“What?”
I spooned some flour into the cookie batter. “Yup. And Lucas was very put out about it, because if Jack did that, it meant Lucas would never get out from under depending on Paula for spousal support. Which isn’t that great for the old ego.”
“Yeah, why rely on spousal support when you can inherit money? Sounds as if Lucas might have had a reason to hate Doc Finn.” Tom stood up and reached for the phone.
“I thought you were going to take a shower! Who are you calling?”
“Southwest Hospital. I’m going to find out if Lucas was on duty Thursday night.”
12
No, Lucas Carmichael had not been on duty. Interestingly, though, the nurse to whom Tom identified himself mentioned that she had seen Lucas in the cafeteria around ten Thursday night. She was sure of the time, because her nephew had called her during her dinner break, which began at a quarter to ten. She’d been in the cafeteria drinking coffee, asking herself if it was ever going to stop raining, when her cell phone had buzzed.
Lucas had been there, too, the nurse remembered. He’d been alone, looking out the dark window. Before her cell phone beeped, she’d been thinking that Lucas, too, might have been wondering if the rain was going to go on forever.
How long had Lucas stayed there? Tom asked. The nurse didn’t know. She’d gone outside, under a porch roof, to get better reception on her cell; also, the hospital didn’t like people to use cell phones in the building. When she came back, Lucas was gone.
Tom promised to follow up, then called his office to get someone to go over to Southwest Hospital, to talk to the nurse, to other medical personnel, to anyone who could have seen Lucas Carmichael using the phone in a specific maternity-ward room on the fourth floor. It was from that room that the call had come to Doc Finn’s home phone just after ten Thursday night. The maternity ward, incidentally, was not far from the cafeteria entrance. Then he directed one of his investigators to go talk to Lucas Carmichael, to feel him out, get his alibi, and see if he acted guilty, defensive, or both.
“Thursday night it was pouring like nobody’s business,” I observed. “I don’t suppose you found any usable footprint in the ravine.”
“No, that’s part of the problem.” He rapped his fingers on the counter. Then he put in another call to the department, and asked the fellow on duty about Finn’s impounded car. Had the computer on board the Cayenne yielded any more information? If so, he needed to know ASAP, he said.
“That might help,” Tom concluded after hanging up the phone. “We work out times and who was where when, we might have something.”
I’d decided to make chocolate lace cookies for the boys, then sandwich ice cream between them for a very special dessert. To Tom, I said, “Charlotte? Billie? Lucas? You looking at anyone else who might not have liked Doc Finn?”
Tom shook his head. “According to the elderly receptionist who still works for Spruce Medical Group, everyone loved him. Former patients, church friends, you name it. And before you ask, no, nobody from Duke University Medical School has shown up on our radar.”
“Hey, Tom, take it easy. You’re always telling me you have to look for the person due to benefit from someone’s death.” I hesitated. “I just can’t believe that Lucas is a murderer. That he would have killed Doc Finn. I just can’t.” And, I wondered, if he would kill Doc Finn to keep him from convincing Jack to bequeath these questionable millions to Duke, was
Tom tilted his head. “How’s Jack doing?”
I thought back to Jack’s antics that morning. “Would you say rummaging around in the spa’s Smoothie Cabin, then smooching a much younger woman was normal behavior for someone grieving?”
Tom cocked an eyebrow at me. “Normal for Jack, I’d say.”
“Yeah, well, by the time I’d driven Jack and Charlotte home, they’d made up. And get this: the Smoothie Cabin has a one-way mirror, with security cameras pointed inside and out, just to make sure nobody steals the vitamin C.”
“Hmm. Not enough for a search warrant, I’d say, but enough to go ask Victor Lane some more questions.”
“Did you ask Victor Lane about the vial you found at Finn’s place?”
“Miss G., we don’t even know if the vial came from Victor, and so far, we don’t know what was inside it.”
I reflected for a moment, remembering Jack and Isabelle’s frantic search through the drawers and cupboards of the Smoothie Cabin. “What do you suppose Jack and Isabelle were really looking for?” I asked.
Tom shook his head. “Maybe something to do with Doc Finn, maybe not. Maybe something that makes you lose weight. Maybe drugs. Unfortunately, knowing Jack, I’d say, first guess?” He raised his eyebrows at me. “Booze.”
BY THE TIME Tom returned to the kitchen, showered and wearing clean khakis and an open-necked white shirt, I had made and refrigerated a tomato salad with fresh basil and chopped garlic, Brie, and balsamic vinaigrette. I’d baked the first batch of cookies. Once they’d cooled, I reasoned, they would taste deliciously crunchy and flaky with either the ice cream I’d planned, or frosting as the cookie sandwich “filling.” Or at least, I hoped so. As I was putting the second sheet of goodies into the oven, Arch, Gus, and Todd traipsed onto the deck. Gus triumphantly held up a line of brown trout.
Predictably, Jake and Scout made a sudden appearance. They then began their own chorus of howling and meowing. We weren’t the only ones who were going to get fish, they insisted.
“Yeah, yeah, down, boy,” Arch called to Jake, who would have devoured every fish on the line if allowed to do so.
“Okay, boys,” said Tom, “who wants to learn how to clean fish?”
“Oh, man, I need a shower,” said Arch.
“Me, too,” Todd and Gus chimed in. Soon the three of them were clomping madly up the stairs. Anything to avoid fish guts, apparently.
“Do not clean those fish with your lovely clean clothes on,” I told Tom. “You start the fire, and I’ll do the fish.”
“Forget it,” said Tom. “Make some more cookies, will you, please? I’ll start the fire and then find my rubber apron that I keep expressly for this purpose.”
I sighed but started filling the next batch of cookies with ice cream, then freezing them. As I rummaged around for the tomato salad, I figured one of us had put the covered glass salad bowl as deep in the dad-blasted walk-in as his rubber apron must be in the garage. When I finally located the bowl, I tasted a few tomato slices, deemed the concoction exceedingly wonderful, and spooned the whole thing onto a bed of lightly dressed field greens circling a crystal platter. By the time I’d set the table for five, Tom had made the fire and cleaned the fish. The man was a marvel.
The boys appeared looking freshly scrubbed, if a bit sheepish for skipping out on fish-gutting duty. They promised to do the dishes, to which I added a mental uh-huh, but said nothing. I didn’t want them to have to clean up, as it was almost the end of summer. Todd was leaving on Monday for the Montana trip. Gus’s grandparents had fussily informed me that they were planning to spend the last couple of weeks before classes buying Gus back-to- school supplies, a task to which I never devoted more than a single evening. And anyway, now that Arch could drive, I figured I would give him some cash and he could buy his own supplies. There were some benefits to having a teenage driver in the family, after all.
The dinner was fabulous. I shoved the steaks back in the refrigerator so the boys would never know we’d doubted their fishing abilities. Tom’s grilled trout was succulent, with crisp skin and lusciously moist flesh. The boys scarfed it down faster than you could say, “Freshly caught and grilled fish taste remarkable!” Gus, ever the diplomat, said the tomato salad was so delicious, he just knew his grandmother would love the recipe, which Tom
