The Case of the Questionable Quadruplet Page 5

“Done here.” He walked off, and I returned to Ada’s lawn.

  If I’d expected an epiphany at the sight of Malerie’s body, I’d have been disappointed. But I’d received something else: a mission.

  My patient depended on me. Not that I imagined I could outsmart Keith and his trained colleagues, but I brought a different perspective. People trusted me, and witnesses might be more willing to open up to a doctor.

  No telling where that would lead.

  Chapter Five

  The floodlights cast long shadows of three women standing in an uneasy knot on Ada’s lawn. At five-ten, Tory towered over the Abernathy sisters and, despite her lower position, her shadow extended beyond theirs.

  “I hate that they’re holding onto Mom,” I heard Danielle say as I returned. She hugged herself, shivering in her light sweater. Due to Southern California’s dry climate, temperatures fall rapidly after sunset. “That coroner said it might be next week before she’s released.”

  “Before her body is released, is how he put it,” Doreen ground out. “What a way to refer to Mom.”

  Her grief had found release in anger. As for Danielle, her face was splotchy from weeping.

  “Today is Friday,” I pointed out. “Next week could mean Monday or Tuesday.”

  “Did he ask you to designate a mortuary?” Tory asked. “That could prevent unnecessary delay.”

  Doreen tilted her head. “I suggested the Oahu Lane Funeral Home. Mom picked it for Dee Marie’s arrangements.”

  “It’s near the animal shelter,” Danielle noted. “Mom enjoyed volunteering there.”

  “I hope she isn’t leaving them all her money.” Doreen waved away her comment. “She wouldn’t do that to us.”

  Danielle stared at her sister. “Why do you keep suggesting she was changing her will?”

  “She summoned us to discuss something important, right?” Her sister had deflected rather than answering, I noticed.

  If Malerie had meant to change her beneficiaries, that could have provided a motive for murder, but by whom?

  Suddenly Danielle emitted a shriek. “You rat! Heather’s an estate attorney and Mom knew she was your housemate. She asked if you’d recommend Heather to revise her will, didn’t she? And you didn’t tell me!”

  Heather and Doreen were in a relationship, I’d gathered from Fred’s comments in my office. But Malerie supposedly hadn’t been aware of that.

  Her sister apologized. “Mom swore me to secrecy. She didn’t want word getting out to anyone else. Like Rafe, I suppose.”

  Rafe was also an estate-planning attorney, and had probably drawn up his mother-in-law’s old will. With him a suspect in Dee Marie’s murder, no wonder Malerie had gone elsewhere, but why keep it secret?

  “Why would she trust you and not me?” Danielle asked.

  “All I did was confirm that Heather is reliable,” her sister said. “I have no clue what they discussed.”

  “I don’t suppose you bothered to tell Mom the truth about you two.”

  “It wasn’t relevant,” returned her red-haired sibling. “For your information, I hated keeping secrets from her. Now she’s dead and she’ll never have a chance to accept me the way I am.”

  “Or reject you. Was that what you were afraid of?” Danielle was growing agitated. “She refused to help Fred and me pay for a surrogate. Did Heather discuss that with her?”

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  Grief can intensify insecurities and tear families apart; I’ve seen it right in the hospital. Malerie wouldn’t want her daughters to become enemies, and neither did I.

  “You’ve lost your mother and you’re both upset,” I said. “But her will might not have been what she called you here to discuss.”

  That stopped the fighting. “You said she wasn’t sick,” Doreen reminded me.

  “True.” Here, I realized, was a chance to probe Malerie’s state of mind. Gently. “Had she mentioned any unusual experiences recently?”

  Matching frowns wrinkled their foreheads. “Unusual how?” Danielle asked.

  I didn’t want to imply their mother had been hallucinating or suffering from dementia. The daughters were distressed enough already. “Such as seeing a familiar person she couldn’t place?”

  “Not to me,” Danielle said. Doreen shook her head, too.

  “Dwelling on old memories more than usual?” I prompted.

  “After Dee Marie died, sure,” Doreen said. “She started leafing through her photo albums.”

  “Mom wasn’t the sentimental type,” Danielle added. “But the last six months, we all felt this huge void.”

  That line of inquiry was leading nowhere. Yet the effort hadn’t been wasted. In trying to reach a diagnosis, it can be useful to identify which symptoms aren’t present.

  Across the lawn, Keith spoke to a uniformed officer before vanishing into the house. The young fellow swung through the onlookers, announcing, “Move on, folks! Clear the area.” Stomping toward us, he waved his arms. “Let’s go, people. You’re trespassing on the neighbor’s property.”

  “We have the homeowner’s permission, George,” Tory said.

  “You’re a civilian,” the cop replied. “The detective ordered us to clear the area, and that includes you.” Off he went.

  “He has no right to order us off someone else’s property as long as we aren’t interfering in an investigation,” Tory grumbled. “Not worth fighting about it, though.”

  Judging by the guy’s smug attitude, he enjoyed pushing Tory around. I hated bullies. Since I hated getting arrested even more, I held my peace.

  The four of us ambled grumpily toward the street. The daughters’ annoyance focused on the police.

  “They’ll blame us because we stand to inherit,” Danielle said. “It’s the easy way out, right?”

  “Yeah, they did such a great job of catching whoever killed Dee Marie,” Doreen agreed. “Not that I’m a fan of Rafe’s, but if he did it, they should have charged him by now.”

  “The district attorney files charges, not the police,” Tory said. “Still, it’s frustrating that they haven't made an arrest.” In the past, she’d have defended her fellow officers.

  “I hate being told to go home and wait. For what?” Doreen said.

  “For them to point fingers at us,” finished her sister.

  We reached the sidewalk, about to go our separate ways. As long as you’re sticking your nose in other people’s business, Eric, might as well go the whole nine yards. “Danielle, Doreen.” Both halted. “Have you considered hiring a private investigator?” I asked. “You have an excellent one right here.”

  Tory’s spine stiffened. Well, she’d claimed she needed clients. If she wasn’t happy with my meddling, she should have been more careful what she wished for.

  “You know,” Doreen said, “that isn’t a bad idea.”

  *

  Although Safe Harbor Medical employs obstetricians to supervise the night shifts in Labor and Delivery, complications can arise. When necessary, the patient’s attending physician is summoned, and thus the charge nurse awakened me shortly before 5 a.m. on Saturday.

  After a night of vague, disturbing dreams, it was a relief to immerse myself in the details of obstetrical care. One breech birth resolved without the need for surgery, but several cesarian sections followed. I never take happy outcomes for granted, and, following the previous day’s tragedy, it was particularly gratifying that all mothers survived in good shape and their babies emerged healthy.

  When my schedule permitted, I checked on my small patients in the nursery. One little cuddler nestled into my arms, blinking at me with brown eyes beneath a shock of black hair. No matter who he became or what mark he made on the future, I imagined he would never be more purely himself than at this moment.

  An ache caught in my throat, like a pill that fails to wash down. Having a child of my own had been a fiercely held dream, one that I’d discovered, belatedly, Lydia didn’t share.

  I returned
the baby to his clear-sided bassinet. This little guy had lots of people to love him. Lucky him. Lucky them.

  By one o’clock, I was off duty. Descending from the third floor, I recalled how, last night, Doreen had welcomed my suggestion of hiring Tory. Concerned about the expense, Danielle had bowed out.

  Tory had requested permission to discuss her findings with me. “Of course,” Doreen had said. “There’s nobody I trust more than Dr. Darcy.”

  Tory had also explained that she had to share pertinent information with the authorities. “I can’t interfere with a police investigation.”

  “Whatever gets us to the truth.” Her new client had agreed to sign a contract as soon as her girlfriend/lawyer reviewed it.

  At the hospital, I reached the main floor, where the scents of grilling onions and roasting chicken nearly drew me to the cafeteria. However, experience had shown that no matter how delicious the aromas, the reality of hospital food couldn’t compare to whatever Morris might whip up or leave in the refrigerator.

  As I veered toward the staff exit, an unwelcome shadow attached itself to my side. Jeremiah never lacked spring in his step, although he’d presumably spent the morning treating patients, too. Dark hair notwithstanding, his jaw rarely sported a stubble of growth, and his clothes were immaculate. Yet he had an ungainly stride, as if he’d been assembled by a beginner.

  “It’s unfortunate that patient of yours drowned.” From his tone, he might have been discussing the weather. “I gather she was murdered.”

  Had the news media picked up on Malerie’s death? “Where’d you hear that?”

  “The cafeteria is amazing.” Moving ahead, Jeremiah held the door for me. I muttered my thanks. “You can receive a complete news report without trying.”

  “Another good reason for eating at home,” I observed as we cut across a small reserved lot.

  “Did you know that Mrs. Abernathy used to work here?” he asked.

  That startled me. How embarrassing. Malerie had been my father’s patient and then mine, but it took Jeremiah to provide this vital background. “No, I didn’t.”

  “A nurse’s aide,” he said as we passed the office building. “Back when it was a community hospital. Someone said that’s how she met her husband. He was an anesthesiologist.”

  “I’m aware of that.” I recalled Winston Abernathy as a crusty but decent fellow, not that we’d been well acquainted. He’d died shortly after I joined Dad’s practice four years ago.

  I wished my father were here to fill in the blanks. However, I was stuck with Jeremiah as a source.

  “She assisted with his care after he was injured in a car crash.” Jeremiah shortened his stride when it threatened to carry him ahead of me. “That was how his wife died. In the crash. He was driving. Then Mrs. Abernathy swooped in. But she wasn’t Mrs. Abernathy yet.”

  “Swooped in?” It struck me as a judgmental term.

  “I’m only repeating what I heard,” he replied. “People believe they were having an affair before that, during his marriage. Then they broke up for a while, if I followed the sequence correctly.”

  “Considering that this happened thirty years ago, it’s second or third hand gossip at best.” And an unkind way to talk about a dead woman.

  “There are still personnel on staff from those days.” Jeremiah didn’t sound offended.

  “True.” But why bring up such cruel, old gossip? If the implication of adultery bothered me, I could imagine how it might upset their daughters.

  Our footsteps resounded on the concrete floor of the parking structure. There it waited, the blue hybrid like my former one save for the license plates.

  “I’ll be replacing that,” Jeremiah commented. “The dealership was out of your shade. They describe it as champagne. I would call it beige.”

  He discussed this as if it were perfectly normal for him to buy a duplicate of my car, and as if we’d agreed that he should copy my taste in automobiles as well as women. “Maybe you should live dangerously and try another color,” I said. “How about silver?”

  Oh, hell, why did I pick that one? Silver had been Lydia’s maiden name.

  Jeremiah didn’t appear to catch the double entendre. “Do you think that would be better? I ordered champagne, but I could cancel it.”

  “Suit yourself,” I told him.

  He blinked. “I’ll stick with champagne.”

  Why fight it? “Good choice.” For the sake of courtesy, I concluded, “Later.”

  “Later.”

  Driving home, I wondered what Tory had discovered that morning. Her plans, she’d related over a late-night snack, had been to meet with Doreen and her partner, Heather, and to canvass the neighborhood for witnesses. As she talked, the animation had returned to her face. It felt good to see my sister-in-law energized.

  She’d also intended to stop by the detective bureau with a box of doughnuts and mention she was willing to provide whatever information she ran across. Perhaps they’d share with her in return.

  At this hour, morning low clouds had burned off to reveal a glorious October afternoon. Ahead, the Pacific Ocean sparkled innocently, as if neither sharks nor riptides lurked beneath its surface.

  In my neighborhood, a handful of folks walked dogs or pushed strollers along the sidewalk. Except for a few pairs strolling together, they maintained a distance, as if a film director had instructed them to space their intervals.

  Looking forward to peace and quiet, I turned onto my street. But there was no serenity at my house. I heard angry shouting and spotted Keith’s red sports car behind a white van bearing a police logo.

  Not another break-in, I prayed silently. Please, Lord, not another murder.

  Chapter Six

  Bloody murder was more like it, judging by my father-in-law’s yelling from the porch. Waving a rubber spatula and sporting a red checkered apron that emphasized his rotund form, Morris screamed a single word over and over. “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”

  Behind him stood the rail-thin young woman I’d glimpsed the previous night as she waited to be interviewed. Daylight failed to soften the spiky impression of her purple hair, tattoos and piercings, and her expression indicated her shock had transformed into anger.

  After maneuvering around the catering truck in the driveway, I parked and got out. The target of Morris’s wrath, Keith stood with arms folded. A crime scene technician, swathed in protective gear as if my house might conceal chemical or biological hazards, hovered on the sidewalk.

  Keith’s attention shifted to me. “Would you confirm to your father-in-law that we have permission to print the file cabinet?”

  “Don’t let them in!” Despite his round nose and the puffs of hair above his ears, Morris did not cut a comical figure. Well, okay, maybe a little, but it would have been disrespectful to smile. “It isn’t Billie’s fault she found Mrs. Abernathy’s body. They interviewed her last night. She’s told them what she knows.”

  “Morris, if Keith intended to haul your assistant off to jail, he’d have done it by now,” I said.

  “They’re harassing me.” Billie had an unexpectedly throaty voice. “Look at how they’ve treated my brother.”

  “Your brother?” I must have missed something.

  “Rafe Tibbets,” Keith clarified.

  Aha. The chief suspect in Dee Marie’s murder was also the client who’d recommended Billie to Morris. Now she’d stumbled over, let’s see, her brother’s former mother-in-law’s dead body. I could see why that might arouse a detective’s interest.

  “Eric authorized us to enter the premises and dust for prints,” Keith said.

  “That’s not what you stated earlier.” Morris held his ground with a ferocity I’d never seen in him before. “You have more questions for her.”

  “A few,” Keith admitted. “Issues always come up as we examine the larger picture.”

  That made sense to me. Also, I wasn’t thrilled by this melodrama on my normally serene premises.

  “It’s a tra
p!” Billie cried in my direction, as if I’d been elected referee. “They’ve been trying to pin Dee Marie’s murder on Rafe for six months. They’re too lazy to track down who really did it. I won’t say a word except in front of witnesses.”

  Keith shook his head. “I need to talk to you privately. Having other people present can taint your testimony, and theirs.”

  “No.” She shrank behind her protector. Not an easy task, since she and Morris were about the same height, roughly five-foot-six. Still, his weight surpassed hers by a wide margin, literally.

  He went on glaring at the detective. “Send in the CSI tech. He can get the prints and leave. And you should go with him.”

  Keith frowned. “Let me do my job, okay, Morris?”

  “Billie works for me and she’s here at my invitation.” My father-in-law’s pudgy face set grimly.

  It was a standoff. While the young woman had a right to refuse to talk to the police, this scene accomplished nothing except to draw neighbors onto their porches. That’s a rare event on Sunset Circle. The last time I recalled people venturing out en masse—well, en mini-masse—was after an earthquake rattled our dishes.

  Hoping to hurry matters along, I indicated the open door. “What’s that fantastic aroma?” My stomach rumbled for emphasis.

  “Spiced eggplant for sandwiches,” said my father-in-law. “We’ve been experimenting with recipes.”

  “There are sweet potato fries, too.” A fleeting smile transformed Billie into an engaging young woman.

  Keith wrinkled his nose. “I’d go for the sweet potato fries, but seriously—eggplant sandwiches?”

  “Not everyone can eat peanut butter,” Billie snapped. “It’s poison to people who’re allergic, like my brother.”

  Keith blew out a frustrated breath. Although I was sure his stomach matched mine growl for growl, he had a murder to solve. Two, including Dee Marie’s.

  Morris glanced worriedly into the house. “We left the food simmering. I’m afraid it’ll burn. Maybe you should talk to Keith.”

  “Don’t abandon me.” Billie’s hand clamped on his arm.