The Case of the Questionable Quadruplet Page 15

  Her chest rose and fell rapidly. “Tonight, while Rafe was describing the funeral for me, he drizzled oil on his salad.”

  “Where’d he get the oil?”

  “From his pantry,” she said.

  “What kind of oil?”

  “Olive. Extra virgin, according to the label.”

  “Does he use that often?” Keith asked.

  “Yes. He eats a salad most nights.”

  “How many people would be aware of that?”

  She shrugged. “No idea.”

  Someone could have contaminated the oil. However, although I’d read that highly refined peanut oil lacks a smell, it also isn’t supposed to contain allergens. Only gourmet peanut oils have both.

  Again, Keith ended the session. He also withdrew the restrictions on Billie visiting her brother, and she hurried off.

  Tory met us in the waiting room, where I took polite leave of Ms. Petrakis. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Glad to meet you, Dr. Darcy. And you, Ms…”

  “Golden.” Tory produced a business card. “In case anyone needs a private investigator.”

  “Thanks.” The nurse tucked it into her pocket. “No hard feelings?”

  “Not toward you.”

  Narda’s speculative gaze flicked over Keith, but he was too busy reading his text messages to notice. As she started off, he said, “Nurse, would you notify me when Mr. Tibbets wakes up?”

  She licked her lips. “All right, detective.”

  He strode toward the exit. People to see, places to toss. Rafe’s house and Morris’s catering kitchen, for starters.

  When Tory and I reached the walkway, she said, “Too bad he’s tied up. Nurse Petrakis seems eager for a rematch.”

  If Keith was to be believed, he regretted his fling. However, I couldn’t vouch for that.

  As we approached the parking structure, I asked, “Are you sorry you left the force?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m finding you tough to read,” I admitted.

  “Or you stopped assuming you could read me… Never mind.”

  Had I assumed that? “Finish the thought.”

  Backlighting from a security lamp emphasized the heart shape of her face and the softly curling hair. It must drive Keith crazy, this feminine appearance contrasting with the steely interior. Or was it driving me crazy? “I’m not Lydia’s kid sister any more.”

  Neither of us is Lydia’s anything. That thought scraped a nerve. Changing direction, I said, “You were a talented police detective. I’ve been wondering if the private sector lives up to your expectations.”

  “It’s getting there. End of discussion.”

  “Okay.”

  Silence reigned until we got in my car. “I just texted Doreen,” Tory said. “I’d like to stop by her place to update her. Okay with you?”

  It definitely was.

  *

  When the bell rang at the condo, two sets of footsteps slapped the hall floor. Doreen, her forehead still bandaged, ushered us inside, with Heather fluttering behind her. Both had changed from somber dress clothes into jeans and T-shirts.

  “I wish we’d invited people over after the funeral.” Doreen gestured us into the sunken living room. “I miss my sister. And judging by who was absent, we’d know who tried to kill Rafe.” She clearly believed, like the rest of us, that his collapse had resulted from deliberate actions.

  “How is he?” Her girlfriend twisted a strand of pale hair around her finger. “He’ll recover, won’t he?”

  We told them what we’d learned. Our bland surroundings reminded me of the family waiting room at Heights, except that this time, we were the ones answering the questions.

  “I guess he didn’t throw the cement at me.” Shoeless, Doreen tucked her feet beneath her on the couch. “But if he’s innocent, who’s doing this?”

  “The caterer,” Heather blurted from beside her. Either she didn’t realize or didn’t care that she was speaking of Tory’s father. “Or his assistant. She delivered food for your mom right before she died, too.”

  “Mom was already dead when they got there,” Doreen told her.

  “So that girl claims!”

  “Calm down.” Doreen patted her shoulder.

  “I can’t!” Heather cried. “Whatever poisoned Rafe, it had to be in the food.”

  “He did sprinkle oil on his salad, from his pantry,” I said.

  Tory dropped me a shut-the-hell-up look. She was right. I’d just disclosed evidence unnecessarily.

  “Have they searched his house?” Heather said. “Surely there are fingerprints or DNA.”

  Doreen frowned. “Why don’t you have a drink? You’re really on edge.”

  “Sure I’m on edge,” Heather snapped. “Rafe’s lying in the hospital fighting for his life.”

  “I had the impression there was no love lost between you,” Tory said.

  “That doesn’t mean I wished him harm.” Rising, Heather began to pace.

  I’d grown suspicious of her over-the-top reaction. “What aren’t you telling us?”

  “It’s the money.” The words flew out, unguarded.

  “What do you mean, the money?” Doreen’s face flushed almost as red as her hair. “You mean Mom’s? Did you cheat her?”

  As executor, Rafe had been investigating the financials. Some of Malerie’s losses dated from before her consultation with Heather, but there’d been a big one more recently. And he’d threatened in front of everyone to identify the source.

  “No! Yes. Not intentionally.” Without her high heels, Heather in motion was barely taller than the rest of us, seated. “When we discussed her estate, she asked if I could recommend any hot investments.”

  “Did you?” Tory asked.

  “I was excited about this diagnostics company I’d heard of through friends,” Heather said. “Since I bought into it, my money had doubled, and I believed it might be about to double again.”

  “Did these friends work for the company?” Tory asked. “Did they describe a product that hadn’t been released?”

  The guilt on Heather’s face betrayed the answer. Insider trading—buying or selling stocks or securities based on confidential information—is illegal.

  “I was trying to assist Mrs. Abernathy, not hurt her,” she said. Which didn’t answer the question.

  “You’re the reason she went broke.” Anger tightened Doreen’s features.

  Heather’s voice shook. “Not on purpose.“

  “Tell me the rest. All of it.”

  “A month later, I learned there were problems, that they’d lost key employees and their R&D was behind schedule,” Heather said. “It was simple prudence to sell my shares.”

  “Without telling Mom.” In her fierce concentration, Doreen ignored Tory and me.

  “I had no idea she’d acted on my tip, let alone invested heavily,” Heather said. “You have to believe me.”

  “How much did you rake in?” her girlfriend pressed.

  “I invested a hundred K and tripled it.”

  “Two hundred thou in profit. Roughly the same amount Mom lost on that fiasco.”

  Tears brimmed in Heather’s eyes. “I’ll do whatever I can to fix this.”

  Doreen was nearly weeping with rage. “If I hadn’t hired a detective, if she and Dr. Darcy hadn’t come here tonight, would you have told me?”

  “I don’t know,” Heather admitted.

  “What else have you lied about?”

  “I never lied about this.”

  “Sins of omission,” Doreen said as if batting away a fly. “You tried to manipulate me into marrying you when you believed I was an heiress. Since that didn’t work, you got Mom’s money another way.”

  “That’s not true!” If Heather gestured any more rapidly, she’d generate enough lift to rise into the air.

  “Did you kill her and Rafe to keep it secret?”

  “What?” The agitated movements halted. “Of course not!”

 
“Did you throw that concrete at me?” Doreen shrilled.

  “Never!” Heather flung herself toward Doreen. Tory and I leaped up to intervene, but she wasn’t on the attack. Instead, she dropped to her knees. “People dismiss me because I’m short and blonde and gay. I’ve had to fight for everything. I never learned to be frank and open, but I swear I didn’t do this on purpose. I’ll give you and your sister the money. Every penny.”

  Doreen slid away. “How can you expect me to trust you again?”

  “I promise, I didn’t...”

  “Get out.” Doreen broke off. “Oh, hell, it’s her condo. I’m leaving. Tonight.”

  “No, please. I screwed up, but…” Repeated jabs of the doorbell cut off Heather’s words. “Who’s that?”

  “I’ll go see.” As if eager to escape her girlfriend’s pleading, Doreen stalked up the two steps toward the hall.

  I heard the door open and a familiar male voice demand, “Is Heather Blythe here?”

  “Yes, detective.”

  A hard-faced Keith appeared above us in the entry. “Ms. Blythe, I’d like you to accompany me to the station. Now.”

  “Why?” Trembling, Heather clasped her hands together.

  “Rafe Tibbets just woke up. And the last person he recalls seeing at his house was you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tory rode with Doreen to the police station to keep tabs on Heather. I returned to the hospital to support Billie and Rafe.

  He remained in intensive care. I didn’t attempt to intrude, since at this hospital I was a guest. Instead, I located Billie in the small waiting room, which we had to ourselves.

  She explained that her brother had awakened shortly after we left. Keith had returned and learned of Heather’s visit, but tried in vain to draw out more details. Rafe was too groggy to access the mystery file on the laptop Keith had brought.

  “I wish I could do something.” Dark circles underscored Billie’s gray eyes. “He’s always been there for me. We have this special bond.”

  “Brother and sister.” When I was little, I’d longed for a sibling. While my parents hadn’t discussed the situation with me, I’d gathered there were fertility issues. Maybe that was part of the reason this field appealed to me. Also, despite an initial interest in psychiatry, I’d fallen in love with babies during my initial rotation in obstetrics.

  “We were adopted.” The thin young woman fingered a dangling earring. “In a funny way, that drew us closer. Like however bad it got, at least we didn’t carry genetic material from those slobs.”

  “You were both adopted?” I didn’t recall her or Rafe mentioning that before.

  “Yes.”

  “Same parents?”

  “No.”

  “Did either of you trace your birth parents?” I inquired more from curiosity than any belief in a link to this case.

  Billie shook her purple hair. “I figured if they threw us away once, they’d just reject us again.”

  “Parents who relinquish babies aren’t necessarily throwing them away,” I pointed out. “Often they’re seeking a better life for their child.”

  “My mother dumped me at a fire station when I was a day old. She had no interest in finding the right family for me,” she said.

  “Maybe she was young and scared.” I stopped there. Billie had a right to her anger. “What about Rafe?”

  “He had birth defects. His parents couldn’t be bothered.”

  Kids with medical issues aren’t easy to place. “It’s lucky your adoptive parents took him in.”

  “Oh, they were fostering initially. They got paid extra for him.” She took a swig from a can of iced tea.

  I’ve seen foster parents who have a vocation for loving and nurturing children, but there are bad apples. No wonder Rafe and Billie had relied on each other. I wondered how Dee Marie had fit into their relationship.

  After a tap on the door, we were joined by an African-American woman, her short black hair salted with gray above her white coat. “I’m Phylicia Berman, the neurologist,” she said. “Miss Tibbets?” They shook hands.

  “Eric Darcy,” I said. “Friend of the family.”

  “He’s a doctor, too,” Billie put in.

  “OB,” I said.

  “I see.” Most likely the nurse had provided that information already.

  “Is my brother all right?” Billie asked.

  “The prognosis is hopeful, but head injuries can be tricky.” Dr. Berman had a straightforward manner that some patients would find reassuring and others abrasive. As a scientist, I prefer to get my information straight. “Mr. Tibbets is in general good health, which is a plus. The fact that he awoke and was aware of his surroundings is also positive.”

  “What did the CT scan show?” I asked.

  “Brain bruising. No skull fracture or major bleeding.” She glanced at her tablet. “Based on his responsiveness, his injury appears mild. However, any trauma to the brain can have residual effects such as headaches, dizziness and irritability.”

  Irritability? Based on my acquaintance with Rafe, I wasn’t sure how we’d tell the difference. But overall, this was good news.

  “Was he unconscious from his allergic reaction or from hitting his head?” As an afterthought, Billie blurted, “Or from the shot I gave him?”

  “Epinephrine’s side effects can include chest pain, fainting and seizures, but that’s uncommon,” the neurologist said. “Has he used an EpiPen before?”

  “Yes. There weren’t any problems I’m aware of.”

  Dr. Berman jotted a note. “Most likely, he lost consciousness due to hitting his head on the floor.”

  “What’s the next step?” I asked.

  “Since surgery isn’t indicated, the best course of action is to monitor him closely. There’s always a risk of a blood clot forming. And it’s of prime importance that he rest while his brain heals. Even after he goes home, another blow to the head before he’s completely recovered can have severe consequences, possibly fatal.”

  “Will he remember what happened? Right before he collapsed, I mean,” Billie said worriedly.

  “We can’t be sure.” The doctor employed the first person plural, I noticed. Some cynics accuse doctors of brandishing the royal “we” like kings issuing edicts, but in fairness, the neurologist represented a medical team, not only herself. “When patients lose memories immediately prior to an injury, we call that retrograde amnesia. It can last anywhere from minutes to years. In some cases, memory of those events may never return.”

  “We might not learn who did this?” Billie said. “In any case, it’s my fault.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She shoved her hands into her jeans pockets. “I heard Detective Sparks on the phone with a CSI person. They smelled peanuts in the olive oil jar. Rafe poured it on his food right in front of me. If I hadn’t distracted him with my jabbering, he’d have smelled it, too.”

  Dr. Berman studied her sympathetically. “Loved ones often blame themselves, but that’s misplaced. I understand you administered the injection.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you probably saved his life.”

  “I guess.”

  As they talked, I weighed the implications of the oil substitution, which to me erased any doubt that someone had tried to murder Rafe. It was sheer luck that the sound of his fall had alerted his sister. Whoever did it had been sophisticated enough to use a gourmet peanut oil that contained allergens, and familiar enough with his habits to count on him consuming the oil promptly.

  The would-be killer had entered the house unobserved. As with Dee Marie’s death, that pointed to a family member who had come into possession of both a key and the alarm code. I figured that, like most people, Rafe rarely changed the numbers.

  Billie fit that description. But there must be others.

  The neurologist departed. Unappeased, Billie scuffed the toe of her jogging shoe against the floor. “I let him down. I should have smelled peanuts.”
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  “Let’s focus on the future.” No sense harping on blame. “Rafe will be depending on you once he’s released from the hospital. Can you stay with him?”

  “Sure,” she said. “If I don’t screw that up, too.”

  I had no magic potion for repairing self-esteem. However, before leaving, I double-checked to be sure Billie was allowed to sit by her brother’s bed.

  “I’ll call you if he remembers anything else,” she said.

  “Will you please notify Detective Sparks first?” I requested. “I don’t want to step on his toes.”

  “I get that,” Billie said. “Okay.”

  Wearily, I drove home. Morris had gone to bed, and Tory arrived a few minutes later. Doreen and Heather had dropped her off, she explained over a beer at the counter.

  “Keith didn’t arrest her?” Being the last person seen by the victim didn’t prove guilt, but it was highly suspicious.

  Tory plopped her stocking feet on an empty stool. “She swears she went there to tell him about the investment, since she expected that, as executor, he’d discover it anyway. They talked on the porch, according to Heather.”

  “What about the file? Could she have accessed it?”

  “Rafe’s computer was turned off when the crime scene team arrived, and it’s password protected. And I don’t see how anything it contained would threaten Heather. The diagnostics investment didn’t happen until months after Dee Marie’s death.”

  “Unless Heather and Malerie had a prior acquaintance.”

  “Could be. But when Malerie decided to consult an attorney about her will, she asked Doreen’s opinion of her roommate. If she already knew Heather, why bother?”

  Mentally, I reviewed factors that might have sent Heather on a killing spree. There was the old antagonism between her and Rafe, and the possibility that Dee Marie might have threatened to reveal Heather and Doreen’s relationship to her mother. Neither struck me as strong enough motives, but people are unpredictable. Plus, a lot of money had gone missing, more than the few hundred thousand Heather had accounted for.

  “How’s Doreen taking this?” I asked as I finished my bottle of ale. “Still planning to move out?”