The Taint (10 page)

THIRTY-SIX

Amanda Frey sat at the back of the church, listening to her husband’s sermon, trying not to think of the stack of dishes in the kitchen sink, and trying to ignore the exhaustion that haunted her every waking moment. There was still so much to do. The potluck.

Martin’s voice droned and she gave up trying to understand him. She had told him once, when they were first married, that his voice had a tendency to be a monotone. He reacted with such wounded pride that she had never mentioned it again, even as she saw his congregations falling away, or worse, falling asleep.

She had learned to think of something complex, a problem, a crisis. Something which required a great deal of thought. And, over the years, she had solved a lot of problems during the sermon. She had never told Martin, but she was sure that the Lord would approve.

This time it was her summer school. Every summer for the last three years, she had run a school at the church. Eight weeks, Monday through Friday, eight in the morning until four. The response was nothing short of astonishing.

Not that there were that many children living in Crestview, for there surely weren’t. But summer almost doubled the population in town, and the parents who could afford two houses, one in the city and one in the mountains, were not usually inclined to put up with their children’s demands. For time or entertainment.

What she had initially planned as a break for the year-round residents had turned out to be a summer camp for the rich kids. And the rich kids weren’t easily amused. Finger painting and nature study was fine for the quiet, polite town kids, but the others . . .

It was a constant worry to come up with something different. Last year she had kept them occupied all summer by staging a play. They rehearsed, built stages, sewed costumes, hung lights and made up posters and handbills. They were busy, and challenged, but she knew better than to suggest another play for this summer. It was exciting the first time, the second time it would be a bore.

How quickly they ran through life’s experiences.

She was at her wit’s end. And now, to top it all off, she had to go into the hospital for that blood transfusion. With school set to start on Tuesday.

She needed an inspiration. At least she was in the right place for it.

She tuned back to Martin’s sermon, trying to gauge how much longer before she had to get up and get things going in the hall. Maybe fifteen minutes, depending on how many meaningful pauses Martin inserted.

She had been considering a week-long camping trip, to get things started and to break the kids out of their cushioned lives. Without the distractions of television and that rather violent music, they’d be easier to calm down. The first week was often the hardest.

But everyone was buzzing about the murders of a young couple, and speculating about the violation of the woman. The woods were no place to be, right now.

What else, what else? Her mind was blank. If you eliminated the outdoors, there was very little left in town. The quarry had been closed for years, ever since the owners had discovered how hard it was to take the rock down the mountain. The lumber mill was in ruins, probably not even safe to walk though.

The industry, if you could call it that, was recreation. People vacationed here; there were some people who made things—quilts, ceramics, wood carvings—to be sold to the tourists. Yet none of the crafts were big enough, or organized enough, to be a field trip for the kids.

The hospital employed the largest number of people in town but somehow she couldn’t see inflicting sick people with the rude exuberance of the kids.

She sighed, and quickly looked around her, hoping that no one mistook her utterance for boredom with her husband’s sermon. No one seemed to have noticed.

Then she heard her warning phrase, and slipped from the pew, back through the side door and into the hall. As she worked she found herself planning still.

She would have them plant a garden. A big one, in the field beside the church. She would unpack some of her old dresses, from the war, and Martin’s uniform, and she would read them stories, and somehow make them feel nostalgic for something they had never experienced. She would fix up the basement to serve as a bomb shelter, and read them biographies, of Churchill and Roosevelt, and show them what made a real hero.

Martin could help her, if he would. Could make the sacrifices real, the casualties staggering. Stories of boys, not much older than they, but grown and grand, tall and straight, and most of all knowing. What they were for and what they were against.

She began to feel better, almost invigorated. Still tired, but that would change.

And when she’d had the transfusion, she would be a new woman.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Rachel sat at the desk in the nurse’s station, reviewing the patient charts. It had been a quiet night, according to the progress notes, with no unusual occurrences. No one spiked a temp, no one was any sicker than they had been, and no one went for a walk.

Franklin Dunn was sedated, per Nathan’s orders, and was resting comfortably. His wounds showed no signs of infection.

It had taken some doing to get Nathan to go on his fishing trip after his friend’s mishap. He had in fact been dressing to come to the hospital when she had knocked on his door to announce breakfast. But she had stood her ground, insisting that if he really had faith in her as a doctor, he would go. And reminding him that there was little else he could do for Franklin Dunn.

She assumed that he was at the lake by now, and that he would gradually relax.

Wendall Tyler.

“I’m going down to the lab,” she told Emma who nodded without looking up from her embroidery.

She removed the culture dishes from the incubator and opened the first one.

Covered by the whitish organism. Whatever it was, it was growing fast.

The samples from the autopsy cases were in a rack on the counter. It had been some time since she had set up for culture and sensitivities; at a certain point in her training she was no longer required to do what she and most of the other student doctors considered “scut” work. Now she wanted to do it.

It was amazing how fast it all came back to her.

She did cultures in chocolate agar on her two cases, and then, for the hell of it, did Cruz and Louisa Tyler. Four autopsies, four C & S’s.

She wondered briefly if Nathan had put Tyler’s last blood sample through the machine, but decided that he would have told her.

When she arrived back at the desk Emma was waiting.

“I just had a call from Reverend Frey; he’s bringing his wife in—she fainted at the Sunday potluck. She’s already scheduled for a transfusion.”

“Nathan mentioned it to me.”

“I’ll go down and get the blood,” Emma continued. “And I’ve got it all set up in 106.”

“Thanks, Emma.” She watched as the woman hurried off down the hall. “It was too quiet to last,” she said to herself and decided to wait in ER for the Freys.

They arrived twenty minutes later, Reverend Frey solicitous if scolding.

“I’ve been telling her to slow down,” he informed Rachel. “Haven’t I?”

Amanda Frey nodded weakly. “Yes, Martin, you always tell me to slow down.”

Rachel detected an undercurrent but Mrs. Frey’s appearance was so alarming that she shoved the thought aside and concentrated on getting the woman into the hospital room.

“We’ve had these episodes before,” he continued, walking alongside the stretcher. He patted his wife’s hand, his smile exuding warmth and concern.

“Reverend Frey, would you mind waiting outside?” Rachel positioned herself between him and the door, his wife already inside.

“I think she’d rather have me by her side.”

“Soon. After I get the transfusion running.” She smiled. “Perhaps you’d like to wait in the chapel.”

“I . . . I . . .” he stuttered, at a loss for words.

“Thank you.” Rachel went into the room and the door swung shut in his face.

Emma came out the door minutes later to find him, still standing in the same place, his face still showing his amazement. Emma gently moved him aside.

“Is Amanda all right?”

“She’s doing fine. Don’t worry so.” She tried to give him a little push down the hall in the direction of the chapel. “Dr. Adams is taking very good care of her.”

“Is she calling for me?”

“Who, Dr. Adams?” Emma’s face was innocent.

“Amanda. She must be beside herself. She needs me with her.” He twisted his hands.

“I promise,” Emma said, giving him a firmer push, “that I’ll come and get you as soon as Amanda is settled. She needs her rest.”

“I always tell her that.”

“I know you do. And I know how much your concern means to her. But . . . she cannot rest with you hovering at her side, asking her every ten seconds how she is.” There was a firmness in her tone that he had never heard from Emma before.

He waited in the chapel.

“Thank you,” Amanda Frey said. “He means well, he really does, but he doesn’t see the connection between all of his requests and this.” Her eyes began to close; the quiet was so peaceful. She was infused with warmth and as she fell asleep, a kind of tingle . . .

THIRTY-EIGHT

As soon as Jon walked in the door of the sheriff’s office the dispatcher called out:

“That you Sheriff?” And without waiting for a response: “San Diego PD on the line.” The phone on his desk began to ring.

He put the package of evidence for the crime lab on his desk and picked up the phone.

“This is Sheriff Scott,” he said.

“Sheriff, I’m sorry it’s taken us so long to get back to you on Louisa Tyler . . .”

“What have you got?”

“Okay, let’s see.” The rustle of papers came clearly over the line. “Next of kin, Thomas and Mary Fletcher, her parents, are currently traveling in the Far East. Her sister, Vanessa Fletcher, has been notified, and is probably headed your way. Mrs. Tyler had led an exemplary life, from all accounts.”

“And?”

“Not so Wendall Tyler.”

Jon grabbed a pad to write while the papers rustled some more.

“Mr. Tyler has a few near misses. An assault charge dismissed on technical irregularities in the arrest—not us, by the way—a drunk and disorderly, no-show witness and the arresting officer had lost his notes . . . unbelievable.”

“Anything else?”

“When we were looking for the family, a neighbor told us that Tyler had recently been hospitalized for mental problems. No verification of that, but who can tell?”

“Why on earth would she put up with that?” He remembered the wedding picture, the glow on her face.

“Who can tell? Anyway, there’s nothing outstanding on him; he might have cleaned up his act.”

“Or gotten better at it.”

The other cop laughed. “Even odds.”

“Well, this gives me a place to start.” He tossed the pen on the desk. “Thanks.”

He hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair to think.

Earl knocked on the opened door.

“Jon? Got a minute?”

“What is it?”

“Look what I found.” He upended a paper bag and a woman’s shoe landed on the desk.

“Louisa Tyler’s missing shoe.” He looked at Earl. “Where did you find it?”

“Out along the lumber road, in the bushes. I was half-afraid for a minute that Nora was going to be attached to that; I’ve about had my fill of dead bodies.”

“I know the feeling.”

“So what do you think it means?” Earl was gazing at the shoe as if he expected it to talk.

“How far away from the accident scene did you find this?”

“Over two miles.”

“It doesn’t look like it’s been chewed on, like an animal found it and carried it off. So . . . it looks like Louisa Tyler was only wearing one shoe when her husband put her in the car.”

“I looked around a bit, didn’t see any signs of a struggle or anything.”

“I don’t think a woman who thought her husband was giving her a tender little neck massage would put up much of a fight. And death was instantaneous.”

“You think he did it.”

Jon nodded. “Did you get anyone to go over to the hospital to stand guard?”

“Andy’s there now, and I got Eric Wilson to take the second watch.”

“I thought Eric was living down the mountain?”

Earl shrugged. “Well, he’s back now.”

“All right, things are under control then.”

“Still no sign of Nora,” Earl said. “I wonder where she got to?”

“No telling.” Jon stood and picked up the package from his desk. “I’m going to drive down and give this to Calvin so he can ship it out first thing in the morning. And then I’m going home to sleep.”

“Anything special you want me to do?”

“Just keep a lid on it.”

He was so tired by the time he got to the house that he drew the blinds without a moment of regret at shutting out the sun and the clear blue sky.

He fixed a drink while waiting for the shower water to get hot enough and tossed it down in one swallow. The liquor burned his throat pleasantly and as he got into the shower he was beginning to feel the tension ebb.

There were so many details, so much work to be done. Finding and notifying next of kin on David and Candice Burroughs. Filing reports, obtaining the crime lab reports. Keeping it all up in the air, missing nothing.

And Nora Samuels to add to it all. The fact that a little old lady could successfully elude a police search was bothersome. She could be anywhere by now.

But as he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes it all slipped away and he was asleep.

THIRTY-NINE

“Excuse me.” A well-dressed woman approached the nurse’s station. “I’m looking for a Dr. Rachel Adams?”

“Dr. Adams is in her office,” Emma replied. “Back down the hall and to your left. Is she expecting you?”

“I don’t think so. Thank you for your help.”

Emma watched her for a moment and then returned her attention to the charts, preparing for the afternoon.

“Dr. Adams?”

Rachel looked up at the woman standing in the doorway. “Yes, I’m Rachel Adams.”

The woman entered the room, holding out her hand. “I’m Vanessa Fletcher, Louisa Tyler’s sister.”

“Miss Fletcher?” She took the woman’s hand. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. I only heard last evening and I came as soon as I could. A gentleman at the sheriff’s office told me I should talk to you.”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“No, but if you don’t mind, I’d like a cigarette.”

“Go right ahead.” Rachel watched as Vanessa Fletcher arranged herself in a chair and took out a cigarette from a gold case, tapping it smartly before placing it between her lips.

She lit it with a thin gold lighter and took a deep draw. “Thank you,” she said as she exhaled. “I needed this.” She gestured with the cigarette.

“What can I do for you?”

“The police only told me that there’d been an accident, and that she was dead. My parents . . . our parents are vacationing, one of those tours. I’ve wired ahead to their next confirmed stop and I expect they will call me to find out the details.” She held her hands out. “I have none.”

“I see. Your sister was involved in an auto accident on Thursday night, with her husband Wendall. She was dead at the scene and our first impression was that she had been killed in the crash.” She paused but Vanessa Fletcher was silent, waiting patiently. “On autopsy, we found that she had in fact been killed before the accident occurred. Her neck was broken.”

“And Wendall?” Vanessa Fletcher squinted through the smoke drifting up from her cigarette.

“He has been in a catatonic state since shortly after the accident. He doesn’t respond to stimulus and he doesn’t speak.”

“How convenient for him.” The words were clipped and she put one cigarette out, quickly lighting another.

“That’s not for me to judge,” Rachel answered and got up to pour herself some coffee.

“Let me tell you a story. Louisa was born when I was fourteen. We’ve never been very close but she was a pleasant enough girl, and I was fond of her. My parents, who had been eagerly awaiting my eighteenth birthday so that they might begin to travel alone, were fond of her. But she never fit in. Wendall was her childhood sweetheart, an irritating boy on his best days.” She paused, her eyes flashing, to puff furiously on the cigarette. “She was obsessed with him.”

“Obsessed?”

“She refused to see him for what he was.”

“Which is?”

“A fortune hunter.” A look of smug satisfaction. “You might not guess by looking at her, but Louisa was an heiress. On her last birthday she assumed control of her inheritance from our grandparents.”

“You think he killed her for her money.” It was not a question.

“It’s obvious. She made him her beneficiary and now she’s dead.”

“Tell me about Wendall.”

“He’s crazy.” The stone face held a hint of fear. “He’s been in and out of institutions since he was sixteen.”

“What type of institutions?”

“Mental.”

“Do you know if he’s been seeing a psychiatrist? It would be very helpful to me to talk with someone who knows his background.”

“I’m sure he does, off and on, but I don’t know the name. I try to stay away from him.” She shuddered.

“You’re afraid of him,” Rachel said.

“All of us are. He has a terrible temper. When he loses control there’s no stopping him. He once beat up a man nearly twice his weight—put his face through a plate glass window.”

“But your sister loved him. Were there any signs of trouble between them?”

“She wouldn’t tell anyone even if there was. Louisa was rather old-fashioned. She would rather die than . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“You know that there may not be sufficient evidence against your brother-in-law.”

“Ex-brother-in-law. I think I can speak for the family; if he does get off, and it wouldn’t be the first time, he can have the money. It would be worth it to be rid of him.” She stood and turned toward the door. “I’ve made arrangements for my sister’s body to be picked up. Thank you for your time.” She paused at the door. “If I were you, I’d be very careful in my dealings with Wendall Tyler.”

The afternoon wore on. She discharged Peter Thomas and Tina Cruz, watching as Tina cradled Baby Boy Cruz protectively in her arms.

“Susan, I thought you were off this week-end,” Rachel said to the nurse as she signed the discharge orders.

“I was, but Laura called in sick. Poor thing, Emma said she sounded terrible.”

“Something must be going around.” She handed Susan the charts.

“Well, at least it’s quiet right now. Mrs. Frey is sound asleep—she didn’t even wake up when I removed the needle. Mr. Dunn looks better.” She looked across at the guard outside Tyler’s room. “Anyway, why don’t you get out of here for a while? Emma said you’ve been here since early this morning.”

“I was just thinking the same thing. I’ve got to go into town and buy something for dinner or I won’t eat.”

“You don’t think Dr. Adams will bring you a fish?”

“I hope not. Anyway, he’s not due back until tomorrow morning.” She handed Susan the stethoscope. “If I work it right, the refrigerator will be so full of food there’ll be no room for fish.” She wrinkled her nose and turned off down the hall.