Family Practice (25 page)

Susan stood out of the way and make a crude sketch of the room. Parkhurst, face impassive, came to stand next to her.

“Anything outside?” she asked.

He shoved his hands into the back pockets of his black denim pants. As good a way as any to keep from touching anything until Osey had done all he could in the way of collecting evidence.

“Not yet. I've got Demarco and White canvassing.”

Dr. Fisher straightened and stripped latex gloves from his hands, delicate, long-fingered hands that didn't fit with the rest of him. A stocky, barrel-chested man in brown pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he had a thick neck, a shock of white hair, and heavy, dark eyebrows. He looked like a truck-driver with the hands of a pianist.

“Well?” she said.

“Overdose of something. Cyanosis, pinpoint pupils. Bite marks in the mouth from convulsive activity.”

“Any idea what?” She looked at the mug with a half-inch of thick brown liquid.

“Codeine, I'd say.”

She looked at him sharply. He never said anything definite until after he'd sliced, diced, and examined.

With a glint of amusement, he pointed at a small vial that lay partly under the couch. “It's got a label, but that's all I can see of it until Osey gets done printing. You might want to get a sample of whatever's in that mug.”

She did not make any snide remark having to do with sucking eggs. “Suicide?”

“That's more your job.”

“No sign of a note,” Parkhurst said.

That didn't mean a lot. Some suicides left a note, some didn't. A suicide strongly implied guilt in Dorothy's murder. Was that going to be it? The mayor would jump on it. Get this whole mess cleaned up. “How long has she been dead?”

Fisher put one arm across his chest, propped an elbow on it, and pinched his chin between thumb and forefinger. “Mucous membranes dry. Body temp down two degrees. Lividity just starting. No beginning of rigor yet. I'd hazard a shot at two hours tops, but if you won't hold me to it I'd say an hour is more what you're looking at.”

She turned to Parkhurst. “Have you reached her husband?”

“No. He didn't answer a page at the hospital, and he hasn't responded to his beeper.”

So where was he?

Off the kitchen and two steps down was a room where Carl Barrington and Ellen waited on a white leather couch with Yancy keeping herd on them. The room was just as spotless and lifeless as the rest of the house: television set, wet bar, sliding glass doors onto a patio.

“Yancy,” Susan said, “would you go with Dr. Barrington into the dining room, please?”

Carl shot her a hard look but made no protest as he got up, ruffled Ellen's curls, and let Yancy shepherd him out.

Susan sat in a chair at a right angle to the couch, a deep leather chair that she sank into. Scooting forward a little, she leaned toward Ellen. “Ms. Barrington, are you up to answering a few questions?”

“She called me.”

“What time?”

Ellen drew in a breath and closed her eyes. “I don't know,” she said as she exhaled. “Nine-thirty, maybe.”

“You came immediately?”

Ellen's face went greenish-white. “Would it have— If I'd been here sooner—” Wide-eyed horror.

“No,” Susan said calmly. “There was nothing you could have done.” Whether this was true or not, she wasn't certain, but she didn't want Ellen prey to the swampy menace of imagination. “How long after she called did you get here?”

Ellen rubbed a hand across her mouth. “I didn't hurry. I was in the shower. I just— I got dressed. Not too long. I could have been faster.”

“You came directly here? Did you see anybody?”

Ellen shook her head.

“A car?”

Another head shake.

“What did Vicky say?”

“I couldn't hear very well. She wanted me to come.”

“Why couldn't you hear?”

“The music was so loud.” Ellen rubbed her face hard with the heels of her palms. “Something was odd, but I don't— I can't think—”

“Odd about the phone call?”

Ellen nodded uncertainly. “Was she calling for help?”

Pop an overdose, start drifting, then have regrets, make a desperate attempt to get help. Why call Ellen? With all the physicians in the family, why not one of them? “Did Vicky say your name?”

She could see Ellen try to remember and not get back through the grim mental picture of the body.

“I don't remember.”

“Were you close friends?”

“We didn't really have much in common. We never really talked. She was—she was—so beautiful, so—” Despite a hard effort at control, tears welled up in her eyes.

From her bag, Susan got a tissue and offered it. Ellen blotted her face and blew her nose.

“What else did Vicky say on the phone?”

“Just to come. She was kind of whispery. And the music was so loud. When I got here, the music was—” Ellen got a startled look on her face. “Beethoven,” she said with dawning awareness.

“The music? That's what was playing?”

“How could that be? I don't understand. It doesn't make sense. It doesn't make any sense.”

“What doesn't make sense?”

“She wouldn't listen to Beethoven. Only if Willis was home. She hated classical music. She never listened to it. She liked country-and-western. Why would she have on Beethoven?”

Because somebody turned it on too loud and made the phone call. Somebody who didn't want to be recognized. “It was still playing when you got here?”

“I turned it off,” Ellen said guiltily. “It was so loud.”

“Tell me what you were doing this evening before you got the call,” Susan said.

In a flat voice, Ellen told her everybody had been at the house, talking about the missing painting—
the
painting, not
a
painting, Susan noted. There was hesitant and reluctant mention of accusations and responses.

Susan took her through it twice. Ellen was saying more than she probably realized, and, with a talent for mimicry, she gave a clear picture of what had gone on.

“How did Vicky seem different?”

Ellen clutched the soggy tissue and dabbed at her nose. “I don't know. She wasn't drinking. Willis wasn't either, but he was on call. And she— Usually she didn't say anything, but this time—” Ellen was seized by hiccups. “It was like she—
bic
—got fed up all of a sudden—
bic.
”

Susan went to the kitchen and brought back a glass of water. Ellen took a gulp, hiccuped, took another gulp.

“Was Vicky frightened? Angry?”

“No. I don't know. She just seemed—for just that moment—I guess angry, but—” Ellen shook her head, drew away, and huddled into herself against the arm of the couch.

Officer Ellis came through the kitchen, stepped down the two steps, and cleared his throat. Susan looked at him.

“They're ready to take the”—he glanced at Ellen—”uh, her away now, if that's all right with you.”

Susan stood by as the ambulance attendants bundled Vicky Barrington into a body bag, loaded her on a gurney, and wheeled her away. She told Ellis to accompany them to the hospital and take possession of the victim's clothing.

She let Ellen go and had Carl brought in.

“Does Willis know?” he asked.

“Not yet. Please sit down, Dr. Barrington.” She gestured toward the couch. “We haven't been able to reach him. Do you know where he is?”

“At the hospital.” Carl, in baggy khaki pants and a loose white shirt, resembled a starving peasant. His thin face had the inward, suffering look of a martyr. “Vicky poison herself?”

“Why do you think she was poisoned?”

“It doesn't take a brilliant mind. Cyanosis. Vomiting. Why would she kill herself?”

“You know any reason?”

Carl looked at her with tired mockery. “Only the obvious. She killed Dorothy and was overcome with remorse.”

“You think that's a possibility?”

“Thinking is something I try not to do too much of.”

She waited, but he was not a person who felt obliged to leap in and fill the silence. “Tell me what happened when you were all together this evening.”

He took a breath with a slight
bub
sound. “Clever of you to start with Ellie.” In a flat voice, he briefly stated who had said what, with no speculation, elaboration, or emotional overtones.

When he stopped, she let the silence lengthen, with no effect. “Taylor accused Vicky of killing Dorothy,” she said.

“No. He felt he was being accused and went on the defensive.”

“He pointed at Vicky. She responded by saying she knew something. What could she have known?”

Susan could sense Carl analyzing, weighing alternatives, computing, all the while not missing a word she was saying. “Vicky responded like a frightened kitten, with a hiss.”

“What exactly did she say?”

“Ellie must have told you.”

“I'd like you to tell me.”

“Vicky insisted she wasn't so dumb that she didn't know things.”

“Like?”

“Like: You wear a raincoat when it rains. If you meet somebody on a back road, there's a reason.”

“What did she mean by that?”

Carl shook his head. “I have no idea.”

Susan doubted it. “What else?”

“Money buys things.”

“Taylor also accused Brent.”

“He tried. Brent said, in effect, ‘Back off or you're in trouble.'”

“What did that mean?”

“I have no idea.”

Right, Susan thought. “Why did you drive Vicky home?”

“Willis got a call. She didn't have a car.”

“How did she seem?”

Carl's response was to close his eyes; when he opened them, she saw pain and worry.

“What did you talk about?” she asked.

“Six blocks. Hardly time for conversation. I drove her here, walked her to the door, drove myself home. I was there until Ellie called.”

“What was Vicky's relationship with Dorothy?”

“She avoided her whenever possible, was slightly afraid of her. Dorothy thought she wasn't good enough for Willis.”

“Why?”

“It wasn't true. She was a quiet little thing. Not real bright, but not as dumb as Dorothy thought. She never said much, mainly because she was made to feel whatever she had to say wasn't worth listening to.”

“Did she like Dorothy?”

“No.”

A loud voice came from the front of the house. Susan went to see what that was about. Willis Barrington had come home

“What is going on?” he demanded. “Where's Vicky?”

“Dr. Barrington,” Susan said, “I'm afraid we have some bad news.”

21

“P
LEASE
,” S
USAN SAID
. “Dr. Barrington, if you could answer a few questions, it would be helpful.”

With a hand on his elbow, she guided Willis Barrington toward the leather couch in the room off the kitchen. He dropped heavily.

“Can you tell me where you've been?” She sat back on the overstuffed chair.

“At the hospital. A patient. I must go to Vicky.”

“I understand, Dr. Barrington. But right now we're trying to find out what happened. We tried to reach you at the hospital and were unable to get you. Where did you go when you left there?”

His face was slack and gray, eyes dull and unfocused. His hands trembled slightly on his knees. He squeezed them into fists.

“Where were you, Dr. Barrington?”

For a moment, she thought he was going to lash out at her. He took in a harsh breath, his eyes sharpened, angry and clear; then he lost the impetus, bent his head, and spoke to the floor, his voice slurred. “I was down at the river. We used to play there when we were children. Dorothy and I. I—” He raised his head, seeing something in the past. “I miss her. I thought I could feel her near—” Somewhere deep inside, he found strength to pull his mind into focus. He did not like the direction her questions were going, and straightened up his thoughts along with his spine. “What happened to Vicky?” The words were steady.

“We're not sure yet. Apparently an overdose. Did she ever take codeine?”

“Codeine? Certainly not. She was extremely allergic to it. We discovered that when she had neuritis last year. Vicky would never take codeine.”

Susan couldn't move him beyond that point. Was Vicky depressed? Certainly not. Vicky was never depressed. Did she know something about Dorothy's murder? Certainly not. A drug addict killed Dorothy.

If Vicky hadn't taken the codeine voluntarily, what could have happened?

He refused to answer any more questions.

Susan told Parkhurst to track down Taylor Talmidge. She took Officer Tullick and went off to question Marlitta and Brent.

*   *   *

Marlitta, in a dark-green robe that made her skin look sallow, rocked barely perceptibly in the wooden rocking chair. It creaked softly. Lights from the crystal lamps on the tables turned her fair hair to gold.

Brent, dark hair attractively tousled, had pulled on black pants and a black T-shirt. He stood in front of a bookcase built into the wall next to the fireplace. Susan's eyes were immediately drawn to him. The man had presence, she had to give him that. With the lights all on, a coffee cup on a table near the wing chair, a book open face-down beside it, the room looked like a stage set. Man awakened from sound sleep and given bad news: just the right display of shock.

He went to his wife, stood behind her chair, and put a hand on her shoulder. She reached up and placed her hand over his. Uninvited, Susan sat on the sofa and spoke quietly to Marlitta. “Dr. Barrington, do you understand why I'm here?”

Brent squeezed his wife's shoulder, stepped around, and crouched in front of her, looking at her with concern. Susan asked him if he would mind waiting in the kitchen with Officer Tullick. He obviously did mind, but he rose and left without comment. Marlitta's eyes followed him.