Sisterhood (40 page)
Authors: Michael Palmer
“Lieutenant Dockerty, I have some things to talk with you about,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied, settling on the edge of his desk, “you certainly do.”
Within thirty minutes, Dockerty had heard enough of Armstrong’s confession to call in a stenographer. As a final act of defiance, he rang the captain and asked him to witness the proceeding. The man, a silky half-politician, half-policeman with bottle-black hair, listened in dumbfounded silence as Armstrong calmly admitted
responsibility for the murders of Charlotte Thomas and Dotty Dalrymple, as well as for hiring the killer of Ben Glass and Joseph Rosetti. It was a story she had rehearsed carefully before driving to Station 1—an explanation she hoped would leave Dockerty satisfied that she had acted totally on her own. It disgusted her to have to paint Dalrymple as a heroine who had died because she had stumbled onto the truth, but any hint of a conspiracy would have risked exposure of the movement. She knew what policemen like Dockerty could do. Besides, Margaret was sure that up until the end Dotty had been just as dedicated to The Sisterhood as she was. The woman was frightened of losing her position and her influence, that’s all.
Armstrong’s confession held together well enough, but there was a vagueness about the details that made Dockerty uncomfortable. He attempted to pin her down, but was silenced by the captain, who found his tongue in time to say, “Now, Lieutenant, I’m sure the doctor will fill in some of these details in good time. As you can see, she’s had a rather rough go of it.”
Armstrong thanked him, adding a look that clearly made Dockerty an outsider in the exchange between two people of stature.
Dockerty decided to push his luck. “Just one thing,” he ventured. “Exactly how did you go about hiring a killer like Leonard Vincent?”
“I shall cover that in a moment,” she said, giving him her most withering, patrician stare, “but first, if you would direct me to your ladies’ room?”
“If you’ll wait,” Dockerty said, “I’ll get a matron to go …”
“Nonsense,” the captain cut in. “Dr. Armstrong has been officially charged with nothing as yet. The … ah … ladies’ room is just down the hall to the right. You can’t miss it.”
Armstrong again favored the captain with a look and carefully adjusted her skirt before striding from the room.
The ladies’ room was a sty. The institutional mosaic floor was stained and cracked. What paper towels there were overflowed the metal wastebasket to one side of the sink. The air reeked of urine and disinfectant.
Margaret Donner Armstrong did not notice the filth. She scanned the room, then went directly to the toilet stall, hooked the plywood door shut, and sat down.
She felt pleased at the way she had manipulated Dockerty and the captain. If David and Christine were true to their word, The Sisterhood of Life would die with dignity. The irony in that realization brought her some solace.
After leaving the hospital, Armstrong had gone home and honored her promise. The tapes—all but one—she had incinerated, stopping now and again to listen to a particular report or to reflect on her friendship with a particular woman. Her dream—her ultimate dream—had nearly been fulfilled. If only Dorothy hadn’t come apart.
Barbara Littlejohn had agreed that it was no longer possible for the movement to continue. At times during their telephone conversation the woman had actually sounded relieved. Armstrong wondered if Barbara would have reacted the same way as Dalrymple had her own reputation and career been on the line. The painful fact was that she simply did not know for certain—about Barbara or any of them.
So it had been decided. Barbara would make the calls and write the letters, then do what she could to continue the Clinton Foundation projects. And as the receiver dropped to its cradle, Armstrong knew that, after forty years, it was over.
Now, she sat looking at the sordid messages and primitive drawings on the door in front of her, remembering back fifty years to the last time she had been in
such a place. She had felt frightened then. Frightened and dirty. She had feared the detectives and the way they stared at her breasts. She had taken her mind to special hidden places to keep from telling them what they wanted her to say. Hour after hour she had resisted their control, at one point choosing to wet herself rather than ask to leave the room. And in the end she had won. And with her victory had come the chance to strike out on a holy mission—a journey she had come close—oh, so close—to completing.
Now it was time to embark on another.
Armstrong reached inside her blouse to the waistband of her skirt and withdrew the syringe Dotty Dalrymple had almost forced David to use. For a few moments she fingered the deadly cylinder. Then she rolled up one sleeve and skillfully slipped the needle into a vein. She rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes. With a fine, slim finger, she depressed the plunger.
“It’s all right, Mama … I’m here, Mama,” she said.
T
he breeze, which had been little more than a zephyr all day, picked up suddenly, sending noisy flocks of dry leaves swirling about the gray stones.
Dora Dalrymple paused on the narrow path to pull her greatcoat tightly about her. She was, in face, size, manner, and dress, a virtual mirror of her late twin. Her incongruously tiny feet handled the steep downgrade with a sureness born of having taken the same walk each evening for three weeks.
The grave, still a fresh mound of dirt, was encompassed by a ring of pines. In the same grove a small, uncarved block of marble marked the plot where someday she herself would be buried. Ritually, she picked up the metal folding chair she had left there the first day and positioned it next to the dark soil. Then she placed a single flower over the spot where she knew her sister’s heart to be.
“It’s a mum, Dotty,” she said, “sort of rust colored. I know mums aren’t one of your favorites, but this one’s so pretty and so like autumn. You’re not upset by my choice today, are you?” Dora paused, as if listening to
her sister’s reassuring voice. “Good, I thought you’d understand,” she said finally.
“People at the hospital are being very nice to me now. I think they’ve even stopped calling me Tweedledee behind my back … yes, I know. Well, it’s out of respect for you that they don’t, I think. Dotty, you got a call today from Violet in Detroit. I told her you were out for the afternoon and to call back later. I … I don’t think I can continue The Garden without you. I mean, I helped and all, but you were the one who started it and kept it growing.… But The Sisterhood is finished. All of the nurses, including our flowers, have been notified. None of them wants The Garden to die, but to survive we must grow. How will I find new nurses to join us? … Perhaps. Perhaps you’re right. You always understood human nature better than I did.… So, I could cook better than you—what does that prove? It’s apples and oranges as far as I’m concerned …
“I checked today with Mr. Stevens. Your stone is almost ready. It’s beautiful. You’ll love it, I know you will.… Okay, okay, so I’m changing the subject. I’m frightened of making a wrong decision, that’s all. You were always so confident, so decisive.… Is that a promise? … Good. In that case I think I’ll follow your suggestion and ask that lovely Janet to move in with me.… Dorothy, are you sure you know what you’re saying? Forever is a long time to stand by anyone.… Well, all right. I’ll call Hyacinth today. But remember, we’ll both be counting on you every step of the way.”
The conversation over, Dora placed the chair to one side of the grove and returned to her car, oblivious to the light rain that had begun falling.
Inside the Tudor mansion she and Dotty had purchased shortly after the inception of The Garden, she brewed a pot of tea and settled into an oversized easy
chair, one of a pair they had designed themselves. Fifteen minutes later, the telephone rang.
“I’m calling Dahlia,” the young woman’s voice said.
“I’m sorry, but Dahlia is not readily available,” Dora said, assuming the whispered tone she had heard Dotty use on so many occasions. “However, this is her sister … Chrysanthemum. You may, if you wish, confide in me just as you did in Dahlia.”
“Well … all right, I guess,” the woman said uncertainly. “This is Violet calling again from Detroit. Saint Bart’s Hospital. A situation has come up here that I think could use some further research.”
“Go on,” Dora said reassuringly.
“It’s a woman named Agnes Morgan. Her husband is Carter Morgan, one of the executive directors at Ford. She’s only forty-two, but is drying out in our hospital for the third time this year. The scuttlebutt has it that her husband’s been trying to get a divorce for several years so he could marry his secretary. Apparently Mrs. Morgan won’t let him have one without bleeding him dry and doing what she can to ruin his career.”
“Sounds very promising,” Dora said, doodling the picture of an automobile on a yellow legal pad and overlaying it with an ornately inscribed dollar sign. “I’ll do some checking up on the situation and call you. Meanwhile, dig up as much information as you can on this Mr. Morgan and his wife. It sounds like the benefits in this case would be quite substantial, assuming the gentleman decides to do business with us.”
“I think he just might,” Violet said. “When can I expect to hear from you?”
“Within a day or so, I think,” Dora answered. “As you know, we’ll take care of any business dealings. You’ll have all the help you need.”
She replaced the receiver and picked up a gold-framed photo of Dotty from the table. The likeness to herself was such that she might have been holding a looking glass.
“Well, love, we’re still in business,” she said, resting the picture on her massive lap. “I can’t do it without your help, though, so you’d better not forget your promise. Anyhow, that’s what sisters are for, aren’t they?”
A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR
M
ICHAEL
P
ALMER
, M.D., is the author of
Miracle Cure, Critical Judgment, Silent Treatment, Natural Causes, Extreme Measures, Flashback, Side Effects
, and
The Sisterhood
. His books have been translated into thirty languages. He trained in internal medicine at Boston City and Massachusetts General Hospitals, spent twenty years as a full-time practitioner of internal and emergency medicine, and is now an associate director of the Massachusetts Medical Society’s physician health program.
Turn the page for an exciting preview of
Michael Palmer’s newest medical thriller
FATAL
available now in Bantam hardcover
It was the second straight day of unremitting rain. Nikki Solari hated running in this kind of weather, but today she was considering doing it anyway. It had been more than a week since her roommate and close friend, Kathy Wilson, had stormed from their South Boston flat. A week without so much as a word—to her or to their mutual friends. The police had been surprisingly little help. Nikki had filled out the appropriate forms and brought in some photographs, but so far nothing.
“Miss Solari, try to relax. I’m sure your friend will turn up.”
“It’s
Doctor
Solari, and why are you so sure?”
“That’s the way it is with cases like this. Everyone worries and the missing person just shows up.”
“Well, this missing person is an incredibly talented musician who would never leave her band in the lurch, which she has. She is a wonderfully dependable friend who would never do anything to upset me, which she
has. And she is an extremely compassionate and kind woman who would never say anything abusive to anyone, yet before she disappeared she had become abusive to everyone.”
“Doctor
Solari, tell me something honestly. Were you and Miss Wilson lovers?”
“Oh, Christ …”
Nikki desperately needed to wrest the worry from her brain, if only for a while, and the only ways she had ever been able to do so were running, making music, and performing autopsies.
It was eleven in the morning. One more hour until lunch. She could go out and splash through a few miles then. She stood by the window of her office watching the cars creep down Albany Street past the modern building that was the headquarters of the chief medical examiner and his staff. This was her third year as an associate in ME Josef Keller’s office. She was fascinated by the work and absolutely adored the man. But the past week had been hell. She glanced over at her desk. There were reports to read, dictations to do, and several boxes of slides to review, but the concentration just wasn’t there.
“Hey there, beautiful, you’ve got a case.”
Without waiting for an invitation, Brad Cummings strode into the office. Divorced, with a couple of kids, Cummings was the deputy chief medical examiner. He was athletic, urbane, and, in the eyes of perhaps every woman in the city except Nikki, handsome. She found him smug, self-absorbed, and way too pretty—quite possibly the absolute antithesis of what she was looking for in a man.
“Where’s Dr. Keller?” she asked.
“Away until one. That means I’m the boss until then,
so I get to say who gets what case, and you get this tubber.”
“This what?”
“Sixty-six-year-old guy had a coronary getting into his Jacuzzi, smacked his head on the side, and went for the eternal swim. He’s just eight months post-bypass surgery. I spoke to his doctor, who said he was on
mucho
cardiac meds and undoubtedly had an MI. So he’s really just a “view.” You don’t have to cut on him at all. And that means we have time to go have lunch at that place on Newbury Street I’ve been telling you about.”
“Brad, I don’t want to go out with you.”
“But I thought you broke up with that drip you were dating.”
“Correction, that drip broke up with me. And I’m not interested in starting up with another one.”
“She digs me. I can tell.”
In the best of times Nikki had precious little patience for the man.
“Brad, you have more than enough scalps hanging on your lodgepole without mine. And I’m sure there are plenty more where those came from. We’ll keep getting along fine so long as you keep things on a business or collegial basis. But I promise you, Brad, call me beautiful again, or sweets, or honey, or babe, or anything other than Nikki or Dr. Solari, and I’ll write you up and hand it over to Dr. Keller. Clear?”
“Hey, easy does it.”
Nikki could tell that he stopped himself at the last possible instant from adding “Babe.”
“I’m going to get started on the new case,” she said.
“I told you, this is a straightforward view. No scalpel required, just eyeball him and sign off.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll make that decision after I’ve seen the guy.”
Nikki didn’t add that there wasn’t a chance in the world she would pass on this case regardless of how open and shut it was. Here was the perfect opportunity to get her mind off Kathy for a few hours without getting soaked on the streets of Boston.
“Suit yourself,” Cummings said. “Three days.”
“What?”
“Three days. That’s how long the dude’s been in the water. He’s a little, um, bloated. Sure you don’t want to just view and then skiddoo?”
“Have a good lunch, Brad.”
Nikki changed into scrubs and located the remains of Roger Belanger on the center of three stainless steel tables in Autopsy Suite 1. The daughter of an Italian and an Irishwoman, she could easily trace her thick, black hair and wide (some said sensuous) mouth to her father, and her fair skin, sea-green eyes, slender frame, and caustic wit to her mom. At her father’s urging, she had tried to follow his rather large footsteps into surgery. But after a year of residency, she switched to pathology, realizing that her desire to have a life outside of medicine was precluded by spending most of it in the OR or on rounds. Not once had she regretted her decision.
Belanger was hardly the most unsightly corpse Nikki had ever examined, but neither was he at all pleasant to look at. Overweight and nearly egg bald, he was extremely bloated and discolored, with purplish marbling of his skin. His flaccid limbs were well past rigor mortis. The white scar from his bypass ran the length of his breastbone.
Good-bye for now, Kath
, she thought as she began to
focus in on the details of the body.
I’ll let you back in in two hours
.
“No matter how obvious a case is,” Joe Keller had reminded her on more than one occasion, “no matter how apparently open and shut, you must make no assumptions. Process is everything. If you stick to process, step by step, you will seldom have to explain having missed something.”
Step one: Read over as much information as you can lay your hands on about the subject. Step two: Inspect every millimeter of the skin.
Nikki used the foot-activated dictation system as she went.
“There is a well-healed three-inch scar in the right lower abdominal quadrant, possibly from an appendectomy; a ten-inch scar less than a year old down the mid-anterior chest; a ten-inch scar of about the same age on the inner right thigh, probably from harvesting a vein for his bypass; and a well-healed two-inch scar just below the left patella, probably from the repair of a laceration many years ago.
“There is a single contusion just above and behind the right ear, with discoloration and some swelling but no depression of the bone beneath. There is a nickel-size abrasion just beneath the right mandible that—”
Nikki peered at the innocent-looking scrape. It was the only place on Belanger’s waterlogged body where skin was actually scraped off. She put on a pair of magnifying goggles and illuminated the area with a gooseneck lamp. The abrasion was actually a perfect hexagon. And in the center of the shape were ten tiny bruises perfectly forming the letter H. She photographed the area, then proceeded with her meticulous examination.
Process is everything
.
An hour later she had accomplished two major things. She had in fact managed temporarily to drive her concerns for Kathy Wilson from her mind, and she had come within one final step of proving that Roger Belanger had been murdered. She stripped off her gloves, grabbed the Boston Yellow Pages, and made a call. Minutes later she paged Brad Cummings.
“Jesus,” he said, the dishes clinking in the background, “this pager goes off so infrequently it scared the heck out of me.”
“You almost done?”
“We were just waiting for our flans.”
Nikki didn’t want to go anywhere near who “we” was.
“I need you to pick something up for me and come back to the office, Brad.”
“But—”
“No buts, no flans. Just go to Mulvaney’s Pool and Patio on Route nine, right after the mall. You know where that is?”
“Yes.”
“They’ll have a package waiting in your name. Eleven ninety-five plus tax. I’ll pay you back. Hurry.”
For the next forty-five minutes Nikki finished collecting her specimens and waited. Inexorably her concerns for her friend reemerged. The two of them had met almost three years ago at a folk club in Cambridge. Nikki had been a classical violinist from age three, when her father enrolled her in a Suzuki method class. She played in chamber music groups right through college and medical school when time allowed, and was reasonably satisfied with what she got from her music—that
was, until she heard Kathy Wilson and the Lost Bluegrass Ramblers play. Kathy sang lead and played strings—mandolin, guitar, and bass—with astounding deftness and heart.
Nikki had heard bluegrass before, but in truth she had never paid much attention to it. That night the Ramblers, and Kathy in particular, brought her an exhilaration that had long ago vanished from the music she played and listened to. After the performance she waited by the dressing room door.
“I don’t collect autographs,” she said once Kathy had emerged, “but I wanted to tell you that I love your voice and your energy.”
“Jes’ doin’ what comes naturally. You play the fiddle professionally?”
“Hardly. How did you—”
“You’ve got a fiddler’s mark right there under your jaw.”
Nikki knew the reddish-brown mark and the small lump beneath it caused by long-term pressure from her violin’s chin rest.
“It became permanent sometime during college,” she said. “I play mostly chamber music.”
“Eyes and necks, that’s how I judge a person. Eyes and necks. An’ yours tell me you care a lot about people an’ about music.”
Half an hour later Nikki was drinking beer with the band and sharing intimate details with Kathy of her laughable lack of judgment when it came to choosing men. A week after that, Kathy gave her a lesson in bluegrass. Over the two years that followed, Nikki developed into a reasonably proficient bluegrass musician, good
enough to sit in with the group when they weren’t touring.
“Girl, you’re capable of hittin’ on all cylinders when you put your mind and soul to it,” Kathy said. “But you gotta learn how to shut out the extraneous—especially all them folks who want a piece of you. Do that an’ you’ll feel your feet start floatin’ off the ground when you play.”
From day one, being around Kathy was, an adventure in spontaneity. Nikki had friends—close, good friends—from college and before, and two from medical school. But from their earliest times together, often talking and giggling from the end of a show until breakfast, Kathy and she were sisters.
“I’ve had it with men,” Kathy moaned after she and her bassist boyfriend had broken up for the third and last time. “Pass the beer nuts is all they’re about.”
“That and apologizing for leaving the toilet seat up again.”
“But only after you’ve gone for another unexpected dip.”
The night of that conversation, a year ago, they decided Kathy would move into Nikki’s second-floor flat in South Boston. The deal was one quarter rent and utilities for Kathy plus weekly lessons for Nikki. Kathy had been religious about giving them, too, when she and the band weren’t on tour. She was a treasure, absolutely irrepressible and in love with life in general and her music in particular. Not at all shy about grading every man Nikki dated, she once told a lawyer he simply wasn’t interested enough in anything but himself and his BMW to have designs on her friend. They were in a gritty club, one of Kathy and Nikki’s favorites, and the man was fidgeting
uncomfortably as if battling the desire to wash down the furniture and probably some of the patrons as well. Often outspoken when she was sober, Kathy had consumed, perhaps, a beer or so too many.
“Give it up, councillor,” she said suddenly as Nikki sat watching in stunned silence. “I know this woman here’s beautiful, an’ I know she’s smart, an’ I know she’d look great at your office Christmas party, to say nothin’ of in your bed. But I am the guardian of her chastity, and I’m tellin’ you what she’s too damn nice to say: There ain’t no set of car keys you can produce is gonna get her to where you want her to be.”
Not highly educated in any traditional book sense, Kathy was a patient listener, wildly funny when she wanted to be, and always philosophical in an earthy, homespun way. The perfect roommate—at least until the mood swings began.
It might have been four or five months ago that the sleeplessness started. Two, three, four in the morning, she would be pacing the apartment or walking the streets. Then a day or two or even three would go by without her coming back to the apartment at all. Soon after, her meltdowns began at home and with the band—rages that could be neither predicted nor controlled. Nikki begged her to see a doctor and even arranged for several appointments, none of which Kathy kept.
Finally, maybe six or seven weeks ago, odd lumps began appearing on Kathy’s face—the first two just above her eyebrows, then one by her ear and another on her cheek. She wouldn’t let Nikki touch them or even talk about them, until ten days ago. In a rare, totally lucid moment, she sank onto a chair in the kitchen, buried her face in her hands, and sobbed.
“Nikki, what’s happening to me? … Where has my mind gone? … Where has my music gone? … Why are they doing this to me?”
Her sobbing became uncontrollable. Nikki held her tightly and felt the fear and confusion in her body. Beneath her hair she could feel more lumps—solid rather than cystic, slightly movable, not tender that she could tell. Lymph nodes? Some weird kind of firm cyst? Neurofibromas? It was impossible to tell. Nikki begged her to come with her to the ER. Finally Kathy agreed to see Nikki’s doctor the next day. But at the appointment time she was nowhere to be found. She came back to the apartment once more that Nikki knew of, then vanished again.
