He was positively boyish about the exercises. When the doctor dropped around for his daily visit, he found them hard at it, Roger pinching on to Eleanor’s finger while she swung his arm up and down.
‘‘See, Doctor, he’s holding on beautifully.’’
‘‘She’s going to have me up out of this in a matter of weeks.’’
The doctor looked from one to the other. There was color in Lord Patterly’s face for the first time since the accident. He had never seen Her Ladyship so radiant. Why should he tell them it was hopeless? Life had been hard enough on that young pair. Anyway, who knew? There was always the off chance the long bed rest had allowed some of the damaged nerve endings to mend themselves.
‘‘By all means go on as you’re doing,’’ he said. ‘‘Just take it a bit slowly at first. Remember that little heart condition.’’
Eleanor suddenly thought of Gerald and the digitalis. Her face became a mask. ‘‘I’ll remember,’’ she said tonelessly.
Her husband laughed. ‘‘Oh, nonsense. Everybody’s got these idiotic heart murmurs. My father had and he lived to seventy-nine. Gerald has, and look at him. Shoots, swims, rides, all that.’’
‘‘Gerald had better watch himself,’’ said the doctor. He picked up his bag. ‘‘Well, the patient appears to be in good hands. You’re doing splendidly, Lady Patterly, splendidly. Don’t be discouraged if progress is a little slow. These things take time, you know.’’
‘‘Time,’’ said Lord Patterly, ‘‘is something of which we have plenty. Haven’t we, darling?’’
His wife smoothed his pillow. ‘‘Yes, Roger. All the time in the world.’’
‘‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’’ The doctor moved toward the door. ‘‘Watch his pulse, Nurse. Give the prescribed injection of digitalis if it seems advisable after the exercises. You keep the hypodermic ready, of course?’’
‘‘All in order, Doctor. Right here on the medicine tray if need arises.’’
Gerald was right, Eleanor thought as she gently kneaded the wasted muscles of her husband’s arms. It would be easy. Too easy. She drew the covers up over him. ‘‘There, that’s enough for now. I don’t want to wear you out the first day. Shall I put on some music?’’
‘‘Please.’’
She had taken to playing the classical records he liked. It whiled away the time for her, too, sitting beside the bed, letting the long waves of melody sweep over her, daydreaming of all the things she would do when she was free. Today, however, she found her mind dwelling on more homely pictures. Miss Jenkins’s face when she’d dropped her little bombshell at the bookshop. The doctor’s, when he’d found her giving her husband therapy. Her husband’s now, as he lay with his eyes closed, the long afternoon shadows etching his features in sharp relief. He was as good-looking as ever, in spite of everything. That jaw would never be blurred by fat. What would it be like, living in this house without Roger? She tried to imagine it and could not.
After dinner the following evening, Gerald suggested a walk. ‘‘You’re looking peaked, Eleanor. Needn’t stay cooped up with your patient forever, you know.’’
His double meaning was plain. She rose and followed him out the french windows to the terrace.
‘‘Rather an inspiration of yours, that therapy thing.’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’
‘‘Easy enough to overdo a bit. Make the heart attack more plausible, eh?’’
She did not answer. He went on, confident of his power over her.
‘‘You were right about the digitalis, I decided. I’ve thought of something even better. Potassium chloride. I was a hospital laboratory technician once, you know. One of the jobs I batted around in after they turned me down for the army. Rum, when you come to think of it. I mean, if it hadn’t been for my wheezing heart I shouldn’t have drifted into this post, and if it weren’t for Roger’s I shouldn’t be . . . getting promoted, shall we say? Anyway, getting back to the potassium chloride, it’s reliable stuff. Absolutely undetectable. Do an autopsy and all you find is a damaged heart and an increased potassium rate. Exactly what you’d expect after a fatal coronary attack.’’
‘‘Gerald, must you?’’
‘‘This is no time to turn squeamish, Eleanor. Especially since it’s you who’ll be giving it.’’
‘‘Don’t be a fool. How could I?’’
‘‘Oh, I don’t mean directly. We’ll let Nurse Wilkes do that. She keeps a hypodermic of digitalis on the bedside table, ready to give him a quick jab if he needs it.’’
‘‘How did you know that?’’
‘‘I’m the dear old pal, remember? I’ve been a lot more faithful about visiting Roger than you ever were until your recent excess of wifely devotion. Nurse Wilkes and I are great chums.’’
‘‘I can imagine.’’ Men like Gerald were always irresistibleto servant girls and barmaids and plain, middle-aged nurses. And rich women who thought they had nothing better to do.
‘‘I took careful note of the type of hypodermic syringe she uses,’’ Gerald went on. ‘‘Yesterday when I was in London, I bought one just like it at one of the big medical supply houses, along with some potassium chloride and a few other things so it wouldn’t look too obvious. I’d dropped in beforehand to visit some of my old pals at the hospital and pinched a lab coat with some convincing acid holes in it. Wore it to the shop and they never dreamed of questioning me. I ditched it in a public lavatory and got rid of the rest of the stuff in various trash bins on my way back to the station.’’
‘‘You think of everything, don’t you, Gerald?’’ Eleanor’s throat was dry.
‘‘Have to, my love. So here we are. I give you the doings all ready for use. You watch your chance tomorrow morning and switch the syringes. Then you put old Roger through his paces till he works up a galloping pulse, back off and let Nurse take over, and get ready to play the shattered widow. The stuff works in a couple of minutes. And then this is all ours.’’
‘‘It’s all ours now,’’ Eleanor told him. ‘‘Mine and Roger’s.’’
‘‘I say! You’re not backing out on me, are you?’’
‘‘Yes, I am. I won’t do it, Gerald.’’
No woman had ever refused Gerald anything before. His face puckered like an angry baby’s. ‘‘But why?’’
‘‘Because I’m not quite the idiot I thought I was. You’re not worth Roger’s little finger.’’
It was astonishing how ugly Gerald could look. ‘‘And suppose I go to Roger and let him know the loving-wife act was just a buildup for murder? Suppose you’re caught with the evidence? You will be, Eleanor. I’ll see to that.’’
‘‘Don’t be ridiculous. What would you get out of it?’’
‘‘You forget, my love. I’m the boyhood chum and devoted steward. I’ll be the chap who saved his life. I’ll be in charge here, far more than I am now. And with no wife to pass things on to, Roger just might be persuaded to make me his heir.’’
‘‘How long would he survive the signing of the will?’’
‘‘That won’t be your concern, my sweet. You’ll be where you can’t do a thing about it.’’
Eleanor stared at him, frozen-faced. He began to wheedle.
‘‘Oh, come on, old girl. Think of the times we’ll have on dear old Roger’s money. You don’t plan to spend the rest of your life in that bedroom, do you?’’
‘‘No,’’ said Eleanor, ‘‘I don’t.’’
Her mind was forming pictures, of Roger being carried down to a couch on the terrace to get the sun, of Roger being pushed around the garden in a wheelchair, of Roger taking his first steps on crutches. And someday, of Roger and herself walking together where she and Gerald were walking now. It would happen. She knew it would because this was what she wanted most in all the world, and she always got what she wanted.
‘‘Very well, Gerald,’’ she replied. ‘‘Give me the syringe.’’
‘‘Come down into the shrubbery first so we can’t be seen fr
om the house.’’
She hesitated. ‘‘It’s full of wasps down there.’’
He laughed and steered her toward the dense screen of bushes. Once hidden, he took the hypodermic out of his pocket. ‘‘Here you are. Be sure to handle it with your handkerchief as I’m doing, so you won’t leave any fingerprints. Now have you got it all straight?’’
‘‘Yes, Gerald,’’ she said. ‘‘I know exactly what to do.’’
‘‘Good. Then you’d better go back to the house and tuck Roger in for the night. I’ll stroll around the grounds awhile longer. We mustn’t be seen going back together.’’ He blew her a kiss and turned to leave.
‘‘Wait, Gerald,’’ said Eleanor sharply. ‘‘Don’t move. There’s a wasp on the back of your neck.’’
‘‘Well, swat it, can’t you?’’
Lady Patterly’s hand flashed up. ‘‘Oh, too late. Sorry, that was clumsy of me. Did it sting you badly?’’
She left him rubbing his neck and walked easily across the terrace. The hypodermic barrel felt pleasantly smooth in her hand. She lingered a moment by the garden well, idly dropping pebbles and listening to them plop into the water far below. If one plop was slightly louder than the rest, there was nobody but herself around to hear it. She went in to her husband.
‘‘How are you feeling tonight, Roger?’’
‘‘Like a man again. Eleanor, you don’t know what you’ve done for me.’’
She slipped a hand over his. ‘‘No more than a wife should, my darling. Would you like to read for a while?’’
‘‘No, just stay with me. I want to look at you.’’
They were sitting together in the gathering twilight when the gamekeeper and his son brought Gerald’s body back to the house.
‘‘How strange,’’ Eleanor observed to the doctor a short time later. ‘‘He mentioned his heart again this evening. It kept him out of the army, he told me. But I’m afraid I didn’t take him all that seriously. He always looked so healthy.’’
‘‘That’s always the way,’’ said the doctor. ‘‘It’s these big, hearty chaps that go in a flash. Now, His Lordship will probably live to be ninety.’’
Lady Patterly smoothed back her husband’s hair with a competent hand. ‘‘Yes,’’ she replied. ‘‘I don’t see any reason why he shouldn’t.’’
Not Just the Facts
by Annette Meyers
A POSSIBLE HOMICIDE
They call it the High Line. It’s an elevated meadow that rises some thirty feet above the streets of Chelsea on the far west side of Manhattan. In the spring and summer the High Line is a rich blanket of green, dotted with wildflowers. When Francine Gold goes missing, it is here among the wildflowers on a sunny June afternoon that her body is found.
The High Line used to be a railroad route running from Gansevoort Street in the meatpacking district all the way to 34th Street, and the tracks are still visible cutting through the flora that has grown around them. People climbed the mound and strolled through the meadow, marveling that such a wonderful place existed in the city.
So the city, after much debate about tearing it down, actually listened to the protests, decided to convert the High Line into a public park, and closed it to the public, pending renovation. Now of course, as happens in New York, architects and landscape experts are being consulted without end, and there is no sign that any work will be done on the project in the near future.
This being the case, were it not for Chopper 6, the WNYS weather and traffic helicopter doing a sweep to report on sailboating traffic on the Hudson this summer morning, decomposition would have been more extensive.
‘‘What a sight! Let me tell you, it’s a great day for the tall ships,’’ chopper pilot Phil Vigiani reports. ‘‘Just enough wind to fill those beautiful sails. Boy oh boy, wouldn’t you like to be tacking the mainsheet right now? I would.’’ He smiles at the photo of Jen and the twins propped next to the one of him and Dwayne and Fred in their gear in front of Dwayne’s Apache. Fred, poor bastard, comes all the way through Desert Storm, then, drunk as a skunk, tops a hundred into a concrete barrier outside of South Bend. Phil pushes it from his mind. What’s the fucking point?
‘‘Water looks a little choppy there, Phil,’’ Wanda Spears comments from the studio.
‘‘Maybe a little. But there’s not a cloud in the sky. What a day.’’ He pauses, adjusts his goggles. ‘‘I’m looking down on the High Line now, Wanda. From up here she looks like a wide green carpet. Hey!’’ Engine surges.
‘‘Phil?’’
‘‘Holy sh—’’
Wanda doesn’t like where this is going and cuts him off before they’re all in trouble with the FCC.
Phil calls 911 on his cell. ‘‘Phil Vigiani, Chopper 6. I’m low over the High Line and I see what looks like a body lying in the grass. Not moving.’’
‘‘Hold on, sir.’’
‘‘Listen, babe, don’t put me on hold. I’m in a chopper. Get some medics and cops to the High Line, around 18th or 19th Street. What I’m seeing down there hasn’t moved though I made two low passes over it.’’
THE 911 OPERATOR
Doris Mooney doesn’t like being called babe, but she’s a pro. She’s been taking 911 calls for five years now. Before that she spent twenty-five years teaching fourth grade. Ask her which she likes better, she says right away, being a 911 operator.
‘‘Sir, I’m routing you through to the police and the fire department.’’
‘‘Tell them Phil Vigiani, Chopper 6. They’ll get it.’’
His name and phone number appear on her screen. ‘‘Stay on the line, Mr. Vigiani.’’ Doris hears the excitement in his voice. It’s like a drug, this adrenaline thing. She wonders if that’s really a body up there on the High Line.
Doris knows the High Line because she lives in a tiny one-bedroom apartment on 8th and 25th, part of the Penn South Houses, a middle-income housing development. She and Walter, her nine-year-old calico she realizes she loves more than she did her late husband, for whom the cat was named.
The High Line is very much part of the neighborhood. She’d buy a rotisserie chicken, make biscuits and potato salad, Walter would pick up a bottle of wine, and they’d have a nice picnic up there in the tall grass. It was like being in another world. But that was a long time ago. Walter was gone and she was no spring chicken anymore, though she still had her wits about her and the new copper color she’d washed into her hair looked really nice. If it was a body up there, how had it gotten there? The High Line was closed off till the city got around to renovating it. Heck, it’s New York. Anyone who wants to get somewhere bad enough finds a way.
She hears and sees on her screen that Phil Vigiani is connected to the 10th Precinct on West 20th. In short order, the area’s going to be crawling with cops, firemen, and EMTs. Doris disconnects, freeing the line for another call.
THE 10th PRECINCT
The 10th Precinct is an old-fashioned lime-and-brownstone precinct building on West 20th Street between7th and 8th avenues. You can’t miss it because of the large number of unmarked and radio cars, plus SUVs slant-parked on the sidewalk in front of the House, which pisses off some of the environmentally conscious locals. Not so much the parking all over the sidewalk so you can’t walk, but all those gas-guzzling SUVs with no thought to global warming.
The precinct covers a wide area from Chelsea into Hell’s Kitchen, combining both a large commercial industrial area and varying socioeconomic, multiethnic residential communities, including three housing projects: Fulton Houses, Chelsea-Elliot Houses, and Penn South Houses.
The precinct house’s claim to fame is that it was featured in the 1948 film The Naked City.
THE COPS
Officers Mirabel Castro, a twenty-eight-year-old redheaded Latina with a nice nose job, a booming voice, and a deceptively relaxed manner, and Anthony Warbren, thirty-four, former Little League pitching champ, who got as far as a Yankee farm team and is still recognized with a lot of Yo, Tonys ar
ound Fort Greene in Brooklyn, have just come off cooling a couple of hot tempers in a parking dispute in front of Loehmann’s.
They are already on 18th and 7th, three long blocks from the area where the body was sighted.
‘‘So whadja say then?’’ Tony said, making tracks. He intends being First Officer on the scene.
‘‘Said, Felipe, you gotta respect my career.’’ Mirabel’s sweating like a fool in this heat, taking three steps for his every one to keep up. Felipe’s her live-in boyfriend. He has a good job with Home Depot in the Bronx and’s been bugging her about kids. ‘‘Tell the truth, Tony, you see me wiping asses?’’
Tony laughs. ‘‘You already dealing with crap on the Job.’’ He’s crossing 9th Avenue, leaving her behind. What’s she got to bitch about? All these women on the Job get special attention and it burns a lot of guys. But he has no complaints. He’s gay and out and no one at the 10th says boo to him about it. He and Larry, a dental surgeon, have been together for nine years. They’re in the process of adopting a multiracial kid.
They get beat to the scene by the fire department. An EMT fire department bus, lights swirling, is pulled up next to the red fire emergency vehicle in a parking lot below the thirty-foot rise. Metal stairs lead up from the lot to the High Line. Two EMTs are taking the stairs fast. An FDNY fire marshal is on the top of the rise, waving the medics up. He sees Tony first and draws his hand across his throat, like he’s slicing.
‘‘See that?’’ Tony says. ‘‘I’m calling it in.’’ He talks into his cell. ‘‘Yeah, looks like something. FDNY beat us to it. Better get someone from Crime Scene over before they fuck it up.’’
Sisters On the Case Page 17
