Mary Clark: The Cradle Will Fall

"Kathleen, darling, I'm going to uproot that sadness in you."

"You already have, Judge."

They'd spent their honeymoon traveling through Italy. John's pain had begun on that trip. He'd had a checkup a month after they got home. The overnight stay at Mount Sinai Hospital stretched into three days of additional tests. Then one evening he'd been waiting for her at the elevator, a wan smile on his face. He said, "We've got trouble, darling."

Back in his room, he'd told her. "It's a malignant tumor. Both lungs, apparently."

It seemed incredible. Judge DeMaio, not thirty-eight years old, had been condemned to an indeterminate sentence of six months to life. For him there would be no parole, no appeal.

Knowing their time was slipping away, they made every minute count. But the cancer spread, and the pain got steadily worse. He'd go to the hospital for chemotherapy. Her nightmare began again; it came regularly.

Toward the end, he said, "I'm glad Molly and Bill live nearby. They'll look out for you. And you enjoy the children."

They'd both been silent then. Bill Kennedy was an orthopedic surgeon. He and Molly lived two towns away in Chapin River and had six kids. John had bragged that he and Katie would beat Bill and Molly's record. "We'll have seven," he'd declared.

The last time he went in for chemotherapy, he was so weak they had him stay overnight. He was talking to her when he slipped into a coma. He died that night.

The next week Katie applied to the prosecutor's office for a job and was accepted. The office was chronically shorthanded, and she always had more cases than she could reasonably handle. It was good therapy. There was no time for introspection.

She'd kept the house, although it seemed silly for a young woman to own a large home surrounded by five acres. "You'll never put your life with John behind you until you sell it," Bill had told her. He was probably right.

Now Katie shook herself and got up from the couch. She'd better call Molly and tell her about the accident. Maybe Molly would come over for lunch and cheer her up. Glancing into the mirror over the couch, Katie saw that a bruise under her right eye was turning a brilliant purple. Her olive complexion was a sickly yellow. Her collar-length dark brown hair, which usually bounced full and luxuriant in a natural wave, was matted against her face and neck. After she talked to Molly, she'd bathe and change.

Before she could pick up the phone, it began to ring. It was

Richard Carroll, the medical examiner. "Katie, how are you? Just heard that you were in some kind of accident last night."

"Nothing much. I took a little detour off the road. The trouble is there was a tree in the way."

"Why the blazes didn't you call me?"

Richard's concern was both flattering and threatening. He and Molly's husband were good friends. Several times Molly had pointedly invited Katie and Richard to small dinner parties. But Katie wasn't looking to get involved, especially with someone she worked with. "Next time I run into a tree I'll remember," she said.

"You're going to take a couple of days off, aren't you?"

"Oh, no. I'm going to see if Molly's free for lunch; then I'll go in to the office. I'm trying a case on Friday."

"There's no use telling you you're crazy. Okay. Gotta go. I'll poke my head in your office around five thirty and catch you for a drink. Then dinner." He hung up before she could reply.

Katie dialed Molly's number. When her sister answered, her voice was shaken. "Katie, I guess you've heard about it. People from your office are just getting there."

"Heard about what? Getting where?"

"Next door. The Lewises. That couple who moved in last summer. That poor man; he came home and found his wife, Vangie. She's killed herself. Katie, she was six months pregnant!"

The Lewises. Katie had met them at Molly and Bill's New Year's Day open house. Vangie, a very pretty blonde. Chris, an airline pilot. Numbly she heard Molly's shocked voice: "Katie, why would a girl who wanted a baby so desperately kill herself?"

The question hung in the air. Cold chills washed over Katie. Last night's nightmare. The face she'd glimpsed through the hospital window was Vangie Lewis'.

RICHARD Carroll parked his car within the police lines on Winding Brook Lane. He was shocked to realize that the Lewises lived next door to Bill and Molly Kennedy. Bill had been a resident when Richard interned at St. Vincent's. Later he'd specialized in forensic medicine, Bill in orthopedics. They had bumped into each other in the Valley County courthouse when Bill was appearing as a witness in a malpractice trial, and their friendship was revived. Now they golfed together frequently, and Richard often stopped at the Kennedy house for a drink.

He'd met Molly's sister, Katie DeMaio, in the prosecutor's office and had been immediately attracted to the dedicated young attorney, with her dark hair and intense blue eyes. Katie had subtly discouraged him, and he'd tried to dismiss her from his thoughts. But in the past few months he'd seen her at a couple of parties at Bill and Molly's and had found that he was far more intrigued by Katie DeMaio than he wanted to be.

Richard shrugged. He was here on business. It was his job to look for any medical signs that might indicate Vangie Lewis had not taken her own life. Later in the day he'd perform an autopsy.

A young cop from Chapin River let him in. A man in an airline captain's uniform was sitting in the living room, clasping and unclasping his hands. He was pale and trembling. Richard felt a twinge of sympathy. Some brutal kick to come home and find your wife a suicide. "Which way?" he asked the cop.

"Back here." He nodded to the rear of the house. "She's in the master bedroom."

In death Vangie Lewis was not a pretty sight. The long blond hair seemed a muddy brown now; her face was contorted. Her coat was buttoned, and the soles of her shoes were barely showing under a long flowered caftan. Richard pulled the caftan up past her ankles; the sides of her right shoe bit into the flesh of her swollen foot. Expertly he picked up one arm, held it for an instant, let it drop. He studied the mottled discoloration where the poison had burned her mouth.

Charley Nugent, the detective in charge of the Homicide Squad, was beside him. "How long you figure?"

"Anywhere from twelve to fifteen hours. She's pretty rigid." Richard's voice was noncommittal, but his sense of harmony was disturbed. Coat on. Shoes on. Had she just come home, or had she been planning to go out? The tumbler was beside her on the bed. Bending down, he sniffed it-the unmistakable bitter-almond scent of cyanide. He straightened up. "Did she leave a note?"

Charley shook his head. "No letters; no nothing. Been married ten years to the pilot. He seems pretty broken up. They're from Minneapolis; moved east less than a year ago. She always wanted to have a baby. Finally got pregnant and was in heaven. Starts decorating a nursery; talks baby morning, noon and night."

"Then she kills it and herself?"

"Her husband says lately she's been afraid she was going to lose the baby. Other times she'd act scared about giving birth. Apparently she was showing signs of a toxic pregnancy."

"And rather than give birth or face losing the baby, she kills herself?" Richard's tone was skeptical. He could tell Charley wasn't buying it either. "Who found her?" he asked.

"The husband. He just got in from a flight."

Richard stared at the burn marks around Vangie Lewis' mouth. "She must have really splashed that in," he said, "or maybe tried to spit it out. Can we bring the husband in here?"

"Sure." Charley nodded to the young cop at the bedroom door.

When Christopher Lewis came in, he looked sick. His complexion was now green; perspiration beaded his forehead. He had pulled open his shirt and tie. Richard studied him appraisingly. Lewis looked distraught, nervous. But not like a man whose life has just been shattered.