The noonday sun was bright, and Mountain Village was crowded. Sadie looked around at the hotels and condos that ringed the stone plaza. “I love this place. Wish I could afford to stay up here.”
I gave her a sideways glance. “These are pretty pricey. Digs at the Center not good enough for you?”
She flushed. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just that I’ve never lived in a really nice place...” Her voice tapered off, and the flush deepened. I chuckled. Whatever else, Sadie had the grace to be embarrassed at the implication that the apartments I provided as a perk of working for me were substandard. I let her off the hook.
“Those were meant to be utilitarian, not elegant. I know what you mean. There are some pretty snazzy condos up here. But I must say, I would be a little apprehensive. It’s been a long time since I lived so close to other people. I prefer my solitude.”
“Not me. A white noise machine and I’m fine. I love being in the thick of things.” She paused a moment, glancing at a balcony overhead before continuing. “I bet with what those places cost, they’re pretty soundproof. I might not need the noise machine.”
“I would hope so.” Grateful for a neutral topic that engaged Sadie, I waxed on about cliff dwelling, John’s term for apartment or condos. “I can imagine how awful it would be to live next to someone who had one of those heavy bass stereos. You know, the kind that they have in cars. You can feel them before they pull up.”
Sadie laughed. “Whumpata, whumpata. Yes, I know what you mean. Maybe I should have gone into E.N.T. work. I could make a fortune on hearing assessments and hearing aids for people who have made themselves deaf with their music. Course, I’d have to wait a while, till those folks hit their fifties.”
“Not a bad thought. Did you know one of the local ranchers got so annoyed at a man who was following him, playing music like that, that he shot the stereo out of the car?”
“You’re kidding!”
I grinned remembering it. “Front page news the next day. There was road construction going on. Part of the road was blocked, and the rancher was first in line for when the lane opened up again. This guy pulled up behind the rancher with the music blaring so loudly you could hear it four cars away. The rancher asked him to turn it down, and when he didn’t, the rancher went back to his truck, pulled out his rifle, and shot the stereo.”
“Oh, man!” Sadie was laughing now. “I’ve wanted to do that myself. The noise actually makes me agitated. How funny! Did they arrest him?”
“It seems that everyone hated that music. The guy reported it to the police, but he didn’t have a license number — imagine that! The road crew swore they didn’t see a thing, and no one came forward when the sheriff put out the call.”
“Frontier justice.”
“It has its uses.” We had reached Amanda’s; the lines weren’t too long. The menu was more for snow bunnies than serious skiers, so the lunch rush didn’t affect them too much. I held the door for Sadie to enter. As I turned to go in myself, a familiar figure caught my eye: Fiona, in the company of a distinguished man, not her husband — not Eoin. They were walking slowly, heads bent, deep in conversation but stopped in the center of the plaza. They embraced briefly, the hug of friends parting ways. Even accounting for Fiona’s dramatic streak, it was clear from her body language that she knew this man very well.
I let the door close behind me and followed the hostess as she seated us, trying to catch the thread of Sadie’s chat as I did.
***
Eoin Connor fidgeted in his overstuffed chair in the lobby of the Peaks. Fiona was supposed to meet him at four on the dot, but Fiona was always, always late. He tried to take his mind off his rising temper by looking out the big plate-glass windows, onto the snow-covered golf course and the mountains beyond. He was about to get up to pour himself a cup of cocoa from the big brass urn on the side table when Fiona walked up.
He rose, and she gave him the briefest kiss on his cheek. “Sorry, my darling. My hairdresser took longer than I thought. Of course, I wouldn’t have been there today if she’d done her job properly in the first place. I do so miss good salons.” She turned from him to sit down but not before inspecting the nails on her left hand.
Eoin wasted no time. “What do you want, Fiona? Why are you here?”
Fiona pouted. Her eyes were downcast but conniving, as they looked up from beneath her lashes. “I want to make amends, Eoin. I want us to be together again. I’ve treated you badly. I want to make up for it.”
Eoin considered a moment before answering. He remembered that look, that manipulative way of hers. It worked, many years ago. Not now, and especially not after direct, unvarnished Jane Wallace came into his life. “Pack it up, Fiona. I’ve no interest in taking up with you again. You aren’t my wife, and you never were. We both know that.”
“The Church says I am, Eoin. And you know that I am. I’m willing to try again, really I am. I want to make it all up to you. I want to be with you. With all my heart. I am sorry for all the years I wasted — all my fault. I know that.”
So she did know, Eoin thought. “No,” was all that he said, his voice carrying a finality that could not be missed.
He was unprepared for what followed. In the past, Fiona would attack or muster up tears. Now, she sat in silence for a moment, her eyes closed as though against a sight she could not bear, every muscle rigid. When opened again, it was as though she had endured some horrible but passing pain; her left hand shook in her lap. Her blue eyes seemed out of focus, and it was a long minute before she spoke. “I’m sorry, Eoin dear, what were you saying?”
He started to give a sharp answer, but something about her bearing made him stop. Something was wrong, and he said so.
“Nonsense.” Fiona looked down at her nails again, as though to dismiss him. “I am quite well, just a bit distracted.” Was it his imagination or did she slur the “s” in ‘distracted’ ever so slightly? Had she been drinking? “Please forgive me. What were you saying?”
Eoin Connor took her hands in his. “Fiona, don’t lie. Not now. If you need something, just ask. I’m not coming back to you, but I won’t abandon you, either, if you need me. We have too much between us for me to do that. Just tell me, straight out. What do you want?”
The change in her demeanor was startling, even though Eoin was used to her mercurial nature. Fiona jerked her hands away, raking his palm with the bright acrylic nails. He wasn’t sure it was entirely by accident. Her voice was harsh.
“You will come back to me, Eoin Connor. I’m your wife, and you’ll come back to me.”
“Perhaps once I might have done that, Fiona,” he replied, as quietly as he could and still be heard, conscious now that eyes were on them because of the strident tone of her voice. Fiona always slipped back into the sounds of Falls Road when she was angry and always would. Being refused apparently still made her angry. He wondered how her cultured husbands had felt about that. Perhaps she was better at controlling her temper and her accent in Italian and German. Perhaps they hadn’t cared.
“You will. You can’t have that dreadful woman, that…that…” She grew exasperated and seemed to struggle for words. “That Joan Wall…ace of yours. And she can’t have you. You belong to me.”
“Fiona, listen. I’m not yours. I never was, you saw to that. But if you need me, I’m here. Just not as your husband. Not now.” Silently he added to himself, Not ever. He stood to leave. Looking down at her, he added, “I’m going home, Fiona, to sort this all out once and for all. And I will marry Jane. This time your lies can’t stop me.”
He was halfway across the lobby when he heard the screech behind him. “You will never have her, Eoin Connor. I’ll see to that.”
He turned to look back at her. She stood by her chair, gripping it tightly. This time he was sure she had slurred her words. “Call me when you sober up, Fiona. But ring me in Ireland. I’m leaving as soon as I can get myself packed.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I needed a good retrea
t; neither the house nor the office suited my mood. Lunch with Sadie was pleasant enough, but seeing Fiona soured my mood. A hot cup at the Steaming Bean, and I decided I was sufficiently civil to take my place outside on the bench with the large black W painted on the back and watch town go by as I ruminated. My mother would have said I was restless as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I preferred to think of it as a frustrated physical need to focus on the various crises that were afflicting me: the fact that Eoin was married and not married at the same time, the poisonings I couldn’t resolve, and my general restlessness. When the kids were little, I could always predict their growth spurts by the change in their sleeping patterns; they became restless and irritable. Presumably, I had a big growth spurt coming.
I was on my second cup when Father Matt plopped down beside me. Both of us on the Group W bench, resting place for misfits. It seemed appropriate. He handed me a paper bag.
“Got something for you.”
I peeked in the bag. “This is Josie’s, isn’t it? Where did you get it?”
Father Matt took a gulp of his own coffee before he answered. “I went back to the clinic that same day. I meant to tell you about it, but…uh…things got in the way. I thought maybe you could test it, maybe we could find out the truth.” He looked deep into the coffee cup. “She was murdered, Jane, I know it.”
I sighed. “Confession time, Father. I meant to call and get this myself. I forgot. I am sorry.” That was happening too often these days, and it was not like me at all. Or at least not like what I imagined myself to be. “But this will never prove it.”
“I thought you could test it.”
I stared up at the clear blue sky for a moment before I replied. I extracted the IV bag. Sure enough, it was Josie’s. Some fluid remained in the bag, and the butterfly needle was still attached. “There’s no chain of custody. Even if we found something, it wouldn’t be admissible. And it’s not likely we’d find anything.”
Father Matt collapsed against the back of the bench himself. “I didn’t think of that. I was just so mad. So mad.”
I sat back myself, leaned my head against the wood, and looked up at the sky again for a long minute before I answered. “I get it. I’m mad, too. Few things — at least in my line of work — are worse than knowing…” I paused a moment for the right words before repeating myself. “…knowing who committed a murder and not being able to prove it.” I turned to face him and gave him a wry look. “And in this case, much as it’s a worrisome set of events, we’re not even sure there was a murder.”
Father Matt kept his gaze fixed upward. “It was, Jane. I just know it.” He stood up abruptly, looming over me. I stayed where I was. He was silent a minute or two, then continued. “It’s not just Josie that worries me, Jane. It’s Proserpine. It’s just Proserpine,” he repeated.
I shrugged. “I get it. Let me see what I can do.” I stood up myself. “I understand — at least a little — where they are coming from. It’s hard to watch someone suffer.” At least I had been spared that with John’s death. Then again, I had also been spared the chance to say goodbye. “It’s human nature to try to avoid those things that hurt. We all do it.”
Father Matt looked at me, clearly unhappy with my reply. Then his face cleared. He seemed to have resolved something in his mind. “Good!” I could almost feel Father Matt relax; he had my answer, and we had a plan. Together we watched passersby for a few minutes, companionable in our silence.
Father Matt was the one to break it. “It isn’t that I don’t understand, Jane. I do. I understand what it’s like to want to end suffering. I watched my kid brother die by inches with leukemia and my parents’ marriage along with him. It was awful. I wanted it to end. It took so long.”
“So what’s your beef, then? Josie was terribly sick. Dying by inches. Half-inches. Millimeters, even.” Four years is a long time to be terminal, and that’s just about how long Josie had lived after her diagnosis.
Father Matt leaned forward, forearms on his legs. He cocked his head in a gesture of dismissal. “Most people would say because mercy killing ignores the dignity of the one we kill. I suppose it does, but only in our eyes. Human dignity is a precious thing, and the way we preserve it in ourselves is to see it and preserve it in others. Whoever killed that little girl killed something in himself — or herself — too.” He turned again to look at me. “Jane, I don’t know. Part of me knows the relief that death brought those parents. But a bigger part of me…I just have to know, and if I can, make it right.” I recognized the conflict in his face. Head and heart opposed to each other. Heart wins every time. His heart told him to joust at windmills for Josie. Just like mine told me to joust at windmills for Eoin. Probably to the same effect. The difference was, of course, that Father Matt was actually jousting. I was sitting this one out.
The medical examiner’s credo, I thought to myself. Must know, must follow the facts wherever they go. Except, of course, no matter how many facts we have, we never know it all, never know enough, never really know much of anything apart from a few hard facts. We just make things fit some pattern in our own minds and make the best of it. The last few weeks had proved to me that life — mine, anyway — was a journey in the dark. At least I was growing accustomed to it. I knew from experience that Father Matt’s journey would end where all of mine had, the place where it was just beginning, on a bench, watching the world go by and wondering how to make sense of things that made no sense.
I wanted to tell him to give it up for a bad business. Instead, I gave him Lucy’s direct line. “Tell her I told you to drop it by. Tell her to test the contents and the line segments separately.” The latter was superfluous; Lucy knew exactly what to do.
***
The main dining room at the Peaks was crowded. Jacob Baladin, founder and moving force behind Proserpine, stood in the doorway for a long moment, scanning the crowd until the hostess approached to offer help. She took too long to turn away from her conversation with a server for Baladin’s taste. He didn’t wait for her to speak first.
“I am here to meet the countess,” he said.
The hostess looked puzzled. Baladin sighed an exaggerated sigh. “She is a very beautiful woman. Auburn hair, blue eyes. Quite elegant.”
The hostess gave him a dismissive look. “This way.” She led him to a banquette table in the back corner. Fiona was already there, a glass of moscato in her hand, the rim stained by the red of her lipstick. She replaced it delicately on the table and extended her hand. Baladin, no fool, raised it to his lips.
“You are so kind to meet me,” Fiona said.
“My pleasure, Countess.” He turned to the server, ordered himself a glass of wine, and waved him off before turning his attention back to the woman in front of him. She had chosen the side that put her back to the wall; the better to survey the crowd, he supposed. It was his habit, too, but he was happy to give up the seat if it meant a chance at some European millions for Proserpine.
And himself, of course. The director of such a cutting edge and necessary non-profit needed to maintain a certain lifestyle to be able to entice rich benefactors. Just now, that was getting hard to do, with the expenses of the move to Telluride. Still, he thought, it was a good choice: a community as receptive to Proserpine as any in the country and one that saw a steady stream of rich and famous people, most of whom were more than happy to become part of a cause if it meant publicity.
Proserpine always got publicity. Our specialty, he thought. “I am honored that you would consider us worthy of your interest, Countess,” he said.
Fiona smiled a distant smile, one that made Baladin worry he had overplayed his hand. That was the trouble with these European aristocrats. Half of them were so infernally pompous, you practically had to drag your forelock to get anywhere with them. The other half forgot completely who they were and were bowling-alley chummy until you crossed some unseen line of affront and they cut you off. Surely he hadn’t committed the unforgiveable social sin
this soon. He waited, unsure whether to try to paper over a mistake he wasn’t sure he made, or carry on. He decided silence was best.
He was rewarded after a moment or two of discomfort. “I am most interested in your work, Dr. Baladin. It must be a great thing to help in the elimination of human suffering.”
He relaxed a bit and gave one of his stock answers. “Indeed it is. We have come so far in medicine, able to do so much. But too often the price of better care at the beginning is worse suffering at the end. Proserpine is at the forefront of moving us toward kinder, more compassionate end-of-life care.” He leaned aside to let the server place his glass of wine on the table, sipped it, and nodded approval.
“I’ve read some of your materials. But, please. You tell me about the work you do.” He watched her assume the posture of the entitled: head tilted, eyes engaging his but dropped just enough to indicate sincere appreciation, leaning enough forward to convey engagement without implying familiarity. He mentally sifted through his alternate presentations and settled on the one he thought would fit best.
“Proserpine really evolved out of a tragic case I was a part of years ago. A young woman was severely injured in a car accident, and despite everything, was comatose — vegetative, really — after all was said and done. For years, her husband held out hope against hope that somehow she might recover. She didn’t, of course. He made the very painful decision to remove life support from her.”
“He must have been considerably consoled by the presence of his new wife. As I recall, she was quite lovely.” She took a languid sip from her glass.
Baladin looked startled in spite of himself. Surely she wasn’t a plant from one of those reactionary religious groups. He considered for a moment. She was Catholic; with a name like Idoni, she could be no other. He remembered with a bit of relief that she had sported several husbands; probably she had no serious opposition to progressive ideas like his. Still, it would pay to be cautious.
Dying for Compassion (The Lady Doc Murders Book 2) Page 8
