by Judith Rolfs
Whitney paused, took a gulp from her coffee cup and continued. “The delivery boy heard labored breathing and saw a woman lying on the kitchen floor clutching a portable telephone to her chest. Remembering his basic first aid, he felt for a pulse. ‘You’re gonna be okay, lady,’ he repeated, hoping the words were true. Had she already called for help? He punched 911 in case, then called his boss on the portable phone and explained what was happening.”
“Stay until the rescue squad arrives,” his boss had ordered.
The article went on. “At Cortland Hospital the patient was revived and the contents of her stomach pumped and analyzed. Carla Madsen claimed she mistakenly took too many sleeping pills and denied trying to commit suicide.”
The staff writer added a piece de resistance—the human interest angle. “Fieto’s employee discovered later that he was at the wrong address. He was supposed to be at the unit next door. When the irate customer called to trace his pizza and found out what happened, he insisted on waiving his right to a free pizza and suggested the money be given to the delivery boy for his courage and quick thinking.”
Carla Madsen was very lucky. An accidental overdose? The story shocked Whitney. She’d just been with Carla at the Cortland City Art Show. She read it three times. Carla Madsen had agented Jillian Langley for the sale of her art. Blaine had commissioned Carla to sell her picture. Was it coincidence a woman associated with both Jillian and Blaine had tried to commit suicide? Was she the connection Whitney was looking for? The stirring of a headache pressed on her temples.
Was this another of the apparently accidental happenings? Or might Carla be the remorseful murderer trying to end her life? She’d said she traveled to Europe every summer. Had she been in Ireland when Whitney’s mom died? Had Carla experienced enormous guilt as Jillian and Blaine’s killer?
Questions swirled wildly in Whitney’s mind. Her face tightened. Life was not only unfair, it could be hugely unpredictable. They pumped Carla Madsen’s stomach to save her life one day and the next she became a murder suspect.
Whitney drew a deep breath, swiveled her chair toward her computer, and punched in the password. She pressed “Enter” repeatedly until she read “verifying user name and password.”
At Yahoo she typed “Carla Madsen.” Seventy-four references popped up, one a home page. Whitney clicked the first and began reading.
Carla Madsen promoted herself as a professional art critic and agent—the only one in Cortland City. Whitney scrolled past her picture and brief bio to online images of artwork by Carla’s clients.
Carla’s list of eight clients included Jillian Langley. Another page listed art pieces for sale. Several were by artists Whitney didn’t recognize. Whitney remembered Blaine’s oil painting of mother and daughter. A Pinot, she’d said, a treasured possession she was selling through Carla. The web of connection seemed to be tightening, but what did it all mean?
Bottom line, if Carla had tried suicide once, the next time she might succeed. If it wasn’t a failed suicide, maybe someone wanted her dead instead? Another staged event? Whitney tapped her fingers on the mouse.
She had to see Carla and get some answers. How would she ever get into Carla’s hospital room in ICU when she wasn’t family? Maybe there was another way.
Whitney thought a moment. The police station was minutes from the hospital. She called Chief Bolan. “I have information that may help your investigation. I’m not sure where this fits, but it’s definitely something you need to know. I’ll be right over.”
A groan echoed through, and then silence. Had the connection been broken? “Hello, are you there?”
Finally, he said, “Okay. I’ll give you five minutes. Come now.”
Whitney prayed silently. Thank you, Lord, that I got him on the phone and he said yes. She’d helped on the case regarding the BMW. Bolan knew he could trust her. She hoped she wasn’t brash in her conclusions.
Whitney charged into the police station holding two covered cups of espresso. Best to come bearing gifts.
Chief Bolan listened wordlessly while Whitney summarized what she’d deduced about Carla and then outlined her plan. “Chief, there is a possible tie-in. We need to question Carla Madsen. I’m not sure how, but I’m certain she’s involved somehow. We need to find out.”
“We?” Chief Bolan put down his coffee cup.
“I’m coming to the hospital with you.”
The Chief looked Whitney in the eye. “First of all, your conclusion is a stretch. But because I’ve nothing else to go on at the moment, I’ll follow up. My primary concern is did someone give her those pills? That would be a criminal act. Otherwise, an attempted suicide isn’t police business.” Chief Bolan’s voice was terse and firm. “Whatever, you’re not going with me to find out.”
“Chief, I turned up this link.” Whitney softened her tone to pleading. “It’s only fair. I promise I won’t write a word unless you give the go ahead. Please…”
He shuffled the papers in front of him. “I suppose the presence of a woman who’s already met Carla might relax her while I question her.”
Chief Bolan let out a mild curse and slipped his arms into his leather jacket. “All right, you can come, but you’re not riding with me. Meet me at the hospital entrance in ten minutes. If you’re late, too bad.”
“Yes, sir.” At last she’d get answers she longed for.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Whitney breathed in the pine-freshened air of the hall at Cortland General Hospital. Her heels click-clapped a beat on the tile as she scurried to keep up with the Chief.
They stopped at the information desk to ask for Carla’s room number. They rode up in an uncomfortable silence and stepped off the elevator on the fifth floor.
A scowling resident doctor in a white coat was leaving Carla’s room.
“Police to see Carla Madsen.” Chief Bolan flashed his badge.
“I don’t care if you are a police officer...” the resident started.
“Not an officer, the Police Chief.”
“I object to having my patient disturbed this evening. She’ll be released tomorrow, and you can question her then.” He turned on his heel to leave.
“Just a minute, doctor. According to my telephone inquiry, Carla Madsen is alert and capable of responding. Is that correct?”
“Yes, but…”
“Then I intend to proceed with my questions. I’ll try to be brief.”
The doctor clenched his lips. From his expression, Whitney guessed he’d had a long, hard day. We’re the straw atop the heap, she thought.
“If you must, but remember Mrs. Madsen’s body endured severe trauma. She was lucky that young man found her or she’d have been dead within the hour.”
“I understand, and I assure you this interview is for her benefit also. I guarantee the pink lady pushing the candy and magazine rack will disturb her more than I will. This is confidential. Is there another patient with her?”
Carla’s doctor sighed. “She’s in this private room, not because she requested an upgrade. Hospital in-patient bed usage is down—impact of same day surgery.” He glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes max.”
Whitney was already inside the doorway of Room 204. She approached Carla’s bed on tiptoe. The Chief positioned himself on the other side of Carla’s bed.
Scoops of gray flesh hung below Carla’s swollen red eyes, which fluttered open when they entered and then shut again.
Whitney pulled out her pen and paper. Chief Bolan frowned, and she put it away.
She had tremendous sympathy for this poor woman. How sad to be so beaten down and drained that one could forget that life is a gift and a treasure. Why had she overdosed? Or had she?
Whitney introduced herself.
“I know you…” Carla’s voice quivered. Her eyes locked on Whitney. “I can’t remember where…”
“We met at the recent community art exhibit.”
“That’s it. Then I saw you on TV soon afterwards. Why are you here?”
Carla turned her head slightly and caught sight of the Chief.
A leather jacket partially covered the top of the Chief’s uniform. Her eyes darted away. “Police here to see me? Why?”
“Don’t get excited, ma’am. We simply want to ask you some questions.”
She struggled to pull herself upright. “Help me sit up.” She ran a hand over her face.
“May I?” Whitney pressed the button on the side of her bed until Carla was in a more upright position. The woman’s skin bleached white. She resembled a deer caught in headlights.
The Chief explained her legal rights, but Whitney doubted the distraught woman heard a word.
He softened his tone. The Chief nodded in Whitney’s direction. She assumed this meant he was letting Whitney ask questions, after all. She didn’t doubt for a second that if he wasn’t satisfied, he’d take over.
“Did you accidentally overdose, Carla, or did you intentionally take too many pills?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The medical chart says you ingested quadruple the safe amount.”
“Well, it’s none of their business or yours.” Carla eyed Whitney and Chief Bolan with a look of distrust.
Whitney touched the back of her hand to Carla’s forehead. “You’re warm. Let me get a cool, wet cloth for your forehead.”
Whitney wrung out the washcloth she found beneath the sink and patted it in place above Carla’s eyebrows. She couldn’t help wonder all the while if she were ministering to a female serial killer. “It might help if you talk to us.”
Carla remained silent, eyes closed. They fluttered open when Whitney said, “You were selling Blaine Cartier’s painting—her original Pinot. I know because she told me. How had you met Blaine?”
Carla spoke haltingly. “At a group for single and divorced women. Why are you asking about her?”
“Because she was killed, Carla. Did the painting have anything to do with her death or your overdose?”
Whitney observed the flicker of fear cross Carla’s countenance. Her head dropped back on the pillow.
Lord, how can I open her up? “Carla, I don’t want to upset you, but I sense you’re holding something back. Why?”
Carla started to cry softly.
Whitney and Chief Bolan exchanged looks.
They strained to hear Carla’s whispery voice. “The piece will go to auction to pay outstanding bills now that Blaine died. The switch I made will be recognized when the art is examined and catalogued. I didn’t want to be around when the truth came out.” Carla’s eyes began to overflow. “I couldn’t deal with the shame of getting caught, not a second time.”
Chief Bolan jotted notes furiously.
“I tried for years to be an artist.” Carla inhaled a sharp breath. “When I couldn’t handle the poverty or the isolation any longer, I became an agent. Whatever elusive quality successful artists need—talent, luck, perseverance—I didn’t have it.”
“You must have been terribly disappointed.” Whitney sympathized.
“Not that I was hot stuff as an agent either,” Carla continued. “Jillian was a good artist. I should have worked harder to market her work.”
Carla reached for a tissue. “You see why living didn’t much appeal to me anymore.” She began to shake convulsively.
The clean scent of hospital linens filled Whitney’s nostrils as she leaned over and hugged Carla gently. “Carla, dear, perhaps visiting a godly pastor would help you deal with these emotions when you return home.” Whitney drew back. She pulled a pad from her purse to note the name and address of her church. “People here will minister to you, I promise.” Whitney tore the page out and placed it on Carla’s bedside table.
Chief Bolan cleared his throat. He sent Whitney a scowl. “Well and good. You can discuss that later. I have some questions. Carla, when the rescue squad arrived, you were holding a portable phone. Had you changed your mind about committing suicide?”
“I was about to call for help. At the last minute, I couldn’t go through with it. I don’t know why. Being wishy-washy is the story of my life. I’m still not sure being alive is better.”
“Financial problems depressed you to this point?” Whitney probed gently. “Couldn’t you earn a decent living in sales?” There was no condemnation in her voice, only a reporter looking for answers.
“Barely surviving and never enough to support my love of travel.”
Chief Bolan interrupted. “You heard Blaine was taking a trip to England and France? Were you jealous?”
“I didn’t know about it.” Carla looked offended. “Anyhow, why would I care? I’ve taken Suzanne Oleston’s summer European tour every year. No way that was happening in my future anymore, but I’d been there enough. I could deal with that.”
Chief Bolan harrumphed. “For your sake, you’d better have a good alibi the day of Blaine Cartier’s death.”
“I do.” She gave him details of her whereabouts. “And there were witnesses.”
He noted the names. “I’ll be checking these. When you’re discharged from the hospital, don’t leave this area. There will be charges about the art deception, but your co-operation won’t go unnoticed.” He rose to go. “That’s all for now.”
The Chief and Whitney exchanged goodbyes with Carla. “I’m staying behind a minute, Chief.” He raised his eyebrows but left.
Whitney turned her attention to Carla. “I have one more question, a very personal one, if I may?” Whitney swallowed hard. “You said you always took the summer tour with the Cortland City travel group. A year ago you went on the tour to Ireland?”
Carla tugged up her sheet until it reached her neck. “So?”
Whitney’s heart beat faster. “My mother was on the same plane.” She pulled her mom’s picture from her purse. “Did you by chance meet a woman named Kendra Starin?” Whitney displayed the photo in front of Carla.
“I can’t see without my glasses.”
Whitney ran into the hall and returned a few minutes later with readers borrowed from a nurse.
Carla looked at Kendra’s photo.
“Yes. On Aer Lingus there are only two seats across in the aisle row. I don’t remember her name but we sat side by side on the trip over.”
“Kendra Starin. Did you speak?”
“She—Kendra, I mean— was near the end of her book, so at first we didn’t talk. When she finished, she shut it, leaned back, and closed her eyes. I read the title in her lap, Surprised by Faith. When she woke up, I said, ‘I’ve always envied people who had religious faith.’ She laughed and told me that hadn’t been true of her but this book just helped her find it. My response was, ‘one little book?’”
“What was her answer?” Whitney’s heart pounded in her chest.
“She said the author was a scientist. He proved the Bible was truer than any history book ever written. Now she had facts. She said her daughter—that must be you...” Carla paused.
Whitney nodded.
“…That you had sent her the book, and she couldn’t wait to see you in England. You’d be so happy.” Carla shook her head. “I remember the conversation clearly because Kendra was so excited. I envied her that. Then she asked me, ‘Do you believe in miracles?’”
Whitney gulped.
“I answered, ‘No, can’t say that I do.’ Kendra grinned and said, ‘Well I do now. The greatest miracle of all is God’s love. Can you imagine a God who has always loved me even though I’ve spent my life ignoring Him, even mocking Him?’ I swear she was positively glowing.”
Whitney struggled to find her voice. “Go on.”
“I was kinda embarrassed— I mean I didn’t even know her, and she shared more personal stuff.”
“Like?”
“Her saying she had lots to learn about love and forgiveness but was going to try to be a good forgiver. She’d carried hurt for too long and none of that seemed to matter now.” Carla wrapped her arms around herself. “‘I don’t need to be afraid of being ab
andoned, because I never am or can be. I feel so peaceful.’ How I’d like to feel like that.”
Whitney wanted to jump up and kiss Carla on the cheek. “I can’t begin to tell you what this means to me.”
“I’m glad. I was thinking, ‘This lady’s weird, but I’m happy for her.’ Whatever she’d read seemed to do her good.”
“Then what?”
“We left each other in the plane terminal, but first Kendra pulled me aside real teary eyed. She squeezed my hand saying, ‘I hope someday soon you’ll know Christ and His love.’ And she did something real nice. She said, ‘I’d give my book to you, but it was a gift from my daughter, and I’ve marked it all up. I promise to send you a copy.’ She insisted I give her my card and hurried off with this radiant look on her face.”
“Did you get the book?”
Carla shook her head. “No. I read she died soon after. Scared me real bad. I figured if that’s what God did for her, I could do without. Like He might take me if I got close to Him.”
“Carla, God isn’t responsible for my mom’s tragic death. Don’t blame Him for the actions of some crazed person.” Whitney hugged her. “I promise I’ll send you a copy of the book I gave my mom. After you read it, we’ll talk again.” Whitney looked deep into Carla’s eyes. “You need a spiritual solution to your pain.”
Carla’s eyes took on a faraway look. “Funny, I think God helped yesterday. After I took the pills, I remembered I once heard how He loves people who don’t even know Him. Then I picked up the phone. I knew I didn’t want my life to end—maybe I could experience what Kendra had.”
Whitney squeezed her hand. “Carla, I’m thrilled to know Mom became a Christian. I want to run and shout, but all I can do is cry.” Whitney reached for the Kleenex.
“One thing I’ve always wondered about your mom’s death… I didn’t want to tell the Chief because I’m sure it’s nothing and I don’t want to get anyone in trouble...maybe I shouldn’t be saying anything now.”
