Diagnosis Murder 5 - The Past Tense (10 page)

All of the living room furniture was designed with sharp, aerodynamic angles and upholstered in vibrant colors. The side tables were shaped like boomerangs. The lamps were flying saucers, glowing with atomic energy. I got the feeling that if I didn't sit down soon, the furniture would leave without me and break the sound barrier on its way.

We immediately gravitated towards big Dan Marlowe and his petite wife, Irene, who were helping themselves to the cucumber sandwiches, scones, and tea spread out on platters at one of the palette-shaped coffee tables. Irene wasn't actually any more petite than I was, but a linebacker would look small beside Dan, who had one of his meaty paws around her thin waist.

"I asked one of the servers for a cup of coffee," Dan said. "You would have thought I was asking for a cup of crude oil."

"It's tea or nothing," Irene said. She wore a lime green short-sleeved dress and a pillbox hat tipped at a jaunty angle. The way she held her teacup, it looked as if she was modeling it rather than drinking from it.

"I love tea," Katherine said, pouring herself a cup. "I bet it's imported from England."

I gobbled down a few of the sandwiches and turned to Dan. "Dr. Whittington just told me I had a bright future."

"It's amazing what a difference a well-knotted tie can make," Dan said.

"And matching socks," said Chet Arnold as he drifted over with his wife, Gladys, who was staring in horror at Irene. They were wearing identical dresses and hats.

I didn't see the problem. Chet, Dan, and I were dressed almost alike and it didn't bother us. But Gladys and Irene obviously saw it differently. They were still staring at each other, mouths gaping open.

"This is so embarrassing," Gladys muttered. "We really should call each other before these gatherings."

"I think you both look wonderful," I said, trying to defuse the awkward moment.

Gladys and Irene glared at me. Irene tugged at Dan's sleeve and gestured across the room.

"Oh, look, it's the Pattersons," she said. "We haven't seen them in ages."

"I see Dick Patterson every day," Dan said.

"Well, I don't," Irene said. "Excuse us."

She practically dragged her husband away, which, considering his bulk, wasn't an easy feat. Irene wanted to put as much distance between herself and the other dress as possible.

Katherine put her arm around me and gave me a squeeze. I knew she was amused. She didn't care much about fashion and wouldn't have been bothered if every woman there was wearing the same outfit as hers.

"I need a drink," Gladys said. "Isn't there anything a bit stronger here than tea?"

"Not that I've seen," said Bart Spicer as he and his wife, Mary, joined us. "Nice dress, Gladys."

Chet groaned and Gladys looked like she might be sick. She was as green as her dress.

"Does Dr. Whittington live in this big house all by himself?" Katherine asked, quickly changing the subject.

"He's got a wife and a nine-year-old son," Bart said. "I hear they went back to London for a while."

Katherine glanced around the room. "Must be a long while. There aren't any flowers in the house and not a single toy outside. It doesn't feel lived in at all, certainly not by a family with kids. It's almost like a model home."

"Now who's playing detective?" I chided her.

Dr. Whittington strode into the center of the room and rang a tiny bell to get everyone's attention.

"I want to thank you all for coming this evening," he said. "It's not often I get the opportunity to enjoy the convivial company of my esteemed colleagues outside of the hospital."

I glanced at Dan and Bart, who, judging by the expressions on their faces, were as confused by Dr. Whittington's remarks as I was. He'd never expressed any interest in my convivial company before. If anything, he could barely stand my company at all.

"It's because I care about you, and the well-being of your families and our way of life, that I invited you here this evening," he said. "I want to help each and every one of you protect yourselves and your loved ones from the Red threat."

As he said this, two men came out of an adjoining room wheeling a movie projector while another man brought out a screen, which he began erecting behind Dr. Whittington.

"It's only a matter of time before the Soviets drop a hydrogen bomb, and it could be right here in Los Angeles," Dr. Whittington said. "That's why it's essential that every family have their own bomb shelter, one designed to protect you from the devastating effects of nuclear fallout."

For the next ten minutes, Dr. Whittington lectured us about the likelihood of an imminent, full-scale nuclear at tack. Even if the bomb wasn't dropped on our heads, he assured us, the fallout from an explosion nearby would decimate us unless we sought refuge in a reinforced concrete bunker and slammed a half-inch-thick steel door shut behind us.

He then introduced us to Carl Stokes, a man with eyes that sparkled so intensely and teeth that were so blindingly white, I wondered if he wasn't radioactive already. Carl was a sales representative from Safe Haven, Incorporated, the leading builder of suburban bomb shelters.

At least now I understood why I'd been invited to Dr. Whittington's home. It wasn't because he wanted to socialize with me. It was because he wanted to sell me something. But it was too late to leave now, even though I felt Katherine gently nudging me in the direction of the door. If I fled now, I'd only incur Dr. Whittington's wrath later, and there was no bunker I could hide in to protect me from that.

Carl told us that a bomb shelter would become as common and essential a feature in the home as the kitchen. And it wouldn't be saved just for nuclear attacks.

"Think of it as an extension of your family room," Carl suggested. "With colorful wallpaper, comfortable chairs, board games, toys, a record player, and a battery-powered radio. A welcome refuge not only from radiation but from the stress of everyday life."

The refuge should also contain portable toilets, candles, bunk beds, books, magazines, and enough cigarettes, canned food, powdered milk, liquor, and water to last a family of four for two weeks.

We were then shown a twenty-minute movie that began with mushroom clouds, footage of devastated cities, and depictions of hordes of decaying people, staggering through the streets, tripping over corpses. The movie then dramatized what might happen if the bomb was dropped on a typical American suburb. The families with bomb shelters in their basements or in their backyards survived, casually playing board games and joyfully eating canned foods, while their foolish neighbors who didn't have shelters fought one another for scraps of irradiated garbage and died horrible, drooling deaths.

"Oh, how they wish they'd recognized the importance of building a bomb shelter," the narrator, who was also Carl, intoned gravely.

The movie discussed the need of hiding your bomb shelter from your neighbors, lest they want to take refuge in it during a nuclear attack.

"Tell them it's a wine cellar," Carl suggested, "or a new rumpus room for the kids!"

But if neighbors did discover your shelter, it was your moral obligation in the event of a nuclear attack to keep them out, with lethal force if necessary, so they wouldn't imperil your family's safety by using your provisions. The moral thing, we were told, was not to let a neighbor into your shelter but to encourage him, before the bomb was dropped, to build his own.

Following the movie, colorful brochures were handed out inviting us to arrange an appointment to visit the model home and shelter in a valley housing tract. Bomb shelters weren't just good for our lives, they were also good for our money. Carl told us the bomb shelter industry itself was a great investment opportunity. The industry could gross as much as twenty billion dollars in the next five years, assuming a nuclear war didn't break out first.

That explained why Dr. Whittington had invited us all there. He wasn't concerned about our survival. He was an investor.

When Carl was finished with his presentation, cake and tea were served. Somehow nobody seemed to be in much of a party mood, though.

We didn't stay for dessert. We thanked Dr. Whittington for a lovely evening of convivial company and nuclear holocaust and left as fast as we could.

CHAPTER TWELVE

We rarely had a free night and a babysitter, so we were determined take advantage of the opportunity. We went to a steakhouse on Wilshire Boulevard for a late dinner with the Spicers and the Arnolds.

Naturally, the big topic of conversation was Dr. Whittington's disastrous party. We were all living in apartments. What made him think we were in the market for bomb shelters?

"Carl made the bomb shelter sound so homey and attractive, who needs a house?" Katherine said. "We could build a bomb shelter for one third of the price."

We laughed about that for a while, then we started talking about the difficulties of saving up for a house, sharing anecdotes about our kids, and complaining about our hours at the hospital.

Once we got on the subject of Community General, the three of us doctors at the table all remembered we had long shifts the next morning and that it was probably best to get home.

It was pouring rain when we parked in front of the Armacost Sands to drop off the Spicers and pick up Steve. The children were asleep in Tina's playpen and the baby sitter, Joanna, was sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over some open textbooks, taking notes and studying. One of the books was very familiar to me. It was the tenth edition of the Merck Manual of Diagnosis and Therapy, the bible of medical professionals and students.

I asked Bart how much I could contribute towards paying the babysitter, but he wouldn't take any money from me. Instead, since his car was in the shop, he asked me to drive Joanna home so she wouldn't have to take the bus. I was glad to. I wasn't going to leave the poor girl out alone in the rain, waiting for the bus to show up.

Steve didn't even stir as Katherine lifted him out of the playpen and dressed him in his raincoat. He was deep asleep.

"They played hard," Joanna explained. "He may sleep until Tuesday."

"I wish," Katherine said, then whispered to me, "Be sure to get her number, Mark. We could use a good babysitter."

Joanna Pate told me that she shared an apartment in Santa Monica with another nineteen-year-old girl she'd met during her senior year at Fairfax High School. Her friend wanted to be a stewardess but was waiting tables now at Norm's.

Ordinarily, it wouldn't have taken me more than a few minutes to drive Joanna home. But it was a dark, foggy night and the rain was coming down hard. I drove very slowly. I didn't want to become a patient in my own ER.

She sat beside me in the front seat, her book bag at her feet. "How was the party?"

"It wasn't quite what we expected," I said.

"I'm not surprised," she said. "Dr. Whittington doesn't strike me as a real festive guy."

"You know Dr. Whittington?"

"Sure. He runs the nursing school at Community General and controls admissions," she said. "I'm studying to be a nurse. I babysit to help pay for my tuition."

I felt a chill go down my back and it wasn't because I was cold. Sally Pruitt was also babysitting to earn money for nursing school. Could they have known each other? I wanted to ask right away, but instead I forced myself to relax, to take it slowly.

"How did you meet Dr. Spicer?" I asked, trying hard to sound casual.

"Almost all the doctors at Community General are married and work long hours," she said. "Their wives are stuck at home all day with the kids. They're both tired and irritable and need a break. So we got this idea. A few of us girls got together and started approaching anyone with a wedding ring and asking them if they needed a babysitter. And they all did. We had more work than we ever imagined."

"Doctors are paying you to go to nursing school," I said.

"I never thought of it that way," she said. "I like it."

"Are you sure you don't want to go to business school instead? It sounds to me like you have a natural talent for marketing and sales."

"My dad is a salesman," she said. "I guess a little of it rubbed off on me."

"I know somebody else who babysits to make money for nursing school," I said. "Have you ever met Sally Pruitt?"

"Yes, I knew Sally," Joanna said softly. "I have some bad news. She's—"

"Dead," I said. "I know."

"Were you a friend of the family?"

"I didn't actually know her. It was a poor choice of words." I shifted uneasily in my seat. "I was on call in the ER when she was brought in."

"You missed knowing a really special person," Joanna said, beginning to cry. "She was so sweet, so kind. All she wanted was to be a nurse."

Her shoulders started to heave. I felt guilty for making her so sad, and yet at the same time I wanted to ask her more.

I pulled the car over to the curb in front of her building and let the motor run.

"I just can't believe she's gone," she said, turning herself against me and pressing her face to my chest. I patted her head and felt her tears moisten my shirt. "It was such a horrible accident. This damn storm is a nightmare."

"Did you know her well?" I asked.

"No." Her voice was muffled, her face against me, her shoulders shaking. "But now I wish I had. I just saw her around. She wasn't a student yet. She was hoping Dr. Whittington would admit her next term. One of the girls met her at the admissions office, got to know her, and put her name on the list."

"What list?"

"Of students willing to babysit," Joanna said. "Why do you want to know these things about her?"

"I suppose it's because of the way I met her," I said. "I only knew Sally as a corpse. I'd prefer to know her as a person."

If Joanna didn't know that Sally was murdered in a bathtub, I wasn't going to be the one to tell her. I certainly wasn't going to admit I was bumbling around trying to find her killer.

"It's just so sad," she said, sniffling. I patted her back reassuringly.

"Do you remember who the girl was who met Sally and put her on the list? I'd like to talk with her."