“She’s put that on hold,” Tory said. “Heather’s shaken up. Even if she isn’t charged with attempted murder, she’s admitted to insider trading. That could get her disbarred. For the present, Doreen’s standing by her woman.”
“You don’t run out on people when they need you,” I summarized.
“Not if you’re a decent human being,” she agreed.
After an exchange of goodnights, it was off to bed. I slept heavily and awoke late, unusual for me. The Sunday paper produced a stunner: Soraya Montenegro’s article, headlined “Mother-Daughter Slayer Sought,” was accompanied by a photo of the funeral, with Rafe, Tory and me in the foreground. Only Rafe was identified, with Tory and me described simply as mourners.
The article mentioned his hospitalization as well as Doreen’s close encounter with a chunk of concrete. The reporter was thorough and the writing professional, if unwelcome.
While my work involves life and death issues, it takes place in private. With this exposure of Malerie’s family, the newspaper had ripped a wall out of their homes and invited in the public. They’d become unwilling participants in a reality show.
Keith might be facing camera crews this morning. I hoped that wouldn’t pressure him into arresting anyone prematurely.
As it turned out, Billie phoned an hour later, having already called the detective. “My brother’s more alert,” she said in the hoarse tone of someone who’s barely slept. “According to him, Heather never entered the house. They just spoke on the porch.”
That confirmed her account. The only downside was that we were no closer than ever to identifying the culprit.
*
Sunday afternoon, the police released Morris’s catering facility. He hired Sandy to help him clean up. Although he had no scheduled meal service that night, he was determined to resume deliveries on Monday.
At Heights, Rafe drifted in and out of consciousness. A police officer stood by, with Billie in constant attendance. Meanwhile, my hospital summoned me to assist with a multiple birth.
Another patient arrived with premature labor, a month and a half early at thirty-four weeks. I prescribed medication to halt the contractions. As long as I was on hand, I also performed a C-section on a woman in labor whose baby was showing signs of distress.
By the time I finished, dusk was falling. Since there’d be no Morris at my house tonight, I drove to the Sea Star Café for dinner.
Located alongside the marina, the restaurant attracts mostly a lunch crowd, and only a handful of customers occupied tables at this hour. I had my choice of booths to enjoy my pita sandwich and hot chai, a beverage brewed with black tea, cinnamon, ginger and cardamom.
Through the window, I gazed at the peaceful body of water from which the town of Safe Harbor takes its name. It’s strictly for pleasure craft, from sailboats to yachts. On a summer day, sails dot the water and the wharf bustles with visitors. Music blares from parties on boats, while shops on the landward side sell surfboards, bait and tackle, bikinis and souvenirs. Tonight, the stores were shuttered and only a few boats drifted toward their moorings.
The indoor lights reflected in the glass, and with my vision obscured, I didn’t pay much attention to a woman hurrying along the pier, hugging herself against the breeze. Returning from a sail, presumably, and eager for the warmth of her car.
A streetlight caught the unusual red of her hair. Was I imagining the color? Then I glimpsed a face so familiar my breath caught.
She was too thin for Doreen; it must be Danielle;. But thinner than Danielle, too, and with hair cropped short.
Take a picture, you idiot. I fumbled with my phone. At this distance and angle, it recorded only a tiny image obscured by reflections. Leaving the remains of my meal, I raced past other diners onto the wharf.
Nobody there.
Speeding up the steps to the parking area, I still found no one. Damn damn damn.
I listened for an engine. On the street, a car rattled off, its taillights vanishing as I reached the curb. Someone must have picked her up.
I lingered, staring about in case that hadn’t been her ride, but nothing stirred. Retracing my steps, I tried to figure out which boat she’d come from. If she’d gone sailing or attended an on-board party, perhaps I’d spot someone else, but I didn’t.
My heart thumped in my ears. When I checked my picture, it revealed—as I’d feared—little more than a blur. However, I have excellent eyesight and I knew what I’d seen.
Malerie’s so-called quadruplet was real.
Chapter Eighteen
Knowing something and proving it—or persuading others that it’s true—are different matters. Especially if those others are annoyingly determined to use logic and stick to verifiable evidence.
“This could be the abominable snowman or D.B. Cooper.” Keith, who’d been killing a few beers with Tory at my kitchen table, squinted at the image I’d forwarded to his phone.
“I saw her,” I said. “She’s the spitting image of Malerie’s daughters.” Except for the short hair, but that could have been a wig.
“There’s a theory that everyone has a doppelganger.” After a futile attempt to enlarge the image to reveal detail, Tory wrinkled her nose and set her phone aside. “Also, it was late, it was getting dark and you want to believe, like Fox Mulder on The X-Files.”
“This isn’t an extraterrestrial. And Malerie saw her too.” The argument sounded weak even to me. I was no closer to establishing the woman’s existence than before I glimpsed her.
“Any chance she’s a forensic accountant?” Keith asked. “I could use one.”
“Why?”
“As I’m sure you’ve already heard, Mrs. Abernathy’s records are a mess.”
Tory chimed in. “We haven't been able to gain full access yet, but Rafe’s raised a lot of questions.”
Did “we” refer to her and Doreen or her and Keith? Or was the royal “we” again raising its likely-to-be-guillotined head?
In the fridge, I compared the merits of alcoholic beverages and fruit juice or some combination thereof. Considering my low level of credibility tonight, I stuck to a cranberry-apple blend.
“What about Rafe’s mystery file?” I pulled up a chair. “Has that shed any light?”
“He refuses to retrieve it until he’s in better shape.” Keith ran a hand through his dark-blond mop. If it got any messier, one of Lydia’s beloved hummingbirds might build a nest in it.
“He’s afraid we’ll go Dumpster-diving through his client records,” Tory explained.
“I assured him that at this point a judge would give us a subpoena, and he told me to go ahead and try.” With his forearm, Keith wiped a beer ring from the table. “Typical lawyer.”
“The guy wakes up from a coma spouting disclaimers,” she elaborated.
They were tagging onto each other’s sentences, like in the old days. I remained wary. Their truce didn’t preclude a bomb detonating without warning.
Keith took another swallow. “We need to examine the payees’ records. I wish Morris... Sorry. Loose tongues and all that.”
Tory narrowed her eyes at him. “You don’t mean you suspect Dad.”
He shrugged.
“As if my father had anything to do with this, other than by pure chance.” My sister-in-law turned to me. “From what Rafe says, Mrs. Abernathy paid her bills haphazardly. There were overpayments to some creditors, including Dad.”
“Big overpayments,” Keith muttered.
“And underpayments, too. Dad claims it balanced out.”
“Funny way to run a business,” Keith said.
“He hates to hassle clients.” Tory spoke fondly.
“Which is why he nearly went bankrupt a few years ago, right?” said her ex-boyfriend. I was with Keith on this one. Morris’s soft heart made him easy prey for deadbeats.
She ignored the remark. “There were also large donations to the animal shelter, most of which Ilsa Ivy claims she didn’t receive.”
“If
her bookkeeping is as unconventional as her funeral eulogies, that proves zilch.” Keith stretched his legs, bumping me. “Am I bothering you, doll?”
“It’s fine, sweetie,” I answered.
“Oh, hell.” He withdrew his feet.
When the conversation drifted to the football season, I headed upstairs. Tomorrow, with Rafe gaining strength and the banks open for business, there was a good chance of more discoveries on the financial front. But as for unearthing information about Malerie’s alleged quadruplet, I’d have to do it myself.
*
The normalcy of my office on a Monday morning restored my equilibrium: Glenda beaming from the reception desk, Farrah juggling appointment cancellations and requests; a couple of early-arriving patients staring at their phones in the waiting room—my world felt normal.
Except for the fact that I’d encountered a woman who challenged the fabric of reality. While that might be an exaggeration, there was a lumpy knot of yarn messing up the smooth weave. Who was she, how was she related to the Abernathy triplets, and why didn’t she show up in our records?
Whenever I had a spare minute, I dug through my office on the chance that Malerie’s old file might be stuffed in a drawer or wedged behind shelved books where my earlier searches had missed it. No luck. Finally, although not eager to reveal myself as a kook, I related yesterday’s sighting to my partner.
Buttonholed in the break room, Isaiah sipped his coffee as he listened. “Sorry for not getting back to you about Mrs. Abernathy,” he said when I’d finished. “I did remember something.”
“What’s that?”
“Her file indicated she was a multipara.” The older doctor spoke as casually as if discussing his latest golf score. “Does that help?”
The world tilted sideways. “Yes.”
A pregnant woman is termed a primigravida during her first pregnancy and a multigravida or multipara during the second. Malerie had given birth prior to the triplets.
In retrospect, that should have been obvious, except why hadn’t she raised the matter herself? If she’d had a baby and relinquished it for adoption, surely that explanation should have struck her as soon as she spotted the woman on the bus.
She’d said that people lie. Who? And how could someone have told a lie so big, so devastating, that it was worth killing to cover it up?
Isaiah went off to see patients, and I tended to mine. I refused to allow the subject into my conscious mind until midday, when I received a call from my housekeeper.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Dr. Darcy.” On the phone, Sandy had a slightly nasal voice. “I’m at your house and I wondered if you’d be home for lunch today. I’m worried about Morris and it would be easier to discuss it in person.”
“What about Morris?” Then it hit me: if anyone knew Malerie’s secrets, it was her old friend. Since a nurse’s aide or a good housekeeper is discreet, I could hardly blame Sandy if she’d withheld sensitive information, especially since it dated from decades ago and bore no obvious relationship to recent events. “Actually, I will drop by. I can’t stay long.”
“I’ll have a sandwich waiting for you,” she said.
“It’s not necessary.”
“Glad to do it.”
I dislike taking advantage of an employee. “Thanks, but I prefer to buy one. See you in a few minutes.”
At home, I found a note saying Sandy was upstairs cleaning the master bathroom. To save time, I carried my sandwich with me.
When I reached the steps, a trace of Lydia’s perfume reminded me of the conservatory off to my right. Tory’s searching had failed to discover any sign of the stolen jewelry on the Internet or locally. I hated whoever had taken it. How irrational, when the burglar might also be a murderer and deserved far more condemnation on that score. However, this loss felt intensely personal.
On the second floor, I passed the exercise room which, true to her word, Tory had stopped using. I’d emailed her permission to work out any time other than early mornings, but she’d stuck to her resolve.
This brought me to the master bathroom. Before Lydia remodeled, it had featured an outdated expanse of tan tile with brown grout, walls painted maroon, and a wooden toilet seat that forty years ago must have been à la mode, or à la commode. For my mother, who’d suffered recurring bouts of chemotherapy, this had been both a refuge and a torture chamber where nausea reigned.
My wife had transformed it with a skylight, soothing colors and updated fixtures. Dad’s favorite change, and mine after Lydia and I inherited the master suite, was the installation of a separate shower and a large, open tub deep enough for a thorough soak.
When I entered, my housekeeper, blond hair tucked under a scarf, was on her knees in the tub, rubbing with a non-abrasive cleanser. I stepped over the cord attached to my hand vacuum and sat on the padded stool at the dressing table.
“Take a break,” I said. “I’ll pay for your extra time.”
Sandy responded with a smile. “Thanks, but I promised to assist Morris later with the cooking and deliveries. Besides, I’m more comfortable keeping busy.”
“I understand.” Although the stool cramped my legs, I considered how much more uncomfortable Sandy must be. “What’s bothering you about Morris?”
“He’s very tense. I think he feels guilty about what Billie’s been through.” She frowned at a spot on the tub. “He’s also disturbed about his bookkeeping.”
“I heard Mrs. Abernathy’s payments were haphazard,” I said.
“He’s convinced the police suspect him of stealing from her.” Sandy sprayed the spot and took a few swipes.
“He would never do that.” I spoke around a mouthful of food.
“Of course not. Would it be unethical for you to ask Detective Sparks to go easy on him?”
“Probably not but it might look suspicious.” Anyway, Tory was already springing to her father’s defense.
“Well, I fear for his health. He’s sixty-two, on the chubby side and he doesn’t exercise.” Sandy surveyed the tub again. “And as far as I can tell, he avoids doctors. Professionally, I mean.”
“I’m afraid so.” The old saying about the shoemaker’s children going barefoot applies to doctors’ families too. My mother had sworn by her organic diet and refused to get a mammogram until too late. I’d insisted on regular checkups for Lydia, although for ethical reasons I couldn’t treat her myself.
Regarding Morris, I shared Sandy’s unease. “My father died of a heart attack at about the same age.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, doctor.” She began running water, muttering to herself, “This could use a good rinse.”
As I finished the sandwich, I recalled my mission. “I hope it’s all right if I pose a few questions about Mrs. Abernathy.”
“No problem.”
My gaze flicked to the wall clock. Was it really that late? I cut to the point. “She had a baby before the triplets, didn’t she?”
Sandy sighed. “I should have told you, but I hated to bring up such an ugly business.”
“What was ugly about it?”
She rested on the broad lip of the tub, bare feet in the water. “When I left, Mal was pregnant with Winston’s baby. She bragged that he’d leave his barren wife for her, which I thought was both immoral and cruel.”
“You weren’t here when she delivered?”
Sandy shook her head. “I’m not clear on the details, except that the baby was born with heart defects.”
A memory slotted into place: Danielle citing her mother’s regrets about smoking and its effects on Dee Marie’s asthma. There’d been a reference to heart damage, which I’d assumed referred to Winston’s death. But she must have meant this baby.
“A girl, right?” That would explain the mystery woman.
“I’m not sure. Mal referred to her child as `it.’” Sandy shuddered. “She couldn’t bear to hold the poor little thing. I was horrified.”
“What happened to... it?”
“It die
d.” She swallowed.
That explained why Malerie didn’t suspect she had another child running around. “Who told you that?”
“She did,” Sandy said. “There wasn’t even a funeral. Winston was in such a hurry to hush it up before his wife found out that he rushed the burial arrangements.”
People lie. Was it possible Winston had put up the baby for adoption without Malerie’s knowledge? Despite legal obstacles, a wealthy doctor presumably had connections.
“Was that when they broke it off?” I asked.
She nodded. “He dumped her, to put it plain. For years, she avoided any mention of him.”
“Until his wife died?”
“And he landed in the hospital, where she was on his medical team.” Sandy peered down at her clasped hands. “I should have been frank with you, doctor, but it would have put Mal in a bad light and hurt her daughters. There’s been enough harm done to this family.”
“I saw her,” I blurted.
Sandy gave a start. She didn’t seem to notice the water sloshing around her ankles. “Who?”
“A red-haired woman nearly identical to the triplets,” I said. “Except her hair’s cut short.”
“Where?”
“At the harbor.”
“My goodness!” She rose abruptly. “Oh, heavens, look at the water I’m wasting.” Pivoting, she reached for the faucet, slipped and reached out for support.
I lunged to catch her. Although I’m not normally clumsy, the movement threw me off balance and at the same instant, Sandy shifted her weight unexpectedly. While I plunged forward, she tumbled sideways, clutching at the vacuum cord. The small appliance flew through the air.
I thrust a hand into the tub to break my fall. A splash hit my face as the vac landed and, at the same instant, I registered the click of the ground fault interrupter Lydia had installed in the electrical outlet. The device can be annoyingly overactive, shutting down my razor for no apparent reason, but it had just saved my life, or at least spared me a bad shock.
“Damn. That was close.” I shut off the faucet, opened the drain and hauled myself out. “Are you all right?”
The Case of the Questionable Quadruplet Page 16
