Dying for Compassion (The Lady Doc Murders Book 2)

by Dr. Barbara Golder

  She kept checking her watch, but he didn’t come. She was beginning to worry about him. He was clearly in the throes of dementia but not so far gone as to be unpleasant to be around. She wondered what might be wrong.

  When noon came and went without him, she sighed and shifted her seat so that her back was to the wall, and pulled out the growing sheaf of papers that constituted her file on the deaths of the Gleason kids. Toxicology confirmed that the stain on the bedclothes contained coniine. There was no being sure, but Sadie was pretty certain that it meant the poison came from a liquid. Not that that made it easier. Hemlock poisoning usually came from someone using the plant in a soup or a stew. Unless, of course, this was a murder and someone concocted an extract for purposes of killing off two perfectly healthy and innocent kids. And, for that matter, their sainted grandmother, who turned up with coniine in her blood, too. The more that she dug into the matter, the more complicated it got.

  At her suggestion, Lucy went back to the Gleason house and inventoried the bedrooms. Nothing. Sadie really needed to talk to the mother again but hesitated. That was crossing a line. The consultant gig was tenuous enough by itself; its only hope of success was if she confined herself to paper. An in-person interview would for sure send Dr. Wallace into orbit when she found out.

  Lucy won’t do it, either, and she has fewer people skills than I do, she thought. She flipped through the papers one more time, hoping for inspiration, but found none. Unwilling to waste any more time, she began to straighten them when the words of the old fellow came back to her. Children live in a world of make-believe. Maybe the answer lies there.

  Maybe it does, Sadie thought, but you can’t prove it by me.

  Leona herself took her check at the register. As she was waiting for change, a tall man in black came into the restaurant. Sadie recognized him as the priest who was always hanging around the Center. She regarded him with narrowed eyes, weighed the merits of asking him what had just popped into her mind, and decided to risk it. She collected her change and sidled up to his table.

  “Father?” She hoped that sufficed. His name escaped her, though she was sure she had heard it before.

  The priest looked up from the menu. “Sadie!” he said, his face lighting up. “Have a seat. How have you been? How are things at the Center?”

  Was it possible he didn’t know? Given that Dr. Wallace left right after firing her, she supposed it was, and it played into her hand. “Um, no thanks, I’m on my way out,” she stalled, then added with a grin, “but there’s always work to do.” Both true, she thought. “I am having trouble with a case I was working on before Dr. Wallace left. Those kids.”

  The priest’s eyes showed interest, so she continued. “Two kids. They were poisoned and so was their grandmother. The problem is that I can’t find a source. I need to interview the mother again, but,” she hesitated, “I’m not good at it.” She paused for a moment, unsure how to proceed. Flirting clearly would not work; she didn’t know this man at all, and there was no reason he should grant her a favor. She decided to jump in and see what happened. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  “Priests are supposed to be good at talking to people at times like this. Could you? I mean, would you?”

  “Go talk to her?” He smiled. “No, Sadie, I can’t.” His smile reassured her that he wasn’t angry, just amused that she would ask. “I know nothing about this matter. The family is not part of my parish. I don’t know them. There’s no reason for me to call, and it would be way out of line. That is your job. You can do it. Otherwise, Dr. Wallace would not have trusted you with it.”

  If only you knew, thought Sadie. “Well, thanks, anyway.” She turned away to regroup and then remembered the old man. He was a priest, too.

  “I used to see an old fellow in here. We had lunch a couple of times until...oh, a few days ago. I think he’s a priest. Monsig...” She stumbled on the honorific. “Jamais, anyway.”

  The man’s eyes clouded. “I’m sorry, Sadie. He died last night in his sleep. I thought you would know. His body is down at the morgue right now.” He patted her hand, and his face wrinkled a bit. “How on earth did you know him?”

  Sadie’s eyes rounded. She turned away before he could see her cry. She didn’t answer.

  ***

  It took about an hour for her to settle down.

  She was surprised at how the news of the man’s death affected her. She ought to be happy for him. After all, neither he nor his family and friends — she assumed he had some — would have to endure his slow descent into unknowing. Dying in bed — that was a good death, no suffering. Still, she would miss him. She already did. Her mind drifted back to that first day, and his advice still nagged at her.

  At length, she hoisted herself out of her sadness, stood up from the bench, the one outside the Bean that she had been occupying, and walked with purpose down the street toward the Gleason house, oblivious to the people around her and framing first one, then another introduction. She wished she had paid more attention to Dr. Wallace’s instructions on interviewing now.

  Sally Gleason answered on the first knock.

  Sadie took a deep breath. “Mrs. Gleason, we’re — I’m — making some progress on finding out how your children got into that poison, but I…I need to ask a few more questions. I hate to bother you but…” She paused. “May I come in?”

  The door opened to admit her. The living room was as dim as she remembered it from before.

  “Please, have a seat.” Sally Gleason’s voice was soft and toneless.

  Sadie took a seat and a deep breath, and remembering the face of Monsignor Jamais, started to talk.

  Half-an-hour later, she left with excitement that she may have solved the puzzle, which competed with sadness at how unnecessary it all was. Both the grandmother and the children had been suffering from colds. Grandmother had a family cold remedy she used, homemade, and she came by with it the day she died. Hugs and kisses all around, and the children got sick a few days later, after Grandmother’s death. She didn’t use the remedy on her children, not trusting her mother-in-law’s home concoctions. At best they were ineffective, at worst they were unpalatable, truly impossible to take. But instead of refusing it, in order to keep peace in the family, she accepted the offering and put it up on a shelf in the bathroom. She never opened it.

  When Sadie asked to see it, Sally Gleason returned, white-faced, with the bottle. There was a smear of liquid on the outside. “Someone used it,” she said in a whisper. “Oh my gosh, someone used it. Is this what killed my children?”

  “I’m not sure,” Sadie had told her. “We’ll check.” Odds were that it was, though, given it was the only thing the children and the grandmother had ingested in common. And the vanity label with Elsie Teague’s name surrounded by pansies and hearts made her almost certain it was the culprit. In a delicate cursive, it read Wild Carrot Wine for Cough and Fever.

  When she connected with the babysitter, still out of town but reached with the new cell phone number Sally Gleason provided, she had it nailed down. The sitter hadn’t given it, either. But she’d come in to find Summer clutching the bottle and a tiny paper cup from the bathroom. She remembered that this was medicine from Grandmother and decided to play doctor with her brother when his cough started up. Sadie shuddered at the words the sitter repeated. “I had to show him how to take it first, though. He was pretty sick, so I gave him two cups. It tastes nasty.”

  The sitter had forgotten the incident altogether by the time the parents came home less than an hour later. The children were asleep, and the vomiting had not started yet. But she remembered that the stuff had dripped from the cup and stained the bedclothes on Skye’s bed. And she was pretty sure that when she compared this bottle to the one in the picture of the Elsie Teague’s bedroom, they’d match.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  January 24

  It took a few minutes of skimming articles to find who was representing Eoin. Was he a lawyer? Barrister? Solicitor?
Even years of reading Rumpole of the Bailey had not taught me the details of the British legal system. Not for the first time in this investigation did I bemoan the limits of the information I was working with. Mostly information that was gleaned from public sources. I managed to get a copy of the tox report only because someone inadvertently leaked it to the press, and Ben was able to sweet-talk the erstwhile defender of the fourth estate out of it. It was a lot easier working in an official capacity.

  The firm was located not very far from the Malmaison. A quick assessment of the vagaries of trying to get through to a complete stranger with a wild tale convinced me that I’d have better luck in person than on the phone. I tidied myself up, dressed in the only decent clothes I brought along, ran a brush through my hair, and headed out.

  The building was unimpressive from the outside, all gray stone with a small, nondescript plaque that simply announced ‘Law Offices.’ Inside was another story. The lobby was spacious and modern, with sleek red couches, oak tables, bright lighting, and a huge vase of fresh roses. Behind the glass table with a computer and another, smaller vase of roses sat a receptionist: young, blond, wearing a dress the color of the roses, topped with a lace bolero and set off by one long, gold chain. The whole effect was professional but stunning, and it made me feel mousy in my plain black dress and matching jacket. What I lacked in panache, I’d have to make up in presence.

  “Dr. Jane Wallace here to see Mr. Suskind about Eoin Connor.”

  The receptionist — the nameplate on the table announced her as another Jane, Jane Reilly — made a few motions with her mouse, frowned at her computer screen and finally responded. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I do not. But I have some information that is important to his representation of Mr. Connor. He will wish to see me. It will not take long.”

  Jane scanned the computer again. “He has some time day after tomorrow.”

  “That will not do. This will take only a few moments.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Suskind is booked solid for the day.”

  “I am happy to wait until he is free between appointments.”

  “I’m afraid…”

  I may not have a law office of my own, but I know how they work, and it’s universal. Scenes are never permitted. I turned away from the fetching Jane, took a seat on the couch, and opened one of the luxury travel magazines that was on the side table, a smaller version of Jane’s own desk. It’s difficult to argue with someone who isn’t prepared to engage, and my strategic retreat sent her into a tizzy. She regarded me for a moment, buzzed through to someone. Within minutes, a no-nonsense, older woman in a skirt and twinset appeared. They talked for a moment in hushed tones, and then the woman in the twinset came forward to address me.

  “I am Mr. Suskind’s assistant. May I help you?”

  I continued to scan the article on the Azores for two heartbeats before I looked up. “You may tell Mr. Suskind that I have information that is important — no, essential — to his defense of Eoin Connor. That I am here to talk with him about it. And that I will be happy to wait until he has a moment to see me.” I went back to the magazine and without looking up, added, “You might also tell him that Mr. Connor might take it amiss if he doesn’t see me.” I flipped the page to hide the fact that my hands were shaking and hoped the lower register of my voice hid my anxiety. Courtroom intimidation I could manage. Getting past the lions at the gate of an office was quite another matter, and it was out of my wheelhouse. I looked up again and smiled confidently. I hoped.

  Her expression assured me that I had fooled her not in the least. “Dr. Wallace, you said. Jane Wallace?”

  I nodded.

  “Mr. Connor has mentioned you. He wondered why you haven’t been in touch. He might not be so happy to hear from you as you think.”

  “If the concept of reasonable doubt is as applicable in Ireland as it is in the States, he will.”

  She smiled again. “I believe Mr. Suskind’s meeting is just about to end. Please follow me.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. The woman led me down a hall unadorned, except for an occasional oversized photograph of Belfast on the wall and a rank of filing cabinets. I was glad to see the Information Age had not put the paper companies out of business. If this office was anything like mine, computers meant that we kept additional copies in cyberspace, not that it forwent the paper ones.

  Peter Suskind’s office was just like all the other attorney offices I had ever seen, though for a moment I wondered whether he was a barrister or solicitor and whether attorney covered both. The woman with the twinset motioned me to sit in a straight-back chair opposite her desk, which held several neat piles of papers and files. Her nameplate gave her name away: Evelyn Watts. Once I was seated, she returned to her desk and computer without a word.

  About ten minutes later, the door to the adjacent office opened, and a tall, black-haired woman dressed in a powder blue suit emerged. She paused at the doorway, half-turned back, and said, “I’ll be back this afternoon. I think I can get what you need by then.”

  “Wonderful, Roslyn. Thank you,” a cultured voice from inside the office said. Roslyn waved a passing goodbye to Evelyn, cast a critical glance in my direction, and left. Evelyn rose, smoothed her sweater, and preceded me into the inner sanctum.

  It was a well-appointed office that bespoke a successful and lucrative practice. Unlike the modern lobby, this was done in very traditional, masculine furniture, all wood and leather and brass, with a little discreet plaid thrown in for good measure and to break the monotony.

  “Mrs. Wallace asked to see you. I told her that you might have a few moments between appointments. She has some information about Mr. Connor.”

  “Doctor Wallace,” I corrected Evelyn, with a glance in her direction while I stepped forward to extend my hand to the man seated behind the desk. The corner of her mouth turned up. We both knew what she was doing. Point to me this time, game, set and match, and my undying gratitude to Evelyn Watts for getting me in.

  Peter Suskind was dressed in a dark blue suit, all the better to set off his blue eyes. He shook my hand and motioned to the wing-back chair, one of a pair that shared between them an oak table with a coffee service on its inlaid top. “Please, Dr. Wallace, have a seat.”

  I did, and he joined me in the other. “What brings you here today? You know Mr. Connor has been disappointed that you have not been in touch. I must say I am surprised to see you here.”

  His words stung, and I wanted to get this interview over as quickly as I could. “Mr. Connor didn’t ask you to contact me, did he? I thought not. No matter. I’ll only take a little of your time. I’ve been doing a little research on this matter on my own. There are several other people who had reason to kill Fiona Idoni and also had access to the poison that could only have come from the family farm. One of them seems more likely than the others. Did you know that Fiona sent her assistant Dee Matthews to Rathlin Island just a day or two before she died? It would be a simple matter for her to take the Black Leaf 40. It was kept in an outbuilding at some distance from the main house and was in plain sight.”

  He leaned forward, interested. “Did you know that the police found a smear of Black Leaf 40 on Eoin Connor’s coat?”

  For a long moment I could not breathe. Then I remembered. Reasonable doubt. “All the more reason to investigate Dee Matthews. I know she was there, because the publican on the island remembers her. I know the poison was in plain sight, because I saw where it had been on the shelf by the dust that was on the shelf. And it might interest you to know that the bottle leaked. There was a smear of it on the shelf. Unless I missed my guess, if you check with the investigators, they will confirm that. Now, Mr. Suskind, what on earth do you think would keep someone from wiping off a sticky bottle?”

  “How do you know she didn’t — assuming it was Dee Matthews?”

  “Because there were still Eoin’s fingerprints on it.”

  “Point taken. Do I take it that you are i
mplicating Mrs. Matthews in Fiona’s murder?”

  “Why not? From what I can tell, everyone who had anything to do with Fiona hated her.”

  “And why would Fiona send her to the island in the first place?”

  He had me there. That particular missing piece bothered me, too. Might as well be honest. “Who knows? To curry favor with the family? And perhaps that backfired. Perhaps while she was there, they decided in concert to kill Fiona; none of Eoin’s brothers and sisters liked her, either. She’d wreaked havoc with their lives. Perhaps they wanted revenge for her treatment of their brother, who is their benefactor, as much as the prosecution thinks Eoin wanted it.”

  Peter Suskind leaned back in his chair. “I must say that’s interesting, Dr. Wallace. But it’s hardly proof of Mr. Connor’s innocence.”

  “I know. It disappoints me, too, but it’s the best I have, and it might just do. You have the information. I suggest you pursue it. If nothing else, it leads to an excellent argument for reasonable doubt. I believe that is all that’s required.” I stood up to take my leave before being dismissed, but added, “I forgot to add: the ferryman remembers Mrs. Matthews. She came over with nothing but a coat and a purse — a brown coat and green leather purse. She came back the same way. That sticky bottle had to be in one or the other, don’t you think? I don’t have the ability to chase that to ground, but you do.”

  He brought his hands together in a slow clap. I couldn’t decide whether it was admiration or cynicism until he spoke. “Well done, Dr. Jane Wallace. Well done, indeed. I shall have my staff look into it right away.” He looked solemn for a moment. “You know I cannot tell you anything about the case, but I don’t think it’s a breach of confidentiality to remark that the evidence is substantial against your…friend. This gives a different perspective, indeed.”