“Yes, of course.” Harry ran his hands through his thinning hair.
“We’re being recorded,” Donna explained quickly, “and you need to sign this waiver for the District Attorney to remain within the law.
“Okay. I couldn’t tell a room full of people, in front of you, what happened.”
He started to weep, but Donna stopped him. “We don’t have time for grief now, Harry.”
Straightening his posture, he signed the waiver without reading the printed matter. “Ask me anything. But David didn’t want me to tell you, Donna.”
“I need to know. These ludicrous people do not understand you would not hurt David in a million years. Tell me what happened. If your lawyer wants me to testify for you, I will gladly take the stand. David’s death was a tragedy, which doesn’t need to be intensified by your mistreatment.” Harry bowed his head. Donna came around to his side of the table and put her arms around his neck. Their chairs touched each other. “Every detail.” Harry sobbed, but Donna did not let go. “Tell me.”
“We were laughing,” Harry cleared his throat and continued. “I forget the joke. I was behind him. I told the police all this.”
“I know you did, Harry; but I want to hear your version.” Donna swept her hair behind her ears and replaced her right arm around his shoulders.
“David stumbled on the first step, as if he thought it was lower than it actually was. I replayed his first step a thousand times in my head, but I cannot figure out how he fell. His hand was on the banister. I remember looking to see if he would catch himself.” Harry lowered his head nearly to his chest. Donna leaned closer without releasing her arm from his shoulder. Harry turned toward her looking directly into her eyes. “He fell all the way to the first landing.” Harry moved slightly away. “His thigh bone stuck out of his slashed pants. He let out one scream.”
She dropped her arm from his shoulder and asked. “How did he get to the second landing?”
“I rushed down, tried to hold his head. He was in agony.” Harry showed Donna his own tortured face. “David pushed me away. Somehow, he moved to the second tier of steps. He did not scream again. It was an awful sound, Donna. I dream of the horror every night.”
Donna patted his hand sympathetically. “Go on.”
“He hung onto the banister,” Harry asked for water, drank it and continued. “David pushed his broken, bleeding limb down the stair. I think the pain made him crazy. That is all, Donna. That’s all.”
“That wasn’t all.”
“No.” Harry was silent. “I can’t tell you the rest.”
“Yes, Harry, you saw him die. I can at least hear how it happened.”
“I was kneeling in the blood holding onto his belt. He was a big man.” Harry focused on the floor in front of him as if reliving the scene. David looked me right in the eye. He was holding onto the banister with two hands, one on each side of the stairway. Then he said, ‘I can’t live as a cripple, Harry. Don’t tell Donna.’ And then David let go with both his hands and fell the rest of the way down.” Harry looked at the splint on his right hand, broken as David wrenched free from his grip. “I rushed down but they were right, Donna. His neck broke. I closed David’s eyes.”
The coldness in the ensuing silence crept up from the floor, as if death itself reached out to them. Donna first noticed her knees were shivering. Knocking, she thought, this is what it means. The awareness of death climbed up to her belly, her chest shuddered, and her throat ached from the chill. She stroked her throat, but the cries came out anyway. Hoarse sobs, despairing cries, senseless grief unleashed. Harry scrambled up to get help. Donna heard the door open.
Sam, Sally and John, Harry, and Sergeant Cramer tried to comfort her; but when the paramedics arrived, Donna noticed her throat felt raw from her continuing keening. When the shot started to take effect on the stretcher, she thanked the attendants for her own silence. “Tell Harry,” Donna whispered to Sam, “I’m so sorry I could not control myself.”
Harry was at her elbow. “I have to stay here, Donna. Do not worry about me. Try to keep calm.”
A peace like death descended. “I hope I’m dying.” She told the aide in the ambulance.
“No,” he said, somberly. “You’ll be okay. Never mind.”
But of course, Donna did mind. David’s suicide made life meaningless. Anger welled up in her, first at the police, then at David.
Chapter Fifteen
Last Tuesday in November
In the hospital, Sam was sitting by her bedside, when Donna woke. His face was ashen, his blond hair rumpled. His gorgeous blue eyes were rimmed in red. “David killed himself.” Donna said simply.
“We need to know why.”
“We may never know.” Donna patted his arm, entwined her fingers in his. “Suicide is always a matter of choice.”
“What was he dealing with?” Donna was certain Sam would be at her side until he found the answers. “He was not a coward,” Sam added.
“The decision to summon death took a courage I do not possess or understand.” Sam did not respond. “I only know I was not convinced he loved me the way other husbands seemed to love their wives. I told myself I could not really judge the private relationships around me. I accepted our routine. I painted canvases with raw colors when life failed to fill all the recesses of my soul. Perhaps David felt the same lack.”
“Commonly felt angst at such a low level would hardly force him to stop his life.” Sam’s hands were in his hair.
“Perhaps …” Donna started and thought better of revealing her fears.
“Perhaps?” Sam asked.
“I wondered about the closeness of his relationship with Harry.”
“Did you check out your suspicions?”
“I would not know how to begin. We are all bi-sexual beings.” Donna noticed her voice was almost a whisper.
“No,” Sam said. “We are not.”
“There is his failed research.”
“Would an academic failure provide enough suffering to end his life?” Sam’s steady glance seared Donna’s soul.
“Research was David’s life.” Donna realized the truth.
“Yes. I believe you. Something is not right. The robbery of his work….”
“Failed work. Why would anyone want failed research results?”
“We will find out, I promise.”
An RN stopped by to check her vitals and when given the okay to get out of bed, Donna first noticed her hair in the bathroom’s mirror. She opened the door to show Sam. “My hair!”
“Looks very distinguished.” He lifted the ends of her black hair off her shoulders, holding the long sleek hair in both his hands.
Donna pointed to her temple. “White.”
“From your emotions.”
The nurse bustled back into the room. “Just dye the roots. Not a problem.”
“Not a problem!” Donna said astonished. “My hair is turning white.”
“The grief.” Sam seemed to need to remind her.
“But my hair?” Donna resigned herself to the added shock. Life would never return to normalcy. Her first call from the hospital bed’s phone was to Sergeant Cramer’s cell. “You may as well release Harry, David killed himself.”
“A release order has not been issued for Professor Terkle.”
“I guess I’ll call the District Attorney.”
Sergeant Cramer coughed. “Call Harry’s lawyer, he might be more effective.”
“Thanks, Sergeant, I will.”
“Donna,” Sam straightened the sheet across her chest. “Try to stay calm, but I have more bad news.”
Donna pushed his hands away. “What now?”
The petite nurse popped back into the room. “Problem?”
“Sally and John need to ask you more questions,” Sam said. He opened the room’s door and let the detective couple in.
Donna noticed the nurses’ nametag. Angela placed the call button in Donna’s hand. “If these brutes upset you, push t
he button and I’ll clear them out.”
“David’s car was vandalized,” Sally said.
“I called Sam when I tried to take Sally home in David’s car,” John stood at the foot of the bed.
Sally took her hand. “Some one is getting angry about not finding what they’re looking for in your husband’s belongings.”
“All the windows were broken,” John said.
“Harry knows every step of David’s research,” Donna said. “Why haven’t they searched his home?”
Sally coughed. “Harry’s house was thoroughly vandalized before we arrived with a search warrant.”
“Oh no,” Donna said quietly so as not to summon the protective nurse.
“However,” John said, “they only stole Professor Terkle’s computer. The office computers are being deciphered by Professor St. Claire.” Donna noticed how exhausted John looked. His dark eyes slightly bulged the way Sal Mineo’s did in one of the black-and-white Turner Classics.
“Who would want failed research?” Sam asked.
Donna compared the two men. “You three act like detectives. Sorry, my drugs must have freed a curb on my tongue.” Sam smiled the dimple-inspiring smile reminding her too much of David’s lost grin. “Professor St. Claire knows the research is failed.”
“He doesn’t seem phased about the negative repercussions on his career,” Sally said.
“He was happy to assist us.” John put on his hat, then blushed and took it off again.
“Too happy?” Sally asked.
“I’ll call in some experts from the FBI,” Sam said. “They will know who to ask about the research. What chemicals were they testing?”
“Pharmaceuticals,” Donna said, “for Parkinson’s.”
“Crimes are usually solved close to home, aren’t they?” John asked Sam. “With so much happening, I delayed in asking Donna about her husband’s enemies.”
“Zelda Cameron.” Donna was surprised to hear herself say, and then negate. “No. I do not know why I said Zelda’s name. She wants my paintings for her studio in New York. She tried to put me in a bad light once. She showed David everything I bought on a shopping trip we made together.”
“To give him cause to be angry?” Sally asked. “Zelda never sticks around. She’s with us until we leave the house then she finds a reason to quit the group.”
Donna played with her hair, then remembered the new white highlights. “See what terror has wrought!”
“Terrors by day,” John said sympathetically. “Any one else?”
“His youngest son hates me.”
Sam stood up. “That little creep, Norman?”
“What happened?” John was adding items to his notebook.
“He told me David and his mother were still having an affair, but his oldest son, Joseph, apologized at the memorial service. Their mother said there was not a grain of truth in Norman’s hatefulness.”
“You’re going through a rough time.” John patted her ankle through the hospital sheet. “I will check out Norman’s whereabouts.” Sam gently removed John’s hand from the sheet. Donna watched Sam glare and John’s unspoken apology to him. John made another note, before he expressed his concerns for Donna’s safety, then Sally and he left.
“You didn’t need to shame the man,” Donna said.
“He needs to keep his hands to himself,” Sam said too calmly.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Third Tuesday in November
A week after his father died, Norman decided his stepmother needed to be taught a lesson. Zelda furnished him with the latest news. Harry claimed his father committed suicide. The false statement was dragged out of the vile man accused of murdering his father by Donna, the meddling widow. Now everyone would think his father was a weakling, someone not able to face a few broken bones. Nevertheless, Norman kept his cool.
He asked Zelda, who he knew wanted to take Donna’s paintings to New York, if Professor St. Claire needed any papers from his father’s office, mainly to see if Zelda would acknowledge her illicit liaison with his father’s supervisor. Norman needed an excuse to go back to his father’s house, after Donna commanded he never cross the threshold again. One-third, he repeated to himself, one third of the house was his.
“I’m sure David’s supervisor would appreciate any work-related materials delivered to the department.” Zelda carefully covered any ulterior motives. “You know, everything Paul thought was pertinent to David’s research has been robbed from the Leonard home?”
“I heard. I thought I should make sure anything remaining, of importance, of interest to the department, should be returned -- at least searched for. I doubt my step-mother would recognize a formula, or unpublished paperd, if they fell on her head.”
Zelda laughed. “Artists aren’t often attuned to the ways of science.” She encouraged Norman to root about. “I am sure Paul would appreciate your help.”
Zelda handed Norman the key to his father’s house, one she claimed Professor St. Claire lent her. With Donna in the hospital in some state of hysteria, Norman made use of the opportunity. When he closed the front door of his father’s house, the keys in his hand rang against each other. He stuffed them into his pocket, then balled up his shaking hand. He knew fear did not grip his soul. Instead, free-floating rage turned Donna’s clown-colored furnishings into a whirling mass of targets.
He needed a knife. Donna’s neat kitchen irked him on. He pulled out a stack of dinner plates and calmly walked into the dining room almost as if he were going to set the table. He threw each dish as hard as he could against walls, the china cabinet, pictures, and the light fixtures. He loved the music, the crashing racket of shattering glass.
When he had thrown the last bowl out of the cupboard, he put his favorite oldie into the disc player and turned the volume as high as it would go. Pink Floyd accompanied the bass thuds of books being tossed around until the bookshelves were empty. Fatigue made him remember he was supposed to be looking for something, something important.
He took a steak knife from the kitchen drawer, emptying the rest of the silverware onto the floor. Lovely noise. The knife helped him open up the upholstery on those stupid, yellow, blue and green couches. Norman used the base of the fig tree to smash the glass on his father’s desk. He laughed. This was better than a food fight. Then he remembered Donna.
Since his father’s death, Norman was not able to make love to Henrietta. They made use of Harry Terkle’s place while Harry was in jail. Then his stepmother ruined everything. Harry would be coming home because of Donna’s interference. However, while Harry was absent, probably because Donna was so evil at the funeral, Norman was not able to -- to perform with Henrietta, Harry’s housekeeper. Oh, Henrietta was okay about his distress. She described their previous more successful encounters. She even got him laughing about the time he hid in Harry’s basement. Harry returned home for a forgotten briefcase. Henrietta thought it was a riot. She threw Norman’s shoes and pants into the dishwasher, just as Harry opened the front door.
So Norman knew he was justified when he charged upstairs and ripped Donna’s bedding to pieces all the way down to the mattress his father slept on with her. But Donna wouldn’t know he was the one wreaking havoc on her safe world.
Zelda reminded him the paintings were under her protection. Probably knew some way to profit from them, or he would have made short work of them. He avoided even going into the studio, too much of a temptation to strike at the heart of his enemy. “Plenty left where that came from,” he said to the empty house as he left.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
On Tuesday afternoon, Sally drove Donna home from the hospital. On the way, Sally told Donna, “They released Harry and the charges are dropped.”
“I guess I can finally liberate David’s body from the morgue.” Donna brushed her forehead with the back of her hand. “Harry’s house was robbed, too?”
“If you didn’t insist on speaking directly to Harry, he would still be sitting in the co
unty jail.”
Donna remembered what good times they shared, David, Harry, Sally and John. The dinners at Zingerman’s, dancing at Weber’s. All of the life she shared with her husband was gone. Now she needed to call the crematorium. Where would she find the strength to bury her husband? She thought after talking to Harry she would understand everything, but she knew no more about David’s inner life than she did when he was roaming the rooms in their condominium.
“I wish I’d known David better,” Sally said.
“Me too. My idea of who he was doesn’t fit with any of the facts.”
“He loved you.”
“Did he? He never convinced me in the fourteen years I loved him. I wonder why?” Donna almost asked Sally if she ever wondered about the nature of the emotional attachment between David and Harry. She could not broach the subject. A wave of self-pity washed over her.
When they reached the condominium, they could see the front door was wide open. An empty police car was parked out front. “Look.” Sally reached across Donna to point.
“I see it, but I don’t believe it.”
Another police car stopped behind them. Sam stepped out of the cruiser. He ran to the passenger side of the car. “Donna, are you hurt?” Donna started to cry because she was so glad to see him. Now she would not be left alone. Sam wrapped his arms around her through the car’s open window. “Sally, was there a robbery?”
“We don’t know yet,” Sally said.
“Stay in the car, Donna,” Sam said. “Let me make sure the scene is cleared.”
Donna only nodded her head. One horror followed another these days. John walked out of Donna’s door, down the sidewalk toward them. “A neighbor called,” he said when he reached them. “They noticed the front door was ajar. Sergeant Creamer picked me up.”
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