turned on some lights and watched somewhat resentfully as
he looked over the foyer, then the living room. He whistled. "Very
nice." He studied John's portrait. "I hear he was quite a guy."
"Yes, he was."
"How long were you married, Katie?"
"One year."
He watched as a look of pain flickered over her face. "When
did you find out that he was sick?"
"Shortly after we got back from our honeymoon."
"And ever since, it's been a deathwatch. Sorry, Katie; my job
makes me too blunt for my own good. I'll take off now." He hesitated.
"Don't you draw these drapes when you're alone here?"
She shrugged. "Why? No one's going to come barging in on me."
"You, of all people, should be aware of the number of home
burglaries. Do you mind?" He went to the window and pulled the
draperies shut. "See you tomorrow. How will you get to work?"
"The service-station people are going to lend me a car. They'll
drop it off in the morning."
"Okay." For a moment he stood with his hand on the knob of
the door, then in a highly credible brogue said, "I'll be leavin' ye,
Katie Scarlett. Lock your door now. I wouldn't want anyone tryin'
to break into Tara." He bent down, kissed her cheek and was gone.
Smiling, Katie closed the door. The clock chimed musically.
After Richard's bear-warm presence, the room seemed hollow.
Quickly she turned out the lights and went upstairs.
The phone rang just as she got into bed.
"Mrs. DeMaio?" It was a man's voice.
"Yes."
"This is Dr. Highley. I hope I'm not calling too late, but I've
tried several times to reach you this evening. The fact that you
were in an accident and were in our hospital overnight has come
to my attention. How are you feeling?"
"Quite well, Doctor. How nice of you to call."
"How is the bleeding problem?"
"I'm afraid it's about the same."
"Well, it will all be behind you by this time next week. But I
do want you to have another transfusion to build you up for the
surgery, and I also want you to start in on some pills. Can you come
to
the hospital tomorrow afternoon?"
"Yes. As a matter of fact, I was planning to come anyhow. You've
heard about Mrs. Lewis?"
"I have. A terrible situation."
"I'd like to discuss her emotional and physical states with you."
"Fine. Call in the morning to arrange a time."
"Thank you, Doctor," Katie said. As she hung up, she reflected
that Dr. Highley hadn't really appealed to her at first because of
his aloof attitude.
It shows how you can misjudge people, she decided.
BILL Kennedy rang the bell of the Lewis house. Tall, prematurely
white, and scholarly, Bill was an orthopedic surgeon at Lenox
Hill Hospital. He had not heard about Vangie Lewis' death until
he returned home.
Briefly Molly had told him about it. "I called and asked Chris
to come to dinner. He doesn't want to, but you go drag him here."
As he walked between the houses, Bill considered what a shock
it would be to come home and find he had lost Molly. But no one
in his right mind could think that the Lewises' marriage had been
anything like his and Molly's. Bill had never told Molly that one
morning when he was having coffee at a drugstore in Manhattan
he'd seen Chris with a very pretty girl in her early twenties.
Chris Lewis opened the door, and Bill saw the sadness in his
eyes. He gripped the younger man's arm. "I'm terribly sorry."
Chris nodded woodenly. The meaning of the day was sinking
in on him. Vangie was dead. Had their quarrel driven her to kill
herself? He felt lonely, frightened and guilty. He allowed Bill to
persuade him to come to dinner. Numbly reaching for a jacket, he
followed Bill down the street.
Bill poured him a double Scotch. Chris gulped it. Calm down,
he thought, calm down. Be careful.
The Kennedy kids came into the den to say good night. Nice
kids, all of them. Well behaved too. Chris had always wanted
children. But not Vangie's. Now his unborn child had died. Another
guilt. His child, and he hadn't wanted it. And Vangie had
known it. What had, who had driven her to kill herself? Who? That
was the question. Because Vangie hadn't been alone last night.
He hadn't told the police. They would start an investigation.
And where would that lead? To Joan. To him.
The motel clerk in New York had seen him leave last night. He'd
gone home to have it out with Vangie. Let me go, please. I can't
spend any more of my life with you. It's destroying both of us.
He'd arrived at the house sometime after midnight. He'd driven
in, and the minute he opened the garage door he knew something
was up. Because she'd parked the Lincoln in his space. No, someone
else had parked her car in his space. Vangie always used the
wider side of the garage. And she needed every inch. She was a
lousy driver. But last night the Lincoln had been expertly parked
in his spot on the narrower side.
He'd gone in and found the house empty. Vangie's handbag was
on the chaise in their room. He'd been puzzled but not alarmed.
Obviously she'd gone off with a girl friend to stay overnight, taking
a suitcase and leaving her heavy purse behind.
The house had depressed Chris. He'd decided to go back to
the motel. And then this morning he'd found Vangie dead. Somebody
had parked the car for her before midnight. Somebody had
driven her home after midnight. And those shoes. The one day
she'd worn them she'd complained endlessly about how the right
shoe dug into her ankle.
For weeks now she'd worn nothing but those dirty moccasins.
Where were they? Chris had searched the house thoroughly. Whoever
had driven her home might know.
He hadn't told the police any of this. He hadn't wanted to involve
Joan. Besides, maybe the shoes really weren't that important.
Vangie might have wanted to be fully dressed when she was found.
That swollen leg embarrassed her.
But he should have told the cops about his having been here,
about the way the car was parked.
"Chris, come into the dining room. You'll feel better if you eat
something." Molly's voice was gentle.
Wearily Chris brushed a hand over burning eyes. "I'll have
something, Molly," he said. "But I'll have to leave pretty quickly.
The funeral director is coming to the house for Vangie's clothes."
"When is the funeral?" Bill asked.
"The coffin will be flown to Minneapolis tomorrow afternoon,
and the service will be the next day." The words hammered in his
ears. Coffin. Funeral. Oh, Vangie, he thought, I wanted to be free
of you, but I didn't want you to die.
At eight he went back to his house. At eight thirty, when the
funeral director came, he had a suitcase ready with underwear
and the flowing caftan Vangie's parents had sent her for Christmas.
The funeral director was quietly sympathetic. He requested
the necessary information quickly. Born April 15. He jotted down
the year. Died February 15—just two months short of her thirty-
first birthday, he commented.
Chris rubbed the ache between his eyes. Something was wrong.
"No," he said. "Today's the sixteenth, not the fifteenth."
"The death certificate clearly states that Mrs. Lewis died be
tween eight and ten last night, February fifteenth," the man said.
"You're thinking the sixteenth because you found her this morn
ing. But the medical examiner pinpointed the time of death."
Chris stared at him. Waves of shock swept over him. He had
been home at midnight and the car and Vangie's purse had been
here. He'd assumed that Vangie had come in and killed herself
sometime after he drove back to New York.
But at midnight she'd been dead two to four hours. That meant
that after he'd left, someone had brought her body here, put it
on the bed and laid the empty glass beside it. Someone had wanted
to make it seem that Vangie had committed suicide.
"Oh, Lord," Chris whispered. At the last moment Vangie must
have known. Someone had forced that poison into her, viciously
killed her and the baby she was carrying.
He had to tell the police. And there was one person they would
inevitably accuse. As the funeral director stared at him, Chris
said aloud, "They're going to blame it on me."
DR. HIGHLEY hung up the phone slowly. Katie DeMaio suspected
nothing. Her office apparently wanted nothing more of
him than to discuss Vangie Lewis' emotional state. Unless, of
course, someone had questioned Vangie's apparent suicide, perhaps
raised the possibility that her body had been moved. The
danger was still great.
He was in the library of the Westlake home—his home now.
The house was a manorlike Tudor with archways, marble fireplaces
and Tiffany stained-glass windows. The Westlake house. The
Westlake Hospital. The Westlake Maternity Concept. The name
had given him immediate entree, socially and professionally.
Marrying Winifred Westlake and coming to America to carry on
her father's work had been a perfect excuse for leaving Engla
nd.
No one, including Winifred, knew about the years before Liverpool,
the years at Christ Hospital in Devon.
Toward the end she had started to ask questions.
It was nearly eleven o'clock and he hadn't had dinner yet.
Knowing what he was going to do to Edna had robbed him of the
desire to eat. But now that it was over, he craved food. He went
into the kitchen. Hilda had left dinner for him in the microwave
oven—a Cornish hen with wild rice. He just needed to heat it up.
Because he needed the freedom of the house, the privacy of
his library, he'd gotten rid of Winifred's live-in housekeeper. She
had looked at him with sour, sullen eyes, swollen with weeping.
"Miss Winifred was almost never sick until. . ." She was going to
say "until she married you," but she didn't finish.
Winifred's cousin resented him too. He had tried to make
trouble after Winifred's death, but couldn't prove anything. They'd
dismissed the cousin as a disgruntled ex-heir.
Selecting a chilled bottle of wine from the refrigerator, Highley
sat down to eat in the breakfast room. As he ate, his mind ran
over the exact dosage he would give Katie DeMaio. Traces of
the heparin and the Coumadin might show in her bloodstream if