A Night at the Operation (26 page)

Immediately, I picked up the phone and hit redial. When Kowalski answered his phone again, I said, “This time, I’ve
really
got something for you.”

 

 

 

 

MEG
appeared in the theatre perhaps five minutes later, saying Kowalski had called Dutton, who had asked her to “watch the letter” until an East Brunswick cop could be sent to pick it up. Apparently, although Chapman had trusted me with his innermost thoughts, the East Brunswick police department did not. I decided not to dwell on that for long.

Once I had realized what the letter contained, I had been turning pages with a pair of tweezers I’d found in the desk when I’d bought it. I told Meg about the tweezers, in case it had left marks on the paper. I didn’t tell her that I’d used the time before she arrived to scan each page of the letter into my Mac. What Meg didn’t tell Dutton wouldn’t hurt me.

Tattletale that I am, however, I did tell Meg about the not-so-subtle threats Wally and Lillian had made toward Sharon. She was skeptical that it implicated them in the shopping cart assault, or even that the shopping cart incident had been an assault. But Meg did find it interesting that when I’d alluded to supermarket materials being used as weapons, neither Wally nor Mrs. Wally had asked me what the hell I was talking about.

The East Brunswick officer arrived and took the letter, giving me a form that said my “evidence” would be returned to me as soon as the court saw fit. Then the cop left, and Meg, muttering something about “real police work to do,” followed suit.

At just about that moment, Sharon called back, which was convenient. She was about to take a lunch break, and I had questions. But yesterday’s trip to C’est Moi! had ended badly, so we agreed to meet at Big Herbs.

Belinda had more customers than usual, but I found a table near the kitchen door and waited for Sharon. “You look better than the last time I saw you,” Belinda told me.

“I am better,” I said. “Sharon’s not missing.”

“You know, for two people who got divorced, you really don’t hate each other nearly enough.”

“I know,” I admitted. “We’re a disgrace to the institution.”

Sharon walked in just as Belinda went back to get an order of tofu dogs from the kitchen for someone who, clearly, had never seen a tofu dog before, or they certainly wouldn’t have ordered such a thing. My ex sat down across from me, not exactly glowing, as you hear pregnant women are supposed to do. Instead, she was all curiosity.

“So tell me about this letter,” she insisted.

I did.

“That is the weirdest story I’ve ever heard,” Sharon said when I was finished.

“And it’s not over yet. After he mailed the letter, someone sent Chapman to a different destination than he expected.”

Belinda came over and, seeing that we looked serious, kept the banter to a minimum while she took our orders, which I don’t remember. Suffice it to say they were vegetable oriented.

When she walked away, I said, “Now that you’ve been back a couple of days and I’ve had time to think, I have questions.”

Sharon’s eyes narrowed. “Questions? For me?”

“Well, they’re really for Albert Einstein, but your legs are cuter.”

“Not for long,” she lamented. “I’m going to bulk up soon.”

“Don’t change the subject. Questions.”

“Fire away,” Sharon said.

“When you got the results on your pregnancy test, you decided you had to get away and headed for Lake Carey.”

“That’s not a question,” she pointed out.

“I’m getting there. Did you go home to pack a bag?”

“No. I had already done a home test, and I really knew what the lab test would say. I had packed some things in a travel bag that morning, and, as you know, I keep some clothes up at the cottage.”

“But before you went to the lake, you were in a hotel bar in the city with some guy,” I said.

Sharon’s voice dropped in pitch a little. “That’s not a question, either,” she said ominously.

“Yes, it is.”

She smiled. “It was just Lennon. I ran into him when I was getting into my car. He was going into the city that night after work, and I offered to give him a ride to Penn Station. He thanked me by buying me a drink, but don’t worry, I didn’t have any alcohol.”

“No, you had milk and seltzer,” I said. “Which, by the way, is disgusting. And if you were going to Lake Carey, what were you doing driving to Penn Station? That’s completely in the wrong direction.”

“Oh, I just wanted to talk, I guess, and Lennon needed the ride.”

A picture began forming in the back of my head, but it was fuzzy, like an old Polaroid. I decided to press on, and give it time to develop.

“Swell. So you’re all emotionally jumbled because you’re carrying my baby, and your first impulse is to hop in a car with Lennon Dickinson, master of mirth.”

“What?” she burst out. “Oh honestly, Elliot. You can’t be jealous of every man I know.”

“First of all, yes I can, and second, that’s not what this is about. Chief Dutton found credit card receipts in my name in a trail that starts at that hotel bar. From there,
someone
went on quite the shopping spree, including Manhattan souvenirs, jewelry, and some very interesting lingerie.”

“And you think it was
Lennon
? This is a reach, even for you, Elliot.” Sharon’s face couldn’t decide if it was amused at my childish jealousy or concerned for my questionable sanity.

My Polaroid was finally developed, sharp and clear.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” I said. “I keep a credit card in my wallet, but I never use it. Lennon insisted on seeing it the day I came in for my physical, right before you went to the lake. I was paying my co-pay in cash, and there was no reason for him to ask for the card, but he’s Lennon, and I didn’t want to push it, so I gave it to him.”

“And he gave it back to you, right?” Sharon asked.

“No. He gave me back a card, and I put it in my wallet without looking at it. I’m willing to bet he gave me his own, and kept mine.” I told her about the waitress at the diner cutting up “my” credit card in front of my mother and me. “I thought it was because mine had been cancelled, but I’ll bet you it was because Lennon’s was way over his limit. Besides, Lennon never said he’d seen you that night, that you’d gone into the city with him. He didn’t want anyone to connect the credit card receipts with him, even when we thought you might be in danger.”

“Oh, this is absurd. Elliot, Lennon Dickinson is a
doctor
.”

“So was Jack the Ripper, if you believe some of the accounts,” I said.

She scowled at me. On her, it looked good. “You’re being obtuse. Lennon makes good money. He doesn’t need to steal your credit card to buy underwear for his girlfriends.”

“How do you know it’s for his girlfriends?”

“Okay, now you stop that. How do you explain a doctor stealing a patient’s plastic to go on a cheap shopping spree?” Then, as an afterthought: “It was cheap, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t worry. Dutton and I called the company, and I’m not liable for the charges.”

“Yeah, but the underwear. How cheap . . . ?”

“Let’s stick to the point, shall we?” I was taking the moral high ground, which was unfamiliar territory for me.

Belinda came with the food, and we started to eat whatever it was. “I don’t believe it,” Sharon said. “I’ve known Lennon for five years. I can’t believe he’d just—” She stopped, and stared ahead for a moment, not seeing the restaurant (which was just as well) or me (less encouraging).

“What?” I asked.

Sharon’s eyes didn’t focus on me, but she did appear to hear what I was saying. “That was the night I had the conference with Russell Chapman, where I told him that he didn’t have cancer,” she said. I waited, as I knew she was getting around to a point. “Naturally, Lennon and I spoke about it quite a bit in the car. When you get to give a patient good news, it’s always satisfying, so we like to make the moment last as long as it can. But Lennon’s questions were odd.”

“Odd in what way?”

“He seemed to be curious about Chapman’s business interests, like he wanted stock tips or something. He asked me if I knew whether Chapman would advise a guy on financial matters. Asked if I knew whether he’d be interested in investing in new products.”

That
was
odd, and I said so. “Sounds like Lennon’s interest in Chapman’s state of mind was about equivalent to that of Lillian and Wally’s,” I said. “All they wanted to know about was his money.”

“Lennon’s got money to invest with Russell Chapman, but he can’t afford pots and pans? What does all this mean, Elliot?”

Like I knew.

“Did you tell him where you were going? Because he never said a word, even when we were frantic.”

“No. I made a point of it. Told him I was going out for the evening, and nothing more.” So at least Lennon wasn’t cruel enough to watch everyone squirm—he really didn’t know anything.

We agreed it would not be advisable for Sharon to confront Lennon Dickinson immediately. For one thing, the evidence was entirely circumstantial, and for another, we had no idea what it meant. So the plan was for Sharon to observe Lennon for a day or two and see if she could spot any more unusual behavior.

But I had more points for Sharon to clear up. “Why was the conference with Chapman private?” I asked. “Don’t you usually do that with a nurse in the room?”

“Yes, but Chapman specifically requested it be just himself and me in the room. I think he was concerned that he’d get emotional, and to tell you the truth, he did.” Sharon kept shaking her head just a little. “This whole thing just keeps getting more confusing, Elliot. Chapman got a second chance at life, and someone immediately took it away from him. Why?”

“When we find out who, we’ll know why,” I told her. “And that’s the part that’s bothering me. Because I think the person—or people—who killed Chapman is the same person—or people—who tried to take you out with a shopping cart.”

“I still think you’re overreacting to that,” Sharon said. “It was a windy day.”

“You’re right. The wind blew all those cinder blocks into the shopping cart, and then waited patiently until you and I were climbing up a hill against it. Yeah, that wind is a wily force of nature, all right. Besides, I saw Wally Mayer at C’est Moi! right before we left. He knew where we were.”

“It’s still absurd,” Sharon said, as if that proved her point.

“Just as well, I’d appreciate it if you could try to keep out of the way of the Chapman women and Wally, which I believe was the name of a disco band in the seventies. Is there any way we can find out what was in Chapman’s will? That could prove to them that you didn’t have a motive to kill their father.”

“It makes sense.”

“Oh, one last thing: I talked to Grace . . .”

Sharon rolled her eyes. “You’re gossiping with Grace now? Honestly, Elliot, what kind of a role model are you going to be for our”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“
child
?”

I ignored her. “Grace said Chapman
was
having an affair with someone from your office—Toni Westphal.”

“Then Grace has been drinking,” Sharon said.

“What, you and Toni are such good friends that she’d tell you if she was dating an older guy?”

“No.” My ex-wife grinned. “But we’re good enough friends that I know Toni Westphal is a lesbian.”

Oh.

Belinda came by with the check, and studied us closely. “What’s going on?” she asked. “There’s something new with you.”

“Yeah, now we’ve eaten,” I tried.

“No, I’m used to that. Besides, all you had was this vegetable stuff. People don’t look that happy over vegetable stuff.” Her eyes widened a bit, and she stared at Sharon. “Are you pregnant?” she asked.

Sharon’s jaw dropped open about two feet. A snake would have been proud of her potential food capacity. “How could you know?” she asked.

“I’m a genius,” Belinda said. “I just know stuff.”

“Fess up,” I told her.

“Okay, I heard you talking about it before. So tell me.”

“Not yet,” Sharon said. “We have to break the news to family first.”

Belinda nodded and said, “Lunch is on me.” She would hear no argument, ripped up the check, and walked away before we could protest. Sharon stood up and started to put on her coat.

“Gregory,” I said.

“No, I’m Sharon,” said my ex-wife the comedienne.

“What did Gregory say when you told him?”

She turned away from me and put on her scarf. I knew why she turned away.

“You didn’t tell him, did you?”

The voice that came back was small and faint. “Not yet,” Sharon said.

I didn’t say anything. I’d suspected that this would be difficult for her, and no matter how angry it made me, I had to be sympathetic. I put on my coat and waited for her. We walked out of the restaurant together.

Without a word, we started walking toward Comedy Tonight. I had to be back to get the place into some kind of shape for the evening’s showings, and to figure out a way to save Sophie’s job. Sharon could walk with me to the theatre, and then continue on to her practice.

“So,” I said finally, “Chapman’s lawyer.”

“Yes,” Sharon agreed. “You should probably call her. That might help, and I certainly can’t do it without breaking about seven different ethics codes.”

Before I could remark about that (and it was going to be a corker, trust me), I heard a car’s brakes screech, and then someone—probably Sharon—shouted, “Look out!” Then something hard hit me in the forehead.

And not to belabor the cliché, but at that moment, all went black.

 

 

 

 

ONE
medical examination room, even in a medical practice belonging to your ex-wife, looks pretty much like every other medical examination room. But there are certain touches that, even when you’re regaining consciousness, you can recognize. Sharon always has a rubber duck in her exam rooms; she says it’s to amuse frightened children. I believe she considers it a talisman of some sort, and as evidence, I note that she calls the object Lucky Duck. I rest my case.