Mary Clark - The Shadow of Your Smile

Am I going crazy, she asked herself, or is it possible that there is only one way that stain could have gotten on that spot? But why would anyone want to hold a pillow over her face and suffocate a dying woman?

Monica slipped the pillow back into the loose plastic bag. I’ll talk to Nan’s friend John Hartman, she decided. He’s the one who would know what to do. Is it possible that someone in the building got into Olivia Morrow’s apartment, maybe to burglarize it, and she woke up? It was pretty generally known that she was dying. But then again, why would Dr. Hadley get so upset with Sophie? Of all people, he should be the one to want to follow up if there’s any suggestion of foul play…

I’ll bring the pillow to the office tomorrow and ask Nan to see if Hartman will come over after office hours and talk to me, she decided.

The decision made, Monica decided not to put off calling Ryan any longer. She dialed his home number and heard his voice. “Sorry to miss your call. Leave a number and I’ll get back to you.”

I’m not apologizing to an answering machine, she thought. He’s probably out to dinner with his girlfriend, so I won’t bother him on his cell phone. Oh, well. She went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and was disappointed to find that because she had not gotten around to shopping over the weekend, the most she could find was the makings of an omelet.

Then she had a frightening thought. The overhead light in the kitchen was on, which meant that anyone lurking in the back could see her through the panes of glass on the top section of the outside door. I have to get a dark shade for it, she thought, but in the meantime, I’ll tack something over it. Feeling under siege, she went into the living room and picked up the afghan from the couch.

As she carried it back to the kitchen, she remembered how tenderly Scott Alterman had tucked it around her after he had rushed to be with her and found her trembling and chilled by her brush with death.

On Tuesday morning Tony Garcia, filled with anticipation, was in the waiting room of Dr. Clayton Hadley’s office. When I called yesterday, he couldn’t have been nicer, Tony thought. I explained that I’d like to buy Ms. Morrow’s car and he asked if I realized it was ten years old. Then I offered to pay him the book value in cash and he said that would be fine.

“The doctor will be right with you, sir,” the receptionist said, with a friendly smile at the young man in a chauffeur’s uniform who was obviously uneasy sitting with a well-dressed couple who were also waiting to see the doctor.

“Thanks very much,” Tony said. I still can’t believe how lucky I am, he thought. Yesterday, when I asked the doctor if I could possibly get the car right away, even before the ownership transfer papers could be completed, I never thought he’d be so nice. I guess it was because I explained that we could have been killed in an accident when our old car stopped short in traffic. But he did say that it’s near the end of the month and there was no use wasting money from the estate paying the garage bill in Ms. Morrow’s apartment building.

“You can go in now, Mr. Garcia,” the receptionist told him. “The doctor will see you in the second room on the right.”

Tony jumped up. “Oh, thank you,” he said, as the receptionist assured the couple in the waiting room that the doctor would be with them in a few minutes.

With quick steps, Tony, following instructions, entered the private office of Dr. Clay Hadley. He’s pretty fat for a cardiologist, was Tony’s first thought, but it passed quickly from his mind. “Dr. Hadley, thanks so much. This means so much to me and my family. I can’t tell you how scared I was when all of a sudden my car stopped in traffic. But I won’t take your time. I brought the money in cash. My brother-in-law lent it to me. He’s a prince.”

After the phone call from Sophie Rutkowski the day before, Clay Hadley had been terrified. I panicked, he thought. I should have told her I was having the pillowcase laundered. Did she notice the bloodstain on the pillow itself? I can’t ask her that. It will only bring her attention to it.

Take the damn car, he thought, impatiently, as, forcing a smile, he watched Tony offer him six rubber-banded packs of ten one-hundred-dollar bills. “Six thousand dollars in all,” Tony said. “Doctor, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your letting me take the car right away. My wife Rosalie’s grandmother lives in New Jersey, and she looks forward so much to Rosie visiting her. Without a car it would be impossible.”

Clay Hadley raised his hand. “Tony, I have your phone number. I’ll give you a call when we can complete the paperwork. My secretary has called the garage. They’re expecting you to pick up the car this morning. They looked through it, but there was nothing personal in it. The insurance card and registration are in the glove compartment. Of course, once we officially transfer ownership to you and give you the title, you get your own registration and insurance. Here is a receipt for the payment now.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Thank you so much.” Tony started for the door, got as far as the receptionist’s desk, then hesitated and turned around. I wonder if that bag Ms. Morrow asked me to put under the blanket in the trunk is still there? he thought. I shoved it pretty far back. The garage attendants may have missed it. Maybe I should tell the doctor about it?

The receptionist had seen him turn. “Mr. Garcia,” she said firmly, “I’m afraid that I can’t keep the doctor’s patients waiting any longer. I’m sure he’s on his way to the examining room now.”

Embarrassed, Tony murmured, “Of course. I’m sorry.” As he made his way through the reception area, he thought, if that file is there, I’ll just mail it back to Dr. Hadley.

I should have known better than to try to bother him with it now.

On Tuesday morning, Detectives Barry Tucker and Dennis Flynn were sitting in the private office of Department Chief Jack Stanton, sipping coffee and reviewing the case with him. It had been five days since Renée Carter’s body had been found.

“Some of this just doesn’t add up,” Tucker told the chief. “Gannon had the motive, the opportunity, and a very convenient memory blackout. Not to mention the hundred thousand bucks hidden in the drawer in his office.”

“What doesn’t add up?” Stanton asked.

“We tracked down three of the patrons who were in the bar where Carter and Gannon met. Two of them remembered hearing them arguing but didn’t know what it was about. Both of them noticed Carter leaving the bar with Gannon right behind her.”

“The third guy we spoke to is the one who’s most important,” Dennis Flynn said. “He claimed that he had left the bar less than a minute later, and that he saw a man he’s pretty sure was Gannon walking down York Avenue alone.”

“Which is consistent with what Gannon claimed,” Tucker said. “This guy swears he didn’t see Carter, that she was already gone.”

“How reliable is this witness?” Stanton demanded.

“He’s an engineer. A one-drink-only regular customer. No connection to anyone involved. No axe to grind. Even though he’s not a hundred percent sure it was Gannon that he saw, put him on the witness stand and it’s more than enough to give the jury reasonable doubt.” Barry Tucker stared into his coffee cup, wishing he had not put so much sugar in it. “If this guy is right, Carter must have gotten into a car,” he said. “But what car? Whose car? Peter Gannon’s BMW hasn’t been out of his garage in a week. We checked the garage records. On top of that, we’ve gone over the car with a fine-tooth comb. There’s no trace of Carter ever having been in it.”