Still Life

by Joy Fielding

  “But it could be a coincidence,” Warren said, clearly struggling to understand what was becoming obvious even to Casey.

  Someone had followed her into the garage, waited there until she returned, then tried to kill her.

  “It could be,” the detective agreed unconvincingly.

  “Good God,” Warren whispered, as Casey pictured him burying his face in his hands.

  “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt your wife, Mr. Marshall?”

  “No one,” Warren answered without pause. “Casey is a wonderful woman. Everybody loves her.”

  “Perhaps a jealous former boyfriend….”

  Casey felt Warren shaking his head, imagined several strands of soft brown hair falling across his forehead.

  “Does your wife have a job, Mr. Marshall?”

  “She’s an interior decorator. Why?”

  “Any unhappy customers?”

  “You fire your decorator if you’re unhappy, Detective. You don’t run them down.”

  “Still, I’d appreciate a list of all her clients.”

  “I’ll have it for you first thing in the morning.”

  “What about the people who work for her? Any disgruntled employees, someone she had to let go recently …?”

  “Casey worked alone. The business was relatively new. She used to …” He broke off.

  “She used to …?” Detective Spinetti repeated.

  “She used to run a lawyer placement service with her friend Janine.”

  “That would be Janine Pegabo?”

  Casey pictured him consulting his notes.

  “Yes.”

  “They were partners?”

  “Yes.”

  “But they no longer work together.” The observation was part statement, part question.

  “No. They went their separate ways about a year ago.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Casey just wanted to try other things. She’d always been interested in design….”

  “And how did Ms. Pegabo feel about that?”

  “She was understandably upset, at least initially. But she came around. She’d made peace with it. She certainly wouldn’t have tried to kill Casey because of it.”

  “Do you know what kind of car she drives, Mr. Marshall?”

  “Uh, a Toyota, I think.”

  It’s a Nissan. And it’s red, not silver.

  “And it’s red,” Warren said. “Janine always drives a red car.”

  “What about Gail MacDonald?”

  “I have no idea what kind of car she drives.”

  It’s a Ford Malibu, and it’s white.

  “Gail is the gentlest person on earth,” Warren said. “I’ve actually seen her scoop up an ant in a tissue and carry it outside rather than kill it. There’s no way she’d hurt Casey.”

  This is ridiculous. Neither Gail nor Janine had anything to do with what happened to me.

  “You can’t think either of these women had anything to do with this,” Warren said, echoing her thoughts.

  “I’m just covering all the bases,” the detective replied obliquely. “You said that up until about a year ago, your wife ran a lawyer placement service.”

  “Yes.”

  “Any lawyers she might have angered?”

  “Lawyers are, by nature, always angry about something,” Warren answered. “But Casey had a way about her….”

  Wait a minute. There was this one lawyer…. The little twerp, Janine had called him at lunch.

  “I honestly can’t think of anyone who’d have been angry enough to try to kill her.”

  Dammit, what was his name? Moody? Money? No. Mooney. That’s it. Richard Mooney.

  “Maybe you should talk to Janine about that.”

  But would Richard Mooney really try to kill me because his job placement hadn’t worked out?

  “Tell me,” Detective Spinetti said, “is there anyone who would profit by your wife’s death?”

  What do you mean?

  “Profit?”

  “It’s no secret that your wife is a very wealthy woman, Mr. Marshall. In the event of her death, who inherits her estate?”

  “Probably her sister,” Warren answered after a moment’s thought. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure.”

  “You’re not sure? You’re a lawyer….”

  “I’m not Casey’s lawyer, Detective.”

  “You mentioned a sister….”

  “Casey’s younger sister, Drew.”

  “Were they close?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Mind my asking why?”

  Another moment’s thought, then, “Even though she was extremely well-provided-for,” Warren said carefully, “Drew always resented the fact her father named Casey as executor of his estate.”

  “Effectively giving Casey control over her finances?”

  “Drew isn’t the most responsible person on the planet,” Warren explained. “She’s had her share of problems with drugs and alcohol.”

  “Do you know what kind of car she drives?”

  “I have no idea. She trades them in almost as often as she changes boyfriends.”

  Casey could almost see Detective Spinetti’s eyebrows arch. “I see,” he noted.

  “You don’t see anything,” Warren said adamantly. “Drew may be a flake. And she definitely has issues. But there’s no way she’d hurt Casey.”

  “Any idea who she’s seeing now?” the detective asked, ignoring Warren’s protestation.

  “I think his name is Sean. Sorry, his last name escapes me.”

  “So you wouldn’t know what kind of car this Sean drives.”

  “Sorry, no. You’d have to ask Drew. But again, you can’t think …”

  “I’m just gathering information, Mr. Marshall.”

  Warren took an audible breath and released it slowly. “In that case, I imagine you’ll want to know my whereabouts on the afternoon my wife was run down,” he said.

  What? No!

  “You understand I have to ask.”

  I understand no such thing.

  “I know the drill, Detective. I also understand the husband is always the prime suspect in cases like this. But you have to understand that I’m on the verge of being made a full partner with one of the city’s premier law firms, and that I make a very substantial living of my own. I’ve never been interested in my wife’s fortune. And I was in my office, conferring with a client, at the time she was being run down. I’ll be happy to provide you with a list of at least a dozen people you can talk to who will verify that I didn’t leave my desk all day, not even for lunch. I was there when the hospital called….” Again his voice cracked. Again he coughed in an effort to disguise it.

  “Do you hold any life insurance policies on your wife, Mr. Marshall?”

  “No.”

  “That doesn’t sound very lawyerly,” Detective Spinetti observed.

  “Lawyers are notoriously lax when it comes to their own personal affairs. Besides, Casey is young, she was in excellent health, and we don’t have any children. I guess we both assumed there was lots of time to talk about those things.” His voice drifted into the air, where it hung suspended for several seconds before evaporating. “I didn’t marry my wife for her money, Detective. I married her because I love her. I love her so much.”

  Oh, Warren. I love you, too. More than you’ll ever know.

  “If I could change places with her, I would.” His voice cracked a third time. This time he made no effort to hide the sound.

  The door suddenly swung open.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” someone said. “I guess I should have knocked.”

  “Dr. Ein,” Warren acknowledged, pushing back his chair. It scraped against the floor, knocked against the side of the bed. “This is Detective Spinetti with the Philadelphia police.”

  “Did they catch the person who …?”

  “Not yet,” Detective Spinetti answered. “But we will.”

  “Awful busi
ness,” the doctor said.

  “Yes,” the detective agreed. “Look, why don’t I get out of here, let you have some privacy.”

  No. You can’t just walk in here, announce someone tried to kill me, point the finger of suspicion at virtually everyone I know, and then leave.

  The sound of another chair being pushed back.

  “You’ll keep me informed?” Warren said.

  “Count on it.”

  “Everything all right?” the doctor asked as soon as the detective was gone.

  “You tell me,” Warren countered.

  Casey felt the doctor approach the bed, imagined him staring down at her.

  “Well, all things considered, your wife’s doing very well. She came through the tracheostomy with flying colors. The trach tube looks good. It shouldn’t leave too much of a scar. And her breathing is stable at fourteen breaths a minute.”

  “Which means what exactly?”

  “Which means that we can hopefully start weaning her off the ventilator pretty soon.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “I assure you we won’t do anything until the time is right.”

  “And once the ventilator is removed? Once Casey is breathing on her own, what then?”

  “Then we remove the trach tube.”

  “And after that?”

  “I don’t know,” the doctor admitted after a lengthy pause. “Look, I wish I could give you something more concrete to go on. But we’ll just have to take it one day at a time.”

  One day at a time, Casey thought after everyone was gone. One day at a time, she repeated wordlessly as the noises of the day dimmed into the whimpers of the night.

  Someone deliberately ran me down, she was thinking as sleep began circling her brain, like a helicopter looking for a place to land. Someone is trying to kill me.

  Somebody wants me dead.

  Who?

  “Where were you on the night in question?” a man asked suddenly.

  Detective Spinetti?

  “I was home all night,” another man answered.

  Who’s that? Is someone here?

  “Was anyone with you?”

  “No. I was alone.”

  I don’t understand. Who are you? What are you talking about?

  And then suddenly she did understand. There was no one in the room. She was alone, just like the man being questioned on her TV, the night his wife had been cruelly gunned down.

  She’d imagined everything.

  The entire episode had been nothing but a combination of dreams and television reruns, a little something her mind had cooked up to pass the time and keep her from going crazy with boredom. No one had tried to kill her. There was no one named Detective Spinetti. Her brain had been rocked! That’s what the doctors had said. Hadn’t they? Maybe that was something else her imagination had invented. How could she tell?

  How could she be sure of anything?

  Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. This dream is no longer even vaguely amusing. It stopped making sense a long time ago.

  A car didn’t run me down. I’m not lying, broken and comatose, in some narrow hospital bed. My breathing isn’t dependent on a machine; there is no tube in my trachea. I did not hear a nurse’s aide confide she intended to seduce my husband. I most assuredly did not hear a police detective speculate that my condition is the result of a deliberate act, and that everyone I hold dear, my friends and associates, my sister, even the husband I adore, are suspects.

  I did not. I did not. I did not.

  Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

  Casey lay in her bed, unseeing eyes open toward the ceiling. The sky is falling, she thought, recalling the classic children’s story of Chicken Little, and struggling to remember its outcome. Had the sky really come crashing down, or had it just been a case of some stupid chicken running around, flapping his wings, stirring things up for no reason other than his own growing hysteria? Whatever happened to that crazy chicken? Casey was still wondering when she finally succumbed to sleep.

  SIX

  “Okay, so you missed the film festival this year,” Janine was saying, jolting Casey back into consciousness.

  How long had she been asleep? When had Janine arrived? What was she talking about?

  “But not to worry. You picked a good time to be brain-dead. The movies were shit. I saw one last night, and you would not believe how bad it was. I think if it didn’t have subtitles, it would have been laughed right out of the theater. But people always assume that just because it’s French …” Janine took a deep breath.

  Casey tried to focus. The city’s modest attempt at a film festival had just ended, which meant it was still April. How much time had she lost since Janine’s last visit?

  “Anyway, I brought a newspaper. The doctors said it would be a good idea for us to read to you, that it might help stimulate your brain, or something. But there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot going on that’s very stimulating.”

  Don’t worry about that. My brain seems to be working overtime as it is. I’ve been having the most extraordinary hallucinations.

  “Let’s see. Did you know that since the 1960s, Philadelphia has lost approximately six hundred thousand residents, due to something called urban blight, which sounds suspiciously like an STD, if you ask me, and that there are about sixty thousand derelict or abandoned buildings throughout the city, despite all the new development? Is this stimulating enough? Blink twice if the answer is yes.”

  I’m blinking. Once. Twice. Did you see that?

  “Okay, not seeing any blinks, so not very stimulating.”

  Dammit, I’m blinking. Look again, I’m blinking. I’m blinking. Why can’t I make you see?

  “Let’s see what else is here. What amazing things are you going to miss during the upcoming month of May if you don’t snap out of this ridiculous coma?”

  Casey heard the rustling of papers. Or was her imagination just providing the appropriate sound effects? Was Janine even there?

  “Okay, so there’s the Dad Vail Regatta, which, as you know, is the largest collegiate regatta in the United States, one that draws thousands of rowers and spectators to the Schuylkill River every year. Something I’m sure you wouldn’t want to miss. And there’s Philadanco! which sounds like another STD but is actually a dance troupe from West Philly, who’ll be performing at the Kimmel Center for one week only, good seats still available. I’ll be sure to call for tickets. And last but not least, May is the month that Philadelphia opens up its historic old homes for public viewing. Your house is pretty historic, wouldn’t you say? Ever consider opening it up for the public to trample through? No, I guess not. Although I think you’d draw quite a crowd. All those people wanting to see exactly where and how Ronald Lerner lived. Although the truth is never as exciting as one’s imagination, is it?”

  Believe me, Janine. You have no idea.

  “Anyway, I spoke to that police detective again yesterday.”

  What?

  “How come the policemen on TV all look like Chris Noth, and in real life they look like Detective Spinetti?”

  He’s real? I didn’t dream him?

  “Anyway, he told me he questioned Richard Mooney after I told him about our encounter, and that Mooney claims he was visiting his mother at the time of your accident. Although Spinetti clearly doesn’t think it was an accident.”

  Okay, it’s time for a new dream. This one’s turning into something of a nightmare.

  “Apparently Mooney’s mother backs him up, although Spinetti says the police don’t exactly trust mothers when it comes to providing alibis.”

  Can’t say I trust mothers when it comes to much of anything.

  “Anyway, they still haven’t eliminated him as a suspect, especially since—get this—the guy owns a silver SUV. Although frankly, who doesn’t? Besides, you’d think if he was going to try to kill anyone, it would have been me. I’m the one he had the fight with that morning. But then, you always were the chosen one, weren’t you?”

&
nbsp; Casey pictured the dazzling smile that accompanied Janine’s question.

  “Anyway, it would appear Mooney’s not the only suspect. Spinetti asked a million questions about Drew. Apparently he’s left at least a dozen messages on her voice mail, but she hasn’t answered any of them. I said welcome to the club, Drew’s notorious for not returning calls. He asked how well I knew her, if I thought she was capable of trying to kill you. I told him I honestly didn’t know. I mean, who knows anything with Drew? And, of course, he asked a shitload of questions about Warren.”

  “Are you talking about that police detective?” Gail asked from the doorway.

  “Oh, hi,” Janine said, her voice receding as she swiveled around in her chair. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Just a few seconds. How’s Casey doing today?”

  “Not much change.”

  The sound of footsteps approaching, the air growing heavy above Casey’s head, a gentle laugh, like a soft breeze, wafting toward her face.

  “Her color’s good.”

  “If you like the color of skim milk,” Janine said dryly. “Has he been talking to you, too?”

  “Who?”

  “That police detective. Spinetti.”

  “I assume he’s talking to everyone close to Casey.”

  “He ask you about Warren?”

  “I told him he was way off base,” Gail insisted. “I said Warren adored Casey, that there was no way on earth he had anything to do with this.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  What do you mean, you guess?

  “What do you mean, you guess?” Gail said in Casey’s stead.

  “Well, isn’t it always the husband in cases like this?”

  “Not in this case,” Gail said adamantly.

  “He could have hired someone.”

  “You’ve been watching too much TV.”

  “You’re right,” Janine said.

  “Warren’s a wonderful man.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “He adores Casey.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “Then why would you say something like that?”

  “I don’t know. Blame it on that detective and his stupid questions.”

  “He asked quite a few questions about you, as a matter of fact,” Gail said.