GC-MS, or gas chromatography-mass spectrometry, was a method used by the crime lab for identification of drugs and toxins. 'I thought you already ruled out everything,' said Katzka.
'We ruled out the usual drugs. Narcotics, barbs. But that was using immunoassay and thin layer chromatography. This is a doctor we're talking about, so I figured we couldn't go with just the usual screen. I also checked for fentanyl, phencyclidine, some of the volatiles. I came up with a positive in the muscle tissue.
Succinylcholine.'
'What's that?'
'It's a neuromuscular blocking agent. Competes with the body's neurotransmitter, acetylcholine. The effect is sort of like Dtubocurarine.'
'Curare?'
'Right, but succinylcholine has a different chemical mechanism. It's used in the OR all the time. To immobilize muscles for surgery. Allow easier ventilation.'
'Are you saying he was paralysed?'
'Completely helpless. The worst part of it is, he would've been conscious, but unable to struggle.' Rowbotham paused. 'It's a terrible way to die, Slug.'
'How is the drug administered?'
'Injection.'
'We didn't see any needle marks on the body.'
'It could have been in the scalp. Hidden in the hair. It's just a pinprick we're talking about. We could easily have missed it with all the postmortem skin changes.'
Katzka thought it over for a moment. And he remembered something Abby DiMatteo had told him only a few days ago, something he hadn't completely followed up on.
He said, 'Could you look up two old autopsy reports for me? One would be from about six years ago. A jumper off the Tobin Bridge. The name was Lawrence Kunstler.'
'Spell it for me. OK, got it. And the next name?'
'Dr. Hennessy. I'm not sure about his first name. That one was three years ago. Accidental carbon monoxide poisoning. The whole family died as well.'
'I think I remember that one. There was a baby.'
'That's the one. I'll see if I can't get exhumation orders rolling.' 'What are you looking for, Slug?'
'! don't know. Something that might've been missed before. Something we might pick up now.'
'In a corpse that's been dead six years?' Rowbotham's laugh was plainly sceptical. 'You must be turning into an optimist.'
'More flowers, Mrs Voss. They were just delivered. Do you want them in here? Or shall I put them in the pailour?'
'Bring them in here, please.' Sitting in a chair by her favourite window, Nina watched the maid carry the vase into the bedroom and set it down on a night table. Now she was fussing with the arrangement, moving stems around, and the fragrance of sage and phlox wafted towards Nina.
'Put them here, next to me.'
'Of course, Ma'am.' The maid moved the vase to the small tea table beside Nina's chair. She had to make room for it by taking away another vase of Oriental lilies. 'They're not your usual flowers, are they?' the maid said, and her tone of voice was not entirely approving as she regarded the usurping vase.
'No.' Nina smiled at the unruly arrangement. Already her gardener's eye had picked out and identified each splash of colour. Russian sage and pink phlox. Purple coneflowers and yellow heliopsis. And daisies. Lots and lots of daisies. Such common, undistinguished flowers. How did one find daisies so late in the season?
She brushed her hand across the blossoms and inhaled the scents of late summer, the remembered fragrance of the garden she had been too ill to tend. Now summer was gone, and their house in Newport was closed for the winter. How she disliked this time of year! The fading of the garden. The return to Boston, to this house with its gold-leafed ceilings and carved doorways and bathrooms of Carrara marble. She found all the dark wood oppressive. Their summer home was blessed with light and warm breezes and the smell of the sea. But this house made her think of winter. She picked out a daisy and breathed in its pungent scent.
'Wouldn't you rather have the lilies next to you?' the maid asked. 'They smell so lovely.'
'They were giving me a headache. Who are these flowers from?'
The maid pulled off the tiny envelope taped to the vase and opened the flap. ''To Mrs Voss. A speedy recovery. Joy.' That's all it says.'
Nina frowned. 'I don't know anyone named Joy.'
'Maybe it'll come to you. Would you like to go back to bed now? MrVoss says you should rest.'
'I've had enough of lying in bed.'
'But MrVoss says-'
'I'll go to bed later. I'd like to sit here for a while. By myself.'
The maid hesitated. Then, with a nod, she reluctantly left the room.
At last, thought Nina. At last I'm alone.
For the past week, ever since she'd left the hospital, she had been surrounded by people. Private duty nurses and doctors and maids. And Victor. Most of all, Victor, hovering at her bedside. Reading aloud all her get- well cards, screening all her phone calls.
Protecting her, insulating her. Imprisoning her in this house. All because he loved her. Perhaps he loved her too much. Wearily she leaned back in the chair and found herself staring at the portrait hanging on the opposite wall. It was her portrait, painted soon after their marriage. Victor had commissioned it, had even chosen which gown she should wear, a long mauve silk patterned faintly with roses. In the painting she was standing under a vine-covered arbour, a single white rose clutched in one hand, her other hand dangling awkwardly at her side. Her smile was shy, uncertain, as though she were thinking to herself: I am only standing in for someone else.
Now, as she studied that portrait of her younger self, she realized how little she'd changed since that day she'd posed as a young bride in the garden. The years had altered her physically, of course. She'd lost her robust good health. In so many ways, though, she was unchanged. Still shy, still awkward. Still the woman Victor Voss had claimed as his possession.
She heard his footsteps and looked up as he came into the bedroom.
'Louisa told me you were still up,' he said. 'You should be taking your nap.'
'I'm fine, Victor.'
'You don't look strong enough yet.'
'It's been three and a half weeks. DrArcher says his other patients are already walking on treadmills by now.'
'You're not like any other patient. I think you should take a nap.'
She met his gaze. Firmly she said: 'I'm going to sit here, Victor. I want to look out the window.'
'Nina, I'm only thinking of what's best for you.'
But she had already turned away from him, and was staring down at the park. At the trees, their fall brilliance fading to winter brown. 'I'd like to go for a drive.'
'It's too soon.'
'… to the park. The river. Anywhere, just away from this house.' 'You're not listening to me, Nina.'
She sighed. And said, sadly, 'You're the one who's not listening.'
There was a silence. 'What are these?' he said, pointing to the vase of flowers by her chair. 'They just arrived.'
'Who sent them?'
She shrugged. 'Someone named Joy.'
'You can pick these kinds of flowers at the roadside.'
'That's why they're called wildflowers.'
He lifted the vase and carried it to a table in a far corner. Then he brought the Oriental lilies back and set them beside her. 'At least these aren't weeds,' he said, and left the room.
She stared at the lilies. They were beautiful. Exotic and perfect. Their cloying fragrance sickened her.
She blinked away an unexpected film of tears and focused on the tiny envelope lying on the table. The one that had come with the wildflowers.
