Clark, Mary Higgins 03 - The Cradle Will Fall, Page 4

  Irresolutely Edna had held the moccasin 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 pull out with Dr.

  Highley at the wheel. She'd run a few steps to wave to him, but it

  was no use. So she'd just gone home.

  Now, checking her calendar, she wondered if Dr. Highley had

  already made a new appointment with Vangie. She decided to

  phone her just to be sure. She dialed the number. The Lewis phone

  rang once, twice.

  A man answered. "Lewises' residence."

  "Mrs. Lewis, please. This is Dr. Highley's office. We want to

  set up Mrs. Lewis' next appointment."

  "Hold on."

  She heard muffled voices talking. What could be going on? The

  voice returned. "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 someone on our staff will contact

  him tomorrow."

  "Mrs. Lewis died!" Edna's voice was a howl of dismay. "Oh,

  what happened?"

  "It seems she took her own life." The connection was broken.

  Slowly Edna lowered the receiver. It just wasn't possible.

  The two-o'clock appointments arrived together: Mrs. Volmer

  for Dr. Highley, Mrs. Lashley for Dr. Fukhito.

  "Are you all right, Edna?" Mrs. Volmer asked curiously.

  Edna knew Mrs. Volmer had sometimes talked to Vangie in the

  waiting room. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell her she 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."

  "Doctor, may I step into your office for a moment, please? I'd

  like to have a word with you."

  "Certainly." He didn't sound very happy about it.

  She hurried down the hall to his office, then timidly stepped inside.

  "Doctor," she began, "you'll want to know. I just phoned

  Vangie Lewis to make an appointment. A detective answered and

  said she killed herself. They're coming to see you tomorrow."

  "Mrs. Lewis did what?"

  Now that she could talk about it, Edna's words came tumbling

  out in a torrent. "She was so upset last night, wasn't she, Doctor?

  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. I waved 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 nervous. Flustered,

  she replied, "Why, nobody, sir. I just heard this minute."

  "You did not discuss Mrs. Lewis with Mrs. Volmer or 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.

  "I don't want Mrs. Lewis' name mentioned by you to anyone—

  anyone, do you hear? Her suicide reflects very badly on our

  hospital. How do you think it's going to look if it comes out that

  she was a patient of mine? If I hear you have so much as mentioned

  the Lewis case, you're finished here. 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 tonight. I want to have

  my wits about me tomorrow when the police talk to me. Poor

  little Cinderella." 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 afternoon was busy. She managed to push the thought of

  Vangie to the back of her mind. Finally at five o'clock she could

  leave. Warmly wrapped in a leopard-spotted fake fur coat, she

  drove home to her apartment in Edgeriver, six miles away.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IN THE autopsy room of the Valley County Morgue, Richard Carroll

  gently removed the fetus from the corpse of Vangie Lewis.

  It was a boy, and he judged that it weighed about two and a half

  pounds. He noted that the amniotic fluid had begun to leak. Vangie

  Lewis could not have carried this baby much longer; she had been

  in an advanced state of toxemia. It was incredible that any doctor

  had allowed her to progress so far in this condition.

  Richard had no doubt that it was the cyanide that had killed

  the woman. She'd swallowed a huge gulp of it, and her throat

  and mouth were badly burned. The burns on the outside of her

  mouth? Richard 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 lips and chin.

  To him it didn't make sense.

  There were fine white fibers clinging to her black coat. They

  looked as though they'd come from a blanket. He was having

  them analyzed, but, of course, they might have been picked up

  at any time.

  Her body had become so bloated that it looked as though she

  had just put on any clothes she could find that would cover her.

  Except for the shoes. They were an incongruous note. They were

  well cut, expensive and looked quite new. It was unlikely that

  Vangie could have been outdoors on Monday in those shoes. There

  were no water spots on them, even though the ankles of her panty

  hose were spattered. Which suggested that she must have been

  out, come in, decided to leave again, changed her shoes and then

  committed suicide. That didn't make sense either.

  Another thing. Those shoes were awfully tight. Particularly on

  the right foot. Considering the way she was dressed, why bother

  to put on shoes that will kill you?

  Richard straightened up. He was just about finished. Once

  more he turned to study the fetus. Suddenly something struck him.

  Was it possible? It was a hunch he had to check out. Dave Broad

  was the man for him. Dave was in charge of prenatal research at

  Mount Sinai. He'd send this fetus to him and ask for an opinion.

  If what he believed was true, there was a good reason why Chris

  Lewis would have been upset about his wife's pregnancy.

  Maybe upset enough to kill her!

  SCOTT Myerson, the Valley County prosecutor, had scheduled

  a five-o'clock meeting in his office for Katie, Richard and the two

  Homicide Squad detectives assigned to the Lewis suicide.

  Katie arrived first. As she eased herself into a 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. Now he observed Katie's bandaged

  arm and the bruise under her
eye.

  "Thanks for coming in, Katie," he said. "If you start feeling

  rotten, you'd better go home." Then he became businesshke. "The

  Lewis case. What have we got on it?"

  While she was talking, Richard came in with Charley Nugent and

  Phil Cunningham. Silently they settled in the remaining chairs.

  Scott listened to Katie, then turned to the detectives. "What did

  you come up with?"

  Phil Cunningham pulled out his notebook. "That place was no

  honeymoon cottage. The neighbors liked Chris Lewis, but they

  thought Vangie was a pain in the neck. At parties she was always

  hanging on him; got upset if he talked more than five minutes to

  another woman. Then when she got pregnant she was really insufferable.

  Talked baby all the time."

  Charley opened his notebook. "Her obstetrician's office called

  to make an appointment. I said we'd 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. Which leads

  to the crucial point."

  There were some paper cups and a water pitcher on top of the

  file cabinet. Walking over to the file, Richard poured a generous

  amount of water into a cup. "Suppose this is filled with dis

  solved cyanide," he said. "I take a large gulp." Quickly he swallowed.

  He held up the paper cup. It was still nearly half full. "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. But here's the problem. The

  outside of her lips and chin and even her neck were burned. The

  only way that could have happened would have been if she spit a

  lot of the stuff out. But would she then take another mouthful? No

  way. The reaction is instantaneous."

  Richard went on to explain his belief that Vangie Lewis could

  not have walked comfortably in the shoes that had been laced on

  her feet. While Katie listened, she visualized Vangie's face. The

  face she had seen in the dream and the face she'd seen on the bed

  slid back and forth in her mind. She forced her attention back to

  the room. Charley was saying, "Richard and I 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 Scott. "I told you about the phone call Chris

  Lewis made."

  "You did." Scott Myerson leaned back in his chair. "All right.

  You two"—he pointed to Charley and Phil—"find out everything

  you can about 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. Katie, try to 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. Where did she get the cyanide?"

  "No trace of it in the house," Charley reported. "Not a drop."

  "Anything else?" Scott asked.

  "There may be," Richard said. "But it's so far out. Give me

  another twenty-four hours. Then I may have something."

  Scott stood up. "I believe we all agree. We're not closing this

  as a suicide." He looked at Richard. "Is there any chance that she

  died somewhere else and was put back on her bed?"

  Richard frowned. "It's possible."

  Katie started to get up. "I know it's insane, but—" She felt

  Richard's arm steadying her.

  "You sure look stiff," he interrupted.

  She'd been about to describe 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.

  HE COULD not let Edna destroy everything he'd worked for. His

  hands gripped the wheel. He could feel them trembling. He had

  to calm down.

  It was ironic 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. The minute she told her story to the police,

  everything would be over.

  Edna had to be silenced. His medical bag was on the seat next

  to him. In it he had put the paperweight from his office desk. He

  didn't usually carry a bag anymore, but he'd taken it out this

  morning, planning to put the moccasins in it. He'd intended to drive

  into New York for dinner and leave them in separate litter cans.

  But this morning his housekeeper, Hilda, had come in early.

  She'd stood talking to him while he put on his tweed overcoat. He'd

  had no chance to transfer the moccasins from his Burberry to the

  bag. No matter. He'd get rid of the shoes tomorrow night.

  It was a stroke of luck that Edna lived quite near the hospital.

  Several times he'd dropped off work for her when she was laid

  up with sciatica. That was why he knew her apartment. He'd make

  it look like a murder committed during a felony; take her wallet,

  grab any bits of jewelry she had. Once, when he'd left some work

  at her place, she'd shown him a butterfly-shaped pin with a

  minuscule ruby, and her mother's engagement ring with a dot of a

  diamond in it. She kept them in a plastic jewelry box in the night-

  table drawer.

  He thought about the apartment. How would he get in? Did he

  dare ring the bell? Suppose she wasn't alone?

  But she would be alone. He was sure of it. She was going home

  to drink. He could tell. That's why he waited a few hours before

  coming. So that she'd be drunk. Watching her from the corridor,

  he'd seen how agitated she was, obviously filled with the stories

  she wanted to tell to the police tomorrow.

  He was driving into her apartment area. She lived on the

  ground floor at the end of her building. Thick bushes and a rusting

  chain link fence separated the complex from a steep ravine that

  dropped down a dozen feet and terminated in railroad tracks.

  Edna's bedroom window backed onto the parking lot. By now

  she must be very drunk. He could go in and out by the window.

  That would lend credence to a burglary.

  He parked his car, then pulled on his surgical gloves. He put the

  paperweight in his coat pocket and slid cautiously out, closing the

  door noiselessly.

  Edna's bedroom shade was pulled down most of the way, but

  she had a plant in the window. The shade rested on the top of the

  plant, and he could see in clearly. The room was partially lighted

  by a fixture in the hall. The window was open a crack. She must

  be in the living room. He could hear the faint sound of a television

  program.

  Glancing about to make sure that the area was deserted, he

  raised the window, pulled up the shade, carefully lifted the plant

  out onto the ground. He hoisted himself up to the sill.

  He was inside. In the di
m light he observed the virginal tidiness,

  the crucifix over the bed, the lace runner on the dresser. Now for

  the part he detested. He felt for the paperweight in his pocket and

  began to tiptoe down the short hall, past the bathroom, to the

  living room. Cautiously he peered in. The television set was on,

  but the room was empty. He heard the sound of a chair creaking.

  She must be at the table in the dinette. With infinite care he moved

  into the living room. This was the moment. If she saw him and

  screamed...

  But her back was to him. Wearing a woolly blue robe, she sat

  slumped at the table, one hand next to a cocktail glass, the other in

  her lap. A tall pitcher was almost empty. Her head was on her

  chest. She must be asleep.

  Quickly he appraised the situation. His eye fell on the hissing

  radiator to the right of the door. It was the old-fashioned kind

  with sharp, exposed pipes. Was it possible he didn't need the

  paperweight after all? Maybe ...

  "Edna," he whispered softly as he came around the table.

  "Wha . . ." She looked up at him with bleary eyes. Confused,

  she began to rise, twisting in her chair. "Doctor . . ."

  A mighty shove sent her smashing backward. Her head cracked

  against the radiator. Blinding lights exploded in her brain. Oh, the

  pain, the pain! Edna sighed, floated into darkness.