for snakes.
“Nice place,” Mike remarked.
Today Lorna Cowles was wearing a tweed skirt, gray with flecks of pink in it. Her blouse was pink silk. The pearls around her neck were the size of mothballs. She stroked her dog.
“I didn’t want it to look like a New York apartment,” she answered distractedly, making a motion for them to sit.
Well, she had nothing to worry about on that score. April regarded the low seat of the nearest wicker chair, then decided to remain standing. Mike made the same choice. They stood there in a tight circle facing one another as if about to play ring-around-the-rosy.
“What have you found out? When can I bury him?”
Mike raised his chin a fraction. This one was for April, his gesture told her. She took a breath and decided they had all better sit after all. She slid into one of the chairs, her bottom finally coming to a stop a few inches from the floor.
“Mrs. Cowles,” she began, “how well did you know your husband?”
“What? What do you mean?” she demanded.
“Well, you had some marital problems. What were those problems about?”
“We had a wonderful marriage,” Lorna said stiffly. “We loved all the same things.”
“You don’t have children?”
“No, we didn’t want children. We had each other. Why are you asking me these questions?”
“Marriage problems usually center around certain issues: money, sex, religion, jealousy.” April said it as gently as she could.
“We didn’t have any of that,” Lorna said flatly, pressing her lips into the soft fur on her dog’s head.
“Good. We need to rule some things out. So I’m going to ask you what kind of person he was, the kind of friends he had, his habits.”
Lorna settled the fluffy creature on her lap and began stroking it from head to tail. Her fingers were long and thin. She was still wearing a modest diamond solitaire and a gold wedding band. “All right. Money. I have some money of my own. He earned a good salary. We attend St. Stephen’s. Ray was in the choir. Is that what you want to know?”
“Yes.” April opened her notebook and made a note.
“St. Stephen’s—the Episcopalian church around the corner on Lexington?” Mike asked.
Lorna looked at him. “Yes.”
“What about family?” April asked.
“We’re both estranged from our families,” she said softly.
“What about his friends? Did he have any special friends?” Mike this time.
“Friends … you mean women friends?”
“Or male friends. What about male friends? People from church, from the choir.”
“I don’t think he had any. He may have been friendly with some people in the choir. And Father Hartman. He called on us. But close friends …” She shook her head.
“What about work? Any special friends at work?”
“Ray never talked about work.”
Now April. “Your husband moved out. Did he give you a reason?”
“I told the other lady yesterday. Ray was unhappy. It had nothing to do with me. He said he loved me, but he felt something was missing.”
“Did he tell you what?”
“He didn’t
“The postmortem report hasn’t come in yet, so we can’t rule out foul play completely,” April answered. “But our preliminary findings seem to indicate that your husband took his own life.”
Lorna was confused. “But what about the woman who was with him? I saw the food, the wineglasses …”
“The doorman said Raymond had a frequent visitor—a tall, dark-haired man called Tom. Do you know somebody by that name?”
“A man?”
Mike nodded.
“A man?” Lorna looked puzzled. “Tom Hartman?”
“The minister?”
“He’s not tall and he’s not dark.” Still puzzled. “Are you telling me you think Ray was a fag?” She didn’t have to think about it, got it right away.
“Is that possible?”
“No! Ray hated fags,
“Well, thank you for clearing that up, for being so open with us.” Mike struggled to get out of his chair, had to make two attempts. He was quiet all the way back to the station.
twenty-one
At six P.M. on Tuesday, November 2, Jason Frank had two unexpected messages on his answering machine. The first was from Clara Treadwell, the last person he’d have thought would want to consult him. Four years ago in California Jason had been the presenter of a paper, and Clara had been the discussant. She’d attempted to take him apart in front of two hundred colleagues with a stunning verbal assault that was completely unsubstantiated by any scientific or clinical evidence. After Jason provided a strong and compelling rebuttal, she’d asked him to lunch. She was a big deal at the hospital out there and gracious in defeat, so he’d accepted the invitation.
Then, in a dining room filled with a group of colleagues so finely tuned to nuance they wouldn’t miss a skipped heartbeat through a brick wall, she started massaging his knee under the table and suggested they work together. She was unapologetic for her earlier verbal attack on him and completely unconcerned about creating gossip in a public place. She had the supreme confidence of someone who had no fear of rejection or consequences. Jason realized that she was testing her power like a sport fisherman with a swordfish on the line. He’d been thirty- five then, only a year married to Emma, and might have been a bit too vehement about his refusal. After she returned to New York as head of the Centre, Clara Treadwell showed Jason that she was in a position to make things uncomfortable for him: She did not hesitate to do so whenever she had the chance.
So he was surprised to hear the warm voice on his answering machine asking him to be the consultant on a personal case of hers involving the mysterious death of a former patient. Clara said she thought he was particularly suitable in light of his knowledge of police procedure. She ended by giving him her office and home numbers. He wrote them down and let the tape run on to the next message.
The second unexpected message was from his wife, asking if he minded if she came home for a few days. She was auditioning for a play in New York, Emma said, and needed a place to stay. This message cheered Jason so much that for a few minutes he refused to worry about who Clara Treadwell’s dead patient was, what she really wanted him to do, or what helping her out would cost him. He checked his watch. It was seven minutes past the hour. He dialed Emma in California. It was 3:07 there.
Emma picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me.” Jason’s voice was as warm as he knew how to make it.
“Hi.” Hers was a little hesitant and distrustful. He believed he loved her a lot and was a uniformly nice guy. He didn’t understand where the distrust came from.
“How’s the weather?” he asked.
“If you called me for the temperature in Southern California, you could have gotten it on CNN.”
He sighed. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees in one sentence, and once again he’d blown it, whatever “it” was. “I just said hello. Why be so testy?”
“Darling, men who love their women say: ‘I got your message. I’m dying to see you, and I hope you get the
