J. Jance - Fatal Error

By the time they got back to the apartment, the night nurse had helped move Velma from the chair to the hospital bed, but she was awake again. Maddy toweled off Candy’s wet fur once more, then deposited the dog on Velma’s bed.

“You keep her while I get the dog food dished up,” Maddy said. “Once the dogs are fed, I’ll see about rustling up some food for the humans.”

Supper-a collection of cheeses, crackers, fresh grapes, and tangerines-was accompanied by glasses of chardonnay and eaten on trays in the living room. Velma barely touched her food or her wine, but at least it was offered. It was there if she wanted it. That was what Maddy offered her-the dignity of making her own choices.

They were still sitting over glasses of wine when there was a knock on the door and the dogs went into full-throated barking. Maddy gave Ali a wink.

“That will be Mr. Killjoy come to call. He doesn’t like the dogs, and the feeling is entirely mutual. They don’t like him either.”

“Just a minute,” she called. Maddy swiftly gathered glasses and trays and carried them into the kitchen. Then, before opening the door, she silenced the dogs and ordered them onto their rugs.

Ten minutes with Carson Trimble was enough to make Ali incredibly grateful for her son, Chris. Carson was arrogant and opinionated. To her misfortune, his hireling nurse had been outside smoking a cigarette when her boss arrived. He spoke mainly to her, asking the nurse pointed questions about Velma’s condition rather than addressing his queries to the patient herself. He made it plain that he regarded both Maddy and Ali as unwelcome guests who should have had brains enough to go away and let his mother die in peace.

When Maddy announced that she was going to go clean up the kitchen, Ali followed.

“What a jerk!” Ali muttered.

Maddy smiled. “I told you so. He has a whole set of rules about how he expects his mother’s death to play out, and it annoys him that she’s doing things her way instead of his. As I said, you ever met my son, you’d think he and Carson Trimble were twins.”

The mention of twins, real or not, reminded Ali that she needed to go down to her room and make some phone calls. By the time she returned to the guest suite, it was well after dark. Considering the time difference and her mother’s early bedtime, she decided not to call her parents. Instead she called Chris and Athena.

“How are things?” Ali asked her son.

“Athena is already in bed but probably not asleep,” he said. “We went to Grandma and Grandpa’s for dinner. That way I didn’t make a mess in the kitchen. The laundry is done to the best of my ability. Athena’s hospital suitcase is packed and waiting in the entryway closet.”

Ali could have asked if “the best of my ability” meant that the colored clothing was improperly sorted, but she didn’t. Chris had kept his color blindness a secret from her for a long time, and she decided to let that bit of family fiction go unchallenged.

“In other words, she’s still a little grumpy.”

“Do you think?”

“She’s pregnant,” Ali counseled. “If you were growing twins in your body, you’d probably be grumpy too.”

“We see Dr. Dixon again on Wednesday,” Chris said. “I’m hoping she’ll say it’s time to induce labor.”

Ali heard the unreasonable assumption in what Chris said. He was hoping that once the babies were born, he’d be getting his wife back. Ali understood the reality of that particular pipe dream. Chris and Athena wouldn’t be getting their previous lives back for the next eighteen or so years if ever.

“Get some sleep then,” she told her son. “You’re going to need it.”

She spent half an hour IMing back and forth to B. He had moved from his conference hotel to a different one in downtown D.C. She brought him up to date on the day’s happenings and about what she had learned from James Laughlin about Ermina Cunningham Blaylock.

She was in bed and sleeping soundly when her cell phone rang at one o’clock in the morning. Ali had left the cell plugged in and charging on the bathroom counter, so it took a few moments for her to stagger through the unfamiliar apartment to find it. She recognized the number. The call had originated at Camilla Gastellum’s house, but it wasn’t Camilla on the phone.

“Ali Reynolds?” the caller asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry to call in the middle of the night like this, but my mother insisted. I’m Valerie Sandoz, Brenda Riley’s sister.”

The estranged sister, Ali thought in relief. Camilla must have called her after all.

“Richard Lowensdale is dead,” Valerie announced without further preamble.

“He’s dead?” Ali asked. “When?”

“As far as I can tell, the detective didn’t say when exactly. It must have happened sometime over the weekend.”

“How did he die?” Ali asked.

“Somebody, Brenda most likely, put a plastic bag over his head. He suffocated.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Ali heard Camilla’s forceful objection to that conclusion rumble through the phone, but Ali was busy trying to sort out what she had just been told.

“Say again,” she said.

Valerie sighed. “Somebody put a plastic bag over his head,” she repeated impatiently. “The cops must think Brenda did it, since a homicide detective came here to the house looking for her. I don’t think it was a social call. Naturally, Mom didn’t get around to calling me until after the detective left. Brenda’s been missing since Friday afternoon, and I didn’t know a thing about it until Mom called me this evening.

“Then tonight, while Les and I were driving over from the Bay Area, some kid from Grass Valley called Mom too. It seems he spent this afternoon up in the mountains with some friends. According to him, he came across Brenda’s shoes and purse abandoned by some lake or other. The kid found Brenda’s cell phone in the purse and called Mom’s number. She told him he should take it to the cops. I’m guessing Brenda knocked off Richard and then committed suicide.”

Ali was trying to pay attention, but her ability to listen was hampered by what Valerie had said earlier about Richard Lowensdale’s manner of death. A plastic bag over the head as a murder weapon? To Ali’s way of thinking, it sounded a lot like Ermina Blaylock’s dead father. In fact, it sounded exactly like Ermina’s dead father. And if Ermina had gotten away with murder once, maybe she had decided to do so again.

Valerie was still talking when Ali started listening again.

“I tried to tell Mom we shouldn’t bother you in the middle of the night this way, but she insisted. She said you were Brenda’s friend-that you’d want to know.”

“Your mother is right,” Ali said. “I do want to know. Now about that detective who came to see your mother. Does he have a name?”

“Just a sec,” Valerie said. She was off the phone for a moment, then she returned. “He left his business card. His name is Gilbert Morris. Detective Gilbert Morris. Do you want his numbers?”

Ali had gone out to the front room, where she hunted through her purse and found a pen. She jotted the name and phone number onto the back of Mina Blaylock’s background check.

“All right,” Ali said when she finished. “Please tell your mother thank you for having you call me. And tell her I’m sorry things are looking so bad for her, and for you too,” she added.

Up to that moment, Valerie Sandoz had been all business-just the facts, ma’am, and nothing more. But those few words of sympathy from Ali were enough to crack the facade.

“Thank you,” she muttered over what sounded like a sob. “Thank you very much.”