“Oh, to hell with it!” she cried, and just kept going. Edna had picked up the moccasin, figuring Vangie would come back for it when she finished with Dr. Fukhito.
Edna always stayed late Monday nights to work on the books. But when she was ready to go home around nine o’clock, Vangie still hadn’t come back. Edna decided to take a chance and ring Dr. Fukhito and just tell him that she’d leave the shoe outside the office door in the corridor.
But there was no answer in Dr. Fukhito’s office. That meant that Vangie must have walked out the door that led directly to the parking lot. That was crazy. She’d catch her death of cold getting her foot wet.
Irresolutely Edna had held the shoe in her hand and locked up. She went out to the parking lot toward her own car just in time to see Vangie’s big red Lincoln Continental with Dr. Highley at the wheel pull out. She’d tried to run a few steps to wave to him, but it was no use. So she’d just gone home.
Maybe Dr. Highley had already made a new appointment with Vangie, but Edna would phone her just to be sure. Quickly she dialed the Lewis number. The phone rang once, twice.
A man’s voice answered: “Lewises’ residence.”
“Mrs. Lewis, please.” Edna assumed her Drake Secretarial School business voice, crisp but friendly. She wondered if she was talking to Captain Lewis.
“Who’s calling?”
“Dr. Highley’s office. We want to set up Mrs. Lewis’ next appointment.”
“Hold on.”
She could tell the transmitter was being covered. Muffled voices were talking. What could be going on? Maybe Vangie had been taken sick. If so, Dr. Highley should be told at once.
The voice at the other end began to speak. “This is Detective Cunningham of the Valley County Prosecutor’s office. I’m sorry, but Mrs. Lewis has died suddenly. You can tell her doctor that he’ll be contacted tomorrow morning by someone on our staff.”
“Mrs. Lewis died!” Edna’s voice was a howl of dismay. “Oh, what happened?”
There was a pause. “It seems she took her own life.” The connection was broken.
Slowly Edna lowered the receiver. It wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t possible.
The two-o’clock appointments arrived together: Mrs. Volmer for Dr. Highley, Mrs. Lashley for Dr. Fukhito. Mechanically Edna greeted them.
“Are you all right, Edna?” Mrs. Volmer asked curiously. “You look upset or something.”
She knew that Mrs. Volmer had talked to Vangie in the waiting room sometimes. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell her that Vangie was dead. But some instinct warned her to tell Dr. Highley first.
His one-thirty appointment came out. He was on the intercom. “Send Mrs. Volmer in, Edna.” Edna glanced at the women. There was no way she could talk on the intercom without their hearing her.
“Doctor, may I step in for a moment, please? I’d like to have a word with you.” That sounded so efficient. She was pleased at her own control.
“Certainly.” He didn’t sound very happy about it. Highley was a bit scary; still, he could be nice. She’d seen that last night.
She moved down the hall as fast as her overweight body would allow. She was panting when she knocked at his office door. He said, “Come in, Edna” His voice was edged with irritation.
Timidly she opened the door and stepped inside his office.
“Doctor,” she began hurriedly, “you’ll want to know. I just phoned Mrs. Lewis, Vangie Lewis, to make an appointment. You told me you want to see her every week now.”
“Yes, yes. And for heaven’s sake, Edna, close that door. Your voice can be heard through the hospital.”
Quickly she obeyed. Trying to keep her voice low, she said, “Doctor, when I phoned her house, a detective answered. He said she killed herself and that they’re coming to see you tomorrow.”
“Mrs. Lewis what?” He sounded shocked.
Now that she could talk about it, Edna’s words crowded in her mouth, tumbling out in a torrent. “She was so upset last night, wasn’t she, Doctor? I mean we both could see it. The way she talked to me and the way she acted like she didn’t care about anything. But you must know that; I thought it was the nicest thing when I saw you drive her home last night. I tried to wave to you, but you didn’t see me. So I guess of all people you know how bad she was.”
“Edna, how many people have you discussed this with?”
There was something in his tone that made her very nervous. Flustered, she avoided his eyes. “Why, nobody, sir. I just heard this minute.”
“You did not discuss Mrs. Lewis’ death with Mrs. Volmer or anyone else in the reception area?”
“No . . . no, sir.”
“And not with the detective on the phone?”
“No, sir.”
“Edna, tomorrow when the police come, you and I will tell them everything we know about Mrs. Lewis’ frame of mind. But listen to me now.” He pointed his finger at her and leaned forward. Unconsciously, she stepped back. “I don’t want Mrs. Lewis’ name mentioned by you to anyone—anyone, do you hear? Mrs. Lewis was an extremely neurotic and unstable woman. But the fact is that her suicide reflects very badly on our hospital. How do you think it’s going to look in the papers if it comes out that she was a patient of mine? And I certainly won’t have you gossiping in the reception room with the other patients, some of whom have very tenuous holds on the fetuses they are carrying. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Edna quavered. She should have known he’d think she’d gossip about this.
“Edna, you like your job?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Edna, do not discuss with anyone—anyone, mind you—one word about the Lewis case. If I hear you have so much as mentioned it, you’re finished here. Tomorrow we’ll talk with the police, but no one else. Mrs. Lewis’ state of mind is confidential. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you going out with friends tonight? You know how you get when you drink.”
Edna was close to tears. “I’m going home. I’m not feeling well, Doctor. I want to have my wits about me tomorrow when the police talk to me. Poor little Cinderella.” She gulped as easy tears came to her eyes. But then she saw the expression on his face. Angry. Disgusted.
Edna straightened up, dabbed at her eyes. “I’ll send Mrs. Volmer in, Doctor. And you don’t have to worry,” she added with dignity. “I value our hospital. I know how much your work means to you and to our patients. I’m not going to say one single word.”
The rest of the afternoon was busy. She managed to push the thought of Vangie to the back of her mind as she talked with patients, made future appointments, collected money, reminded patients if they were falling behind in their payments.
Finally, at five o’clock she could leave. Warmly wrapped in a leopard-spotted fake-fur coat and matching hat, she drove home to her garden apartment in Edgeriver, six miles away.
♦9♦
In the clinically impersonal autopsy room of the Valley County Morgue, Richard Carroll gently removed the fetus from the corpse of Vangie Lewis. His long, sensitive fingers lifted the small body, noting that the amniotic fluid had begun to leak. Vangie Lewis could not have carried this baby much longer. He judged that it weighed about two and a half pounds. It was a boy.
The firstborn son. He shook his head at the waste as he laid it on an adjacent slab. Vangie had been in an advanced state of toxemia. It was incredible that any doctor had allowed her to progress so far in this condition. He’d be interested to know what her white-cell count had been. Probably terrifically high.
He’d already sent fluid samples to the laboratory. He had no doubt that the cyanide killed the woman. Her throat and mouth were badly burned. She’d swallowed a huge gulp of it, God help her.
The burns on the outside of her mouth? Carefully Richard examined them. He tried to visualize the moment she’d drunk the poison. She’d started to swallow, felt the burning, changed her mind, tried to spit it out. It had run over her li
ps and chin.
To him it didn’t wash.
There were fine white fibers clinging to her coat. They looked as though they’d come from a blanket. He was having them analyzed. It seemed to him that she had been lying on a chenille spread. He wanted to compare the fiber from the spread with those taken from the coat. Of course, the coat was pretty tired-looking, and they might have been picked up at any time.
Her body had become so bloated that it looked as though Vangie had just put on whatever clothes she could find that would cover her.
Except for the shoes. That was another incongruous note. The shoes were well cut and expensive. More than that, they looked quite new. It was unlikely Vangie could have been outdoors on Monday in those shoes and have them in such mint condition. There were no water spots or snow marks on them, even though the ankles of her panty hose had spatters of dirty snow. Didn’t that suggest that she must have been out, come in, decided to leave again, changed her shoes and then committed suicide?
That didn’t wash either.
Another thing. Those shoes were awfully tight. Particularly the right foot. She could barely lace the shoe, and the vamp was narrow. It would have been like putting on a vise. Considering the rest of the way she was dressed, why bother to put on shoes that will kill you?
Shoes that will kill you . . .
The phrase stuck in Richard’s mind. He straightened up. He was just about finished here. As soon as they had a lab report he could tell Scott Myerson what he had found.
Once more he turned to study the fetus. The cyanide had entered its bloodstream. Like its mother, it must have died in agony. Carefully Richard examined it. The miracle of life never ceased to awe him; if anything, it grew with every experience he had with death. He marveled at the exquisite balance of the body: the harmony of its parts, muscles and fibers, bones and sinews, veins and arteries; the profound complexity of the nervous system, the ability of the body to heal its own wounds, its elaborate attempt to protect its unborn.
Suddenly he bent over the fetus. Swiftly he freed it from the placenta and studied it under the strong light. Was it possible?
It was a hunch, a hunch he had to check out. Dave Broad was the man for him. Dave was in charge of prenatal research at Mt. Sinai. He’d send this fetus to him and ask for an opinion.
If what he believed was true, there was a damn good reason why Captain Chris Lewis would have been upset about his wife’s pregnancy.
Maybe even upset enough to kill her!
♦10♦
Scott Myerson, the Valley County Prosecutor, scheduled a five o’clock meeting in his office for Katie, Richard and the two Homicide Squad detectives assigned to the Lewis suicide. Scott’s office did not fit the television world’s image of a prosecutor’s private chambers. It was small. The walls were painted a sickly yellow. The furniture was battered; the ancient files were battleship gray. The windows looked out on the county jail.
Katie arrived first. Gingerly she eased into the one reasonably comfortable extra chair. Scott looked at her with a hint of a smile. He was a small man with a surprisingly deep voice. Large rimmed glasses, a dark, neat mustache and meticulously tailored conservative suit made him look more like a banker than a law enforcer. He had been in court all day on a case he was personally trying and had spoken to Katie only by phone. Now he observed her bandaged arm and the bruise under her eye and the wince of pain that came over her face as she moved her body.
“Thanks for coming in, Katie,” he said. “I know how overloaded you are and do appreciate it. But you’d better take tomorrow off.”
Katie shook her head. “No. I’m okay, and this soreness will probably be a lot better in the morning.”
“All right, but remember, if you start feeling rotten, just go home.” He became businesslike. “The Lewis case. What have we got on it?”
Richard and the detectives came in while she was talking. Silently they settled in the three folding chairs remaining.
Scott tapped a pencil on his desk as he listened. He turned to the detectives. “What did you come up with?”
Phil Cunningham pulled out his notebook. “That place was no honeymoon cottage. The Lewises went to some neighborhood gatherings.” He looked at Katie. “Guess your sister tried to have them included. Everyone liked Chris Lewis. They thought Vangie was a pain in the neck—obviously jealous of him; not interested in getting involved with any activities in the community, not interested in anything. At the parties she was always hanging on him; got real upset if he talked more than five minutes to another woman. He was very patient with her. One of the neighbors said her husband told her after one of those parties that if he were married to Vangie, he’d kill her with his bare hands. Then when she got pregnant she was really insufferable. Talked baby all the time.”
Charley had opened his notebook. “Her obstetrician’s office called to set up an appointment. I said we’d be in to talk to her doctor tomorrow.”
Richard spoke quietly. “There are a few questions I’d like to ask that doctor about Vangie Lewis’ condition.”
Scott looked at Richard. “You’ve finished the autopsy?”
“Yes. It was definitely cyanide. She died instantly. The mouth and throat were badly burned. Which leads to the crucial point.”
There were a water pitcher and paper cups on top of the file. Walking over to the file, Richard poured a generous amount of water into a paper cup. “Okay,” he said, “this is filled with dissolved cyanide. I am about to kill myself. I take a large gulp.” Quickly he swallowed. The paper cup was still nearly half full. The others watched him intently.
He held up the paper cup. “In my judgment, Vangie Lewis must have drunk at least the approximately three ounces I just swallowed in order to have the amount of cyanide we found in her system. So far it checks out. But here’s the problem. The outside of her lips and chin and even neck were burned. The only way that could have happened would have been if she spat some of the stuff out . . . quite a lot of it out. But if she swallowed as much as she did in one gulp, it means her mouth was empty. Did she then take another mouthful and spit it out? No way. The reaction is instantaneous.”
“She couldn’t have swallowed half of the mouthful and spat out the rest?” Scott asked.
Richard shrugged. “There was too much both in her system and on her face to suggest a split dose. Yet the amount spilled on the spread was negligible, and there were just a few drops at the bottom of the glass. So if she was holding a full tumbler, she’d have had to splash some of it all over her lips and chin, then drink the rest of it to justify the amount expended. It could have happened that way, but I don’t believe it. The other problem is the shoes she had on.”
Quickly he explained his belief that Vangie Lewis could not have walked comfortably in the shoes that had been laced to her feet. While she listened, Katie visualized Vangie’s face. The dead face she had seen in the dream and the dead face she’d seen on the bed slid back and forth in her mind. She forced her attention back to the room and realized Charley was talking to Scott. “ . . . Richard and I both feel the husband noticed something about the body that he didn’t tell us.”
“I think it was the shoes,” Richard said.
Katie turned to him. “The phone call Chris Lewis made. I told you about that before, Scott.”
“You did.” Scott leaned back in his chair. “All right. You two”—he pointed to Charley and Phil—“find out everything you can about Captain Lewis. See who this Joan is. Find out what time his plane came in this morning. Check on phone calls Vangie Lewis made the last few days. Have Rita see Mrs. Lewis’ doctor and get his opinion of her mental and physical condition.”
“I can tell you about her physical condition,” Richard said. “If she hadn’t delivered that baby soon, she could have saved her cyanide.”
“There’s another thing,” Scott said. “Where did she get the cyanide?”
“No trace of it in the house,” Charley reported. “Not a drop. But she was some
thing of a gardener. Maybe she had some stashed away from last summer.”
“Just in case she decided to kill herself?” Scott’s voice was humorless. “Is there anything else?”
Richard hesitated. “There may be,” he said slowly. “But it’s so far out . . . and in light of what I’ve just heard, I think I’m barking up the wrong tree. So give me another twenty-four hours. Then I may have something else to throw on the table.”
Scott nodded. “Get back to me.” He stood up. “I believe we all agree. We’re not closing this as a suicide.” He looked at Richard. “One more question. Is there any chance that she died somewhere else and was put back in her bed?”
Richard frowned. “Possible . . . but the way the blood congealed in her body tells me she was lying in the position in which we found her from the minute she drank that cyanide.”
“All right,” Scott said. “Just a thought. Let’s wrap it up for tonight.”
Katie started to get up. “I know it’s insane, but . . .” She felt Richard’s arm steadying her.
“You sure look stiff,” he interrupted.
For an instant she’d been about to tell them about the crazy dream she’d had in the hospital. His voice snapped her back to reality. What a fool she’d have appeared to them. Gratefully she smiled at Richard. “Stiff in the head mostly, I think,” she commented.
♦11♦
He could not let Edna destroy everything he’d worked for. His hands gripped the wheel. He could feel the trembling in them. He had to calm down.
The exquisite irony that she of all people had seen him drive the Lincoln out of the parking lot. Obviously she’d assumed that Vangie was with him in the car. But the minute she told her story to the police, everything would be over. He could hear the questions: “You drove Mrs. Lewis home, Doctor. What did you do when you left her? Did you call a cab? What time was that, Doctor? Miss Burns tells us that you left the parking lot shortly after nine P.M.”