by Nancy Geary
Frances stopped herself. It wouldn’t look right if she was seen prying into the Cabots’ mail. She was about to step away when one envelope caught her eye. Addressed to Fiona, it was business size, and the return address printed in the upper-left-hand corner read “Avery Bowes Institute.” Even without living in Massachusetts, she was familiar with that facility’s reputation, but a psychiatric hospital seemed an odd correspondent. Should she? She glanced toward the door, which remained shut. Was this just curiosity? No, she rationalized. She needed to know everything possible about the people surrounding Hope during her last days, and Fiona fell into that category. Keeping her body positioned toward the entrance to the drawing room, she unfolded the 8 ½-by-11-inch sheet with one hand. The letterhead read “Peter Frank, M.D., Medical Director.”
It was an invoice: “Dates of service: June 26, 27, 29, 30. Consultation. $5,000.”
Frances had never seen a psychiatrist, but even to her untrained eye the bill seemed unreasonably high for four visits. Maybe consulting fees were higher. If that was the reason, she couldn’t help but wonder what Fiona had consulted him about.
She jumped when she heard the lock click and, without thinking, stuffed the invoice in her pocket. In the process of distancing herself from the desk, she tripped over a leather bull footstool. She caught herself before falling, but the stern expression on Fiona’s face as she walked through the door gave every indication that the mistress of the house didn’t appreciate her clumsiness. Or perhaps her snooping.
Fiona extended both arms, and when Frances did the same, she leaned forward and kissed her cheek. But despite the gesture of welcome, when she spoke her tone was flat. “How nice of you to drop by. Could I offer you anything?” she asked, settling into an armchair. She reached to ring a crystal bell on the table beside her.
“No. Thank you,” Frances replied as she sat on the adjacent couch. She felt her thighs and back sink seemingly forever into the cushions, and she held on to the arm to keep upright. “I wanted to speak with Jack.”
“He’s out riding, which means it’s impossible to know when he’ll return,” Fiona said, striking a match from an embroidered box and turning to light a Rigaud candle. The wick lit, and Frances instantly smelled the distinctive perfume. “His horse seems to be his only solace right now. He barely eats, so I can’t even promise he’ll return for lunch, but you’re welcome to join me. Vichyssoise and crab cakes, if that appeals.”
“I can only stay a moment,” Frances lied, although the air was so sweet in the room that she did intend to minimize any delay in her departure.
The housekeeper entered and set a tray with tea service on the table between Fiona and Frances. Fiona poured herself a cup and added a single slice of lemon. “I don’t suppose there’s any news from the police.”
“Not yet.”
She leaned against a down pillow and closed her eyes. “It’s almost inconceivable that this should happen here in Manchester.”
“Or anywhere.”
“But Manchester especially.”
Frances watched her raise her porcelain cup to her lips and take a sip without even the tiniest of slurps, an amazing display of manners. Emily Post would be proud.
“Cabots have lived in this area practically since its founding. If not the oldest family, we’re certainly one of. Before Jim and I had Jack, we lived on Beacon Hill, Louisburg Square. Are you familiar with it?”
Frances nodded. Even the hick from the North Fork of Long Island that Fiona presumed her to be could recognize the toniest address in Boston.
“We moved here when I became pregnant. We always intended to live here, but the prospect of a child hastened our exit from the city. We wanted this community, these values. It’s a wonderful place. Everyone knows everybody. Jim and I could be confident that Jack’s peers were… like us. Maybe that sounds insensitive, but doesn’t every mother want to protect her child? All the school shootings and drugs you hear about nowadays. I can hardly bear to read the paper.” She sipped again. “But I suppose we’ve taken the blessings of our life for granted.”
“Yes.”
“I’m very concerned for Adelaide. She’s a lovely woman. But I think she and Bill made a huge mistake letting the police proceed with that autopsy. Something like this is best laid to rest quickly. Otherwise people jump to horrible conclusions. Between you and me, there’s already talk. Wondering why. When I ran into Lily Bowler yesterday at the club, she asked me if there had been abuse. Sexual abuse,” she added, whispering the words.
“Why would someone have thought such a thing?”
“People speculate, and it can be quite unkind. Of course I told Lily there wasn’t, or at least none of which I was aware.” She looked at Frances, seemingly to invite concurrence. “But something odd happened to that girl. And my guess is it happened a long time ago.”
Hope had been murdered. What was she talking about? “What do you mean?”
Fiona leaned forward. “Can I be blunt?”
“Please.” Frances nodded.
“Hope had a very serious eating disorder. You must have known that. Anyone could tell by looking at her. And she had other problems, depression and the like. Sadly, she was seriously unbalanced. She wouldn’t have made anyone a good wife, Jack especially.”
“But he loved her.”
“Love is blind. And make no mistake that Hope kept her secrets well hidden. But I can assure you that Jack would never have gotten involved with her if he’d known the truth.”
“Secrets?”
“Hope couldn’t have children. But she never told Jack that. She misled him, I assume because he wants children and should have them.”
“How do you know?”
Fiona’s face went blank. She paused for a moment and swirled her tea with a small spoon. It appeared that she planned to ignore the question. When she finally spoke, her words came slowly, carefully chosen. “Our family has a history of accomplishment and respect. Our Jack is part of that success. And he needs a wife who won’t be a drain, a woman who is capable of supporting him and their home so that he can excel. He deserves no less.”
Her matter-of-fact delivery sent a chill down Frances’s spine. She’d never known someone to be so cold. She had assumed that both families had blessed this union, but for the second time in as many days, she chastised herself for making assumptions that colored her evaluation of the people with whom she was dealing and their possible motivations.
“Jack will be a wonderful father someday, just like his father. And Jim wants grandchildren. This family’s lineage should be continued. But he wasn’t about to listen to reason.” She picked up the bell again and rang it. Apparently Frances was being dismissed. Within moments, the door opened and the housekeeper reappeared. “You’d best be going now.”
Frances stood up, wondering why the conversation had halted so abruptly. “Please ask Jack to give me a call when he has a chance,” she said.
“And why is that?”
Frances needed to talk to him about the prenuptial, his parents, and his relationship with Hope, but she didn’t want to spell out any of that to Fiona now. “Just a couple of questions. No big deal,” she said dismissively. “Thank you for your time.”
Outside, her breathing came fast and she held on to the door of her car for support. Although she felt somewhat soothed by the sound of water percolating from a marble fountain in the middle of the circular drive and the vibrant colors of the hibiscus, lavender, lilies, and assorted dahlias that filled the well-established perennial bed, her conversation with Fiona had been disturbing. She reached in her pocket for her car keys and, instead, felt the letter she had hastily stuffed inside. She removed it and stared again at the letterhead, the dates of consultation, and the exorbitant fee. Who was Dr. Frank? What had he done to earn $1,250 a session? And why was there any reason to think this psychiatrist was connected to Hope’s death? Her mind was playing tricks on her.
Frances settled into the driver’s seat, stretched
her arms above her head, and then circled her head on her neck. As she turned the key in the ignition, she reached for her cell phone, but the message signal was already on. Three unanswered calls, all from Elvis. “I’ll meet you at the ME’s office. Maggie’s got her report.”
20
Frances’s mind raced as she drove. She turned on the radio and searched for a country station, a familiar Lyle Lovett song, something to calm her down, but the noise blaring through the airwaves only exacerbated her anxiety. She wanted to feel strong, in control, but for reasons she couldn’t articulate, her emotions seemed to be getting the best of her. Hope’s death had triggered reactions she’d never expected to have, ones centered on the shattered image of her aunt’s perfect family, and she held on to the steering wheel with both hands to keep them from trembling.
She saw the sign for Storrow Drive up ahead and turned on her blinker. “Frances Taylor Pratt, pull yourself together.” But despite her forceful tone of voice as she admonished herself aloud, she wasn’t the least bit confident in her ability to listen.
Dr. Mallory sat cross-legged on top of her desk, wearing shiny leather pants and a black mohair sweater that stretched tight across her chest. She’d curled her hair with rollers so that her face was encircled in blond ringlets, and her half-glasses balanced on the end of her nose. As Frances entered the room, she looked up from the pages she’d been reading. Elvis came toward her, dismissing with a nod the policeman who had escorted her from the information desk. “Have a seat.”
She’d barely sat down when Maggie began to speak. “Here’s the deal. I’ll be blunt, as I said I would. There aren’t many ways to candy-coat an autopsy.”
Frances nodded. She wanted the straight story, although she could feel her stomach knot in anticipation.
“External examination revealed the following: significant evidence of fingertip bruises around the neck. Although there were ligature marks as well from the rope, the larynx and hyoid bone were fractured.” Maggie looked up, as if to gauge Frances’s reaction.
“All that means is that there’s evidence of manual strangulation,” Elvis clarified. “Fingertip bruises are small but deep in the tissue and intense in color from the pressure. Plus you don’t see those kinds of fractures in a death by hanging.”
“Are you doing this or am I?” Maggie asked.
“Sorry,” he said, faking a look of humility.
“Cause of death was strangulation. Whoever killed her, hung her afterward, presumably to make it look like suicide. Someone who obviously wasn’t expecting an autopsy. There’s no other external bruising, and tissue samples from under her nails revealed nothing.”
Frances actually felt relief as Maggie uttered those words. No signs of a struggle. That Hope hadn’t fought off her aggressor meant she hadn’t known her death was coming. And that would be easier for everyone, especially Adelaide. But it also pointed to the overwhelming likelihood that she had known her killer.
“Can you tell us anything else about the condition of her body?” she asked.
“Yes. First off, internal examination revealed several tears in the esophagus, as well as a fair amount of inflammation in the esophageal wall.”
“What does that mean?”
“She had an eating disorder. That was obvious from the very low body-fat ratio and a weight almost twenty-five percent below normal for her height. Based on the condition of her esophagus, as well as evidence of a significant amount of decay in the tooth enamel, I’d say she was bulimic. Probably an electrolyte imbalance if we tested for it.”
Frances sighed. Having seen Hope’s near skeletal body and heard of her eating disorders from both Penelope and Fiona, she wasn’t surprised by Maggie’s findings. The diary entries, the condition of her body, all evidenced myriad demons that hadn’t been exorcised. Now it was too late.
“Toxicology tests were run. A phosphatase color test was positive for the presence of semen in her stomach. A male with blood type O negative.”
She glanced at Elvis.
“Jack’s type is AB.” He shrugged.
“How’d you find that out?”
“His polo team’s got its own medical supervisor. He keeps pretty extensive records on the physical condition of the players. And let’s just say that guy is a friend of a friend.” Elvis didn’t need to add that the supervisor apparently was friendly enough to disclose confidential information without Jack’s consent.
“How long had the semen been in her stomach?”
“Sperm don’t survive long. The sample was sufficiently brittle. But I’d estimate within twenty-four hours of death.” Maggie consulted the sheet in front of her. “She also had approximately two thousand milligrams of something called meprobamate in her blood. That’s the generic word for the drug—an antianxiety med—but it’s marketed under the name Equanil. It’s prescribed short-term, usually no more than four months at a time, because longer use results in severe dependence. The normal adult dose is twelve hundred to sixteen hundred milligrams a day, so the amount she took is high, but not what I’d consider overdose level even with her low body weight.”
“Is this the same drug the police found in her bedroom?” Frances asked, remembering the pills from the inventory list.
“I’ll have to check,” Elvis replied.
“Presumably you know that Hope had had a hysterectomy,” Maggie continued.
Frances was shocked. She’d had no idea. Wouldn’t she have heard about such serious surgery? It didn’t make sense. “Why?”
“I can’t tell you that. Judging from the condition of the scar tissue, it was a while ago. There were also several small scars on her vaginal wall, but they may have been from the surgery. It’s hard to say. It’s not relevant to a medical determination of the cause of death, but I thought you should know.”
“Not or probably not?” Elvis asked.
“You’re the investigator. I’m just giving you the medical facts that I see.”
The word resonated in Frances’s ears. Her thoughts instantly returned to Fiona, who had known of Hope’s infertility and who had also objected to the autopsy. Did she know too of Hope’s other lover? If she hadn’t wanted her son to marry, would she have taken any steps to prevent it? Frances wondered whether her suspicions arose from her intense dislike for the woman or from inculpating facts.
Silence fell as they all contemplated the import of the report.
“What can you establish about the order of events leading up to her death?” Elvis asked.
Maggie looked up and removed her glasses. She chewed on one arm of the frame. “Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. She performed fellatio on someone other than her fiancé, took a hefty dose of pills to calm herself down, and, moments before she was scheduled to be married, was murdered by someone wanting to make her death look self-inflicted.”
“Is it possible that the killer drugged her first?”
“I doubt it. I couldn’t find one thing to suggest the pills were forced down her throat.”
“And the esophageal tears couldn’t be consistent with that?”
Maggie paused for a moment, considering the scenario Frances had presented. “It’s a very remote possibility. So remote I’d say no. But it certainly made it easier for the killer.”
“We’ve gotten some information back from the crime lab,” Elvis said. “There’s a good fingerprint from the closet doorknob that we’re running now to see if we can find a match, and a partial print on the top of a medicine bottle that doesn’t match the victim’s. A soiled Kleenex has come back positive for traces of meprobamate, as well as for the victim’s saliva. It may be that she almost took the pills, changed her mind, but then later did swallow them. Odd. As if she’d been interrupted.” He paused, appearing to reflect on his own words. “There are also a couple of white silk fibers from the carpet near the dressing table, which we’re checking against Hope’s wedding gown. If it’s a match, they may be from her having been dragged to the closet.”
“Do yo
u know about a key that was seized?” Frances asked, remembering the inventory list.
“A key? No.”
Maggie shot them a stern glance. Clearly she was impatient and wanted the rest of their discussion to happen outside her office. Her job was done, and the next cadaver was undoubtedly waiting in line.
“See you tonight,” Elvis said, kissing her good-bye.
“Good luck,” she said to Frances. “I’m sure this is hard.”
As they were walking out, Elvis reached for his pager, which apparently had been set to vibrate. He checked the text file. “Well, I stand corrected!” he exclaimed.
“What is it?” Frances asked.
“Our brothers in blue picked up Michael Davis, the fleeing caterer. He’s over at the Charles Street precinct.” He flipped open his cell phone, dialed a number, and pushed buttons through a series of prompts. Finally someone on the other end picked up. “It’s Elvis. We’re on our way.”
“Who’s handling this for the DA’s office?” Frances asked a few minutes later. Elvis was speeding, and she wondered how much longer his Cadillac could survive. She saw the Public Garden on her left as they raced down Charles Street South. Scores of tourists waited on line to be paddled around the pond in swan-shaped boats. It was a Boston tradition, and Frances had enjoyed a similar ride with her father and sister on a trip years before.
“Mark O’Connor. He’s a good guy, very experienced. I know he’s got his application in to the judicial nominating committee, but so far nothing’s happened. No one wants a Caucasian male on the bench anymore.”
Alone in a windowless room with a linoleum floor, Michael Davis sat bent over a Formica table. Through the thin fabric of his worn T-shirt, Frances could see his ribs. Long brown hair covered his face, and his elbows rested on the tabletop. His feet were bare. Watching from outside the soundproof glass stood a broad-shouldered redhead. His striped shirtsleeves were rolled, and his suspenders had the seal of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts running up and down them. Elvis introduced Frances to Mark O’Connor, chief of violent crimes, who had held that position through two different administrations. “He managed to survive not only a change in district attorney, but a change in party affiliation as well. Now that’s talent,” Elvis said in a stage whisper. Mark blushed.
