Bad Blood (Maggie Ryan Book 8)

by P. M. Carlson

  At six, Will’s whine awakened her again.

  Tuesday

  September 18, 1979

  XVII

  “I’d like to see Dr. Landon’s office. This is the place, right?” Rina nodded, and Aggie turned the Camaro into the parking lot of an office complex, landscaped with fruit trees and dark-leaved azalea bushes, glossy in the morning sun.

  “Are you sure I won’t be in your way?” Rina asked as they got out.

  “You know more about this area. You may make a connection I can’t.” Aggie led the way to the entry, and the dark glasses turned toward the directory. “Here it is, second door.”

  Dr. Landon’s waiting room was done in Early American, beige, blue, and cream. Rina’s eyes were drawn immediately to an authentic crib quilt hanging on the wall, its faded calicos and tiny hand-stitched squares tugging at her heart. She looked away to find Aggie smiling at her. “The furniture’s real too,” she murmured.

  “Their own furniture is very modern,” Rina remembered. “But expensive too.”

  “Different decorators. Do you recognize the receptionist?”

  “No.”

  A couple of people were seated on the padded deacon’s bench, reading magazines. Aggie went past them to the receptionist, a brunette in her twenties who looked like a cosmetic ad. She looked Aggie over carefully, as though price-tagging each garment, and said coolly, “May I help you?”

  “I’m Aggie Lyons.New York Week,” said Aggie. “I’m doing a story on the murder of John Spencer.”

  The people in the waiting room had looked up from their magazines with interest. The receptionist said, “That has nothing to do with this office.”

  “Yes, but you see—oh.” Aggie intercepted the nervous glance toward the waiting patients and leaned forward, her voice too low for even Rina to hear.

  The receptionist stood up quickly. “Follow me.”

  “Come on, Rina!” said Aggie breezily, explaining to the receptionist, “She’s our capital-area stringer.”

  They went through a door into a short hall. The receptionist led the way into an office on the right and murmured something to the young woman seated behind the desk. Angela Warner, said her nameplate. Even in businesslike nurse’s whites, Angela Warner was stunning. Translucent skin, dimples, a halo of strawberry-blond hair. Aggie whispered “Bingo” to Rina. Rina felt a jolt of sympathy for Rosamond Landon. Playmate of the Month, she’d said. Clint, like most men, met plenty of attractive women in his job, and Rina trusted him as she supposed most wives trusted their husbands. But if Clint had actually gone out of his way to hire someone who looked like this, if he’d chosen to work alongside her for hours every day—

  “Ms. Warner will help you,” the receptionist said briefly, and scurried back to her post.

  “Ms. Warner, I’m Aggie Lyons,New York Week. Rina Marshall, my area specialist.”

  “Yes?” Ms. Warner had warm brown eyes, cautious and intelligent. She stood up to close the door to the hall.

  “I understand that Dr. Landon’s son is being questioned about the death of John Spencer. The boy quarreled with Mr. Spencer the day he was killed. I wanted to get the doctor’s reactions to this situation.”

  Ms. Warner was already shaking her head. “Dr. Landon has cooperated fully with the police. They can tell you whatever is necessary.”

  “Okay,” said Aggie cheerfully, flopping down into the only other chair in the office. “I know he’s a busy man. I can wait.”

  “No, the doctor can’t see you. I mean it.” Ms. Warner was firm.

  “I mean it too. Unless—well, maybe you could answer a couple of questions. Is Dr. Landon close to his son?”

  “He’s a good father, if that’s what you mean, but—”

  “You have a chance to observe them together, Ms. Warner?”

  “Not often.” Ms. Warner seemed a little off balance. She arranged herself behind the desk again before continuing. “This is a busy office, of course. But Dr. Landon talks about the boy from time to time.”

  “Here at the office?”

  “Of course!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Ms. Warner,” Aggie gushed. “You see, Mrs. Landon said you were on extremely close terms with Dr. Landon, so I just assumed—”

  There was a flash of anger in the beautiful eyes. “Oh, you assumed, did you? Well, you’d better stop assuming! Mrs. Landon has a vivid imagination. Lurking around—”

  “Well, sometimes women worry as they get older,” Aggie said soothingly. “Even if there’s nothing happening.”

  “Of course there isn’t!”

  Aggie pulled out her notebook. “So I can say, ‘Dr. Landon’s assistant denies accusations that she and the doctor are having an affair?’”

  “Hey, wait, that’s not fair! You shouldn’t mention it at all! Look—Dr. Landon is a good doctor, okay? I like working in this office. But romance—no way! He’s fifty, for God’s sake! My boyfriend is a surgeon, and he’ll be making twice as much as Landon in a few years. Plus he’s twice as cute!”

  Aggie looked puzzled. “Well, then, I don’t understand about Mrs. Landon. She knows you’ve got another boyfriend, and she still lurks? You said lurk?”

  “I see her, almost every week! Dr. Landon generally leaves for hospital rounds about four-thirty, and Debbie and I straighten up and leave a little later. Mrs. Landon is parked under those crabapple trees in the west corner of the lot. And I think a couple of times she’s followed me. I keep seeing a beige car back in the traffic.”

  “You’re sure it’s her?”

  “She’s parked in the shade, but there’s no missing her hairdo.”

  “Does she ever come into the office?”

  “She makes excuses sometimes and drops in. Dr. Landon does try to discourage it. Debbie thinks she wants my job.”

  “She used to work for him, didn’t she?” Rina said.

  “That’s right, that’s how they met. She had my job. Quit when the kids arrived. And of course she’s ages out of date by now. In medicine, you can’t just pick up twenty years later, you really need to go back to school. But she—anyway, Debbie and I think she’s jealous on a lot of fronts.”

  Aggie nodded. “Yes. It must be annoying. Still, you have to be kind. Well, obviously you’re right, I’d better not mention any of this in the story, if it’s just Mrs. Landon’s imagination. I will have to check it, of course.”

  “Go ahead.” Ms. Warner didn’t seem worried. “You won’t find anyone saying that except her.”

  “Can you tell me what you do here?”

  “Medical assistant and chief bottle washer.” Ms. Warner smiled, the dimples lighting her face. “Debbie keeps track of the people, I keep track of supplies. And I give standard immunizations, explain treatments, assist while Dr. Landon examines female patients. The usual.”

  “Okay. Now, does Dr. Landon’s son ever come by?”

  There was a brief hesitation before Ms. Warner said, “Not really.”

  Aggie cocked her head. “Never?”

  “Well, just to say hi to his dad, maybe. Look, I’ve got nothing against Landon’s family, unless they’re making some kind of accusation against me.”

  Aggie said, “Buck Landon is a heavy drug user, Ms. Warner.”

  “Buck is? The football kid? Well, I know that’s no guarantee these days.” Ms. Warner frowned.

  “Could he get it from his father’s supplies?”

  “No. Impossible. I keep the records, I know.” She gestured at the file cabinets behind her.

  “There’s really no way?”

  “Dr. Landon has a special code. I sign for all the deliveries, double-check everything. I know how important it is.”

  Aggie glanced at the small window. “Has anyone ever broken in here?”

  “Never. In fact, there have been a couple of attempts. But one reason we’re in this building is the top security. All the doctors are aware of possible problems. Wherever the kid’s getting it, it’s not here.”

  Aggie s
hrugged. “Well, fine, Ms. Warner. Now, Mr. Spencer.”

  “Who?”

  “John Spencer. The old man who was killed. Was he a patient of Dr. Landon’s?”

  She hesitated. “You should really talk to the police. They’ve been over all this.”

  “Okay. But you could give a yes or no, surely.”

  “No, he was not a patient.”

  “Not a patient. But he did contact you. Recently?”

  “I can’t say any more.”

  “Is Dr. Landon free now?”

  “No. And he won’t be.” The firmness was back in her voice.

  Aggie shrugged and closed her notebook. “Okay. Thanks, Ms. Warner.”

  Back in the car, Rina said glumly, “That didn’t help much, did it? Every question we ask seems a dead end. Or makes it even worse for Ginny.”

  “Do you think Ginny was involved?” Aggie turned the ignition.

  “No!”

  “Then the truth can’t hurt her.”

  “But maybe parts of it can! It frightens me, Aggie.”

  “Yes.” But after a moment Aggie added gently, “Still, we have to have faith that knowing is better than not knowing. So let’s keep digging.”

  “Did John Spencer know that Ginny is adopted?” Aggie asked them that night.

  Clint shrugged and looked at the others—Mamma erect in her rocking chair, Rina next to him on the sofa, Aggie on the rug in front of the waning fire.

  “I don’t think so,” Mamma said. “He didn’t mention it, and I didn’t tell him.”

  Rina, on the verge of answering, hesitated and said instead, “Why do you ask?”

  “Well,” said Aggie, and Rina had the impression that she too was holding back, “the people I spoke to this afternoon all commented on his curiosity. His landlords, Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, said they were very fond of him, but they had to admit that sometimes he was a little too helpful. He would bring in their mail for them, for example, and they’d seen him inspect the envelopes. A friendly gesture, maybe, but a little more personal than they’d expect. And he was always asking questions.”

  “Well, that’s natural, in a friendly person,” said Mamma.

  “Of course it is. God, that’s how I got into this journalism business, loving to ask questions! But you see, the point is, Ginny wants you to keep the adoption secret, and so you’ve told very few people here. And it just seemed to me that a person like Mr. Spencer might be interested in such a secret. Like me. Naturally nosy.”

  Again Rina hesitated. It was getting late. Aggie had given them a leisurely description of Mr. Spencer’s rented room—the neatly made studio bed, the table with a few books, the easy chair before the color television, the photo album with pictures of his wife and his sailboat, the cans of beef stew and soup, tired fruit and vegetables, a souring half-gallon of milk. “Mrs. Jenkins was very apologetic. She said the police had sealed the room, and she hadn’t had time to clean it up. It was really very good of her to let me in.”

  “You can be quite persuasive,” observed Clint. “Tell me, did the Jenkinses have any idea where he was going Thursday?”

  “They said they didn’t. Mrs. Jenkins heard him come in about five-twenty. That’s about right, according to Mrs. Gallagher. Mrs. Jenkins thought she heard him leave again about thirty minutes later, but she wasn’t sure because she was very busy fixing dinner. They were expecting friends.”

  “Was he alone when he left?” asked Clint.

  “She didn’t hear any voices. But of course that doesn’t rule it out, especially since she was busy. She said he might have been catching the bus to the mall. He often went there. And the bus driver said—”

  “You talked to the bus driver?” asked Clint unbelievingly.

  She grinned up at him, the dying firelight glowing on her cheek. “Oh, I’m thorough,” she said. “Woodward and Bernstein and Barbara Walters all rolled into one, that’s me. No stone unturned. Unfortunately, what the bus driver said didn’t help. It was a busy evening and he couldn’t remember. I showed him Spencer’s picture, and he said the man was a frequent rider but he didn’t know about that particular night. Said he told the cops the same thing.”

  “No help then.” Clint, dissatisfied, leaned back in the sofa, looking at her appraisingly. He still did not share Rina’s trust in the reporter, but he was coming to believe in the sincerity of Aggie’s claim to want to know the truth about the murder. He continued, “You’re working on the theory that all his curiosity might have turned up a guilty secret. Something that somebody didn’t want spread around. Hence the murder.”

  That was why she shouldn’t tell about the call, Rina realized. Then she saw that Aggie was studying her, and she struggled to compose herself. After a second Aggie answered Clint.

  “That’s right. I’m a nosy type too, and I’ve been threatened by people when I’ve learned something they didn’t want known. John Spencer might have run into the same kind of trouble.”

  “Do you like that sort of life?” blurted Rina. She desperately wanted to shift the direction of the conversation.

  “Yes,” said Aggie. The reflective lenses turned to her gravely, and somehow Aggie spoke directly to Rina’s conflict. “The truth is worth some risks. Physical risks, or emotional risks.”

  “But safety is important too. What about your children?”

  “Of course I want them to be safe. But I also want them to value truth. And a lot of other corny things—justice, love, mercy. I have to set an example. It’s part of the obligation we take on as parents.”

  “You said love. Keeping your family safe is part of the obligation too. Part of love.”

  “Yes. Of course you’re right. But sometimes love demands very painful and risky things too.”

  But did it ask you to accuse your daughter of having a motive for murder, when you knew she didn’t do it? Rina said evasively, “Well, maybe you’re right.”

  Aggie headed off her escape. “For example, when you adopted Ginny you took a risk, didn’t you? Don’t they keep the child’s background secret? That must have taken courage.”

  “They told us some things,” Rina assured her. “Her first mother was just a girl. Middle teens, they said. But it’s true, I’ve always wondered what her situation was. I wanted a child so desperately for so long, and I just can’t imagine giving one up. But of course if it was best for the baby, if I couldn’t—I don’t know. It’s so hard for me to imagine. I think that young mother must have loved her. But she did sign the papers right in the hospital. So I don’t know.”

  The lenses turned toward Clint. “Clint, what do you think?”

  “I’m bewildered too. Grateful to her, because she gave birth to Ginny and let us have her. Bewildered because I don’t know the circumstances. And the other father, I wonder about him sometimes. How he felt.”

  “Yes, I wonder too,” said Aggie.

  “I mean, it’s easy to forgive a young unmarried girl, who just wasn’t able to take on that responsibility. In the early sixties she would have been thrown out of school, ostracized. She couldn’t have made any kind of life for herself or for the baby. So I feel angry at the man who put her in that situation. You think of rape, of funny uncles—you know. But then I think, maybe he was young too, just as helpless as the girl. Maybe he would have married her if they’d let him.”

  “There’s just no way to know,” said Rina. “But I feel very protective toward that girl. I hope she’s doing well.”

  “Do you think Ginny would be interested in meeting her?”

  “Oh, she wouldn’t want to see Ginny! It would remind her of a very sad time in her life. She’s put it all behind her, I hope. Gone on.”

  Clint said, “But Aggie was asking about Ginny’s feelings. Not the mother’s. Yes, I think Ginny would like to meet her.”

  It was a blow to her heart. Rina shook her head wordlessly, and Mamma said sharply, “Rina’s been the best possible mother to Ginny!”

  “Of course she has,” Clint said. “But I
think Ginny would like to know more.”

  Rina appealed to Clint. “I keep hoping she’ll stop worrying about it.”

  “Maybe, honey. But if we wonder, she must wonder too. Anyway, it doesn’t really make any difference what she wants. The records are sealed.” He patted her arm. “And the important thing is that you’ll always be her mother, and I’ll be her dad.”

  “Yes, but …” Rina’s hands twisted together. “It’s just frightening to think about.”

  “Why frightening?” asked Aggie.

  “She doesn’t need another mother,” said Mamma firmly. “And certainly not that one.”

  Rina said, “That’s right, Aggie. If she looked for that girl, who knows what she might find? The circumstances might be horrible.”

  Aggie said, “Yes. Butthese circumstances are great. With this good family to fall back on, don’t you think she’d be strong enough to cope?”

  “Yes, but—but wouldn’t it mean she didn’t need us anymore?”

  Aggie pushed her fingers through her curls. “Maybe it would just mean she wanted to know.”

  “I don’t know. It just frightens me.” The tears in her eyes turned the embers into smears of light. “I couldn’t bear to lose her. I just couldn’t.”

  Clint scowled at Aggie. “Why are you so interested in this question?”

  Aggie leaned back on straight arms, pointing her toes at the fire. “It’s just that there are so many emotions connected with this case,” she said in a dissatisfied tone. “Some connected with the murder. Some connected with kids on drugs. Some with growing old and poor. Some with this adopted girl who’s run away. It’s a tangle of nice people with strong feelings.”

  “People do have strong feelings,” said Rina.

  “Of course. But—well, take this adoption, for instance. You have a very nice normal family that everyone approves of. Even the agency. You have normal problems too, of course—adolescence, different generations trying to live together. Tough problems, but normal ones. Yet lurking behind this nice normal family, there are ghosts. The pretty picture is full of society’s favorite villains, people nobody approves of. A bastard. A slut who abandons her child. A wicked stepmother.”