“Can you remember anything else?”
“Only thing I can remember is he had a big tattoo on his left forearm. Couldn’t see what the design was, but I saw the black ink against his skin. But that’s all. Other than that, he just looked regular.”
I took Susan’s full name and contact information and thanked her for the call. The picture of Arthur Davenport as a hard-working, caring medical professional was coming clearer into view with each interview. Everyone I’d spoken to, without exception, had nothing but respect for him as a doctor. And yet he’d been murdered. That probably meant it was something in his personal life that motivated the killing. So far, I knew he had a rocky relationship with his oldest son. He’d had an affair with a married woman, and had possibly been threatened by her husband. And he’d been seen arguing with someone on the street the day before his death. None of these things screamed motive for murder, but all of the sudden I was desperate to find out if Bennett Nichols was tall, bald, and/or tattooed.
CHAPTER 17
The Nicholses lived in a large plantation-style home set way back off of a long paved private road. The landscaping alone probably cost more than I’d make in a lifetime at the newspaper. It was dark by the time I got there, but only just. I was awfully close to the dinner hour and wasn’t expected, but I had a feeling the element of surprise might just work in my favor in this situation.
I rang the doorbell and waited a full minute with no answer. I rang it again and heard some noises from inside, so I knew someone was home. When she finally opened the door, I could see what the delay had been. Libby Nichols appeared to either have just rolled out of bed or out of a bottle of vodka. Or maybe both.
She was dressed in cutoff jean shorts and a black, long-sleeved thermal top unbuttoned far enough to see two inches of cleavage. Her long blond hair looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in days—actual bed head, not the sexified version in shampoo ads. But despite the crazy hair, the wrinkled clothes, and the sour expression, you could see that Libby Nichols was a beautiful woman.
I introduced myself and asked if she and her husband had time to answer a few questions for an article I was writing for the Times.
“All right,” she said. “But you’ll have to excuse me, I’m not feeling my best today.”
Eager to take her up on her offer before she changed her mind, I followed her into the grand living room, which was decorated in soft grays and creams with lots of shiny, mirrored surfaces to reflect the light from the large picture windows along the back wall. It was very “tastefully done,” as Mrs. Winterthorne would have said, but it smacked of a professional decorator.
A man I assumed to be Bennett Nichols sat in a large black leather recliner and barely looked at me when I walked in. His attention was on the massive flat-screen TV that hung over the fireplace. He was playing a video game, some shoot ’em up kind with glossy soldiers in beige uniforms hurling grenades into burned-out buildings. On the side table next to him was a fifth of Wild Turkey, three-quarters empty, and an ashtray containing the remnants of a joint. He wore a red Washington Nationals baseball hat, turned backward, under which poked out a thicket of dark brown hair. Not bald. I did a quick scan of his forearms too. No tattoos that I could see.
“What can we do for you?” Bennett said, without taking his eyes off his game.
I took a deep breath. I knew what I was doing was a little risky, but I also didn’t want to waste a trip out here. I took out a notepad and said brightly, “I’m writing the obituary for Dr. Arthur Davenport and I heard you were a patient of his. I wondered if you had any stories or recollections about him that I could use in the obit?”
I heard a pinging sound that paused the game as he lowered his controller and looked at me. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No,” I said, playing dumb. “I’ve already spoken to a few of his other patients, but they were women. I wanted to get a man’s take on him and I heard through the grapevine that you were one of his patients.” I opened my eyes wider, presenting the very picture of innocence.
“That man,” Bennett said through gritted teeth, “was a snake in the grass. You can print that if you want.”
“Really? How so?”
“You want to know about that dirty son of a bitch—I’ll tell you all you need to know,” Bennett hissed.
Jackpot! I flipped to a new page in my notebook. But Libby interrupted before he could continue. “Aw, Benny’s just pissed off ’cause Artie had a little thing for me,” she said as she walked over and perched on the side of Bennett’s recliner.
“Babe, you smell like rotten milk,” Bennett said to Libby and crinkled his nose.
Her face colored. She turned into him and whispered, “I told you I wasn’t feeling well today.”
“Well, you stink,” he said before turning back to me. “Anyways, Dr. Davenport was a first-class asshole.”
“The truth is,” Libby stood up and moved to the sofa, “Dr. Davenport took good care of Benny while he was sick, but he got a little too attached to me.” She attempted a demure smile. “The two of them ended up having a little bit of a scuffle over it all, but it was fine. In the end, Artie knew I was taken.”
“A scuffle?”
“Yeah, caught him trying to get his hands on my wife,” Bennett said, his anger rising again. “I would have kicked his ass too,
