Mary Clark - The Cradle Will Fall

"One year."

He watched as a look of pain flickered over her face. "When did you find out that he was sick?" "Shortly after we got back from our honeymoon." "And ever since, it's been a deathwatch. Sorry, Katie; my job makes me too blunt for my own good. I'll take off now." He hesitated. "Don't you draw these drapes when you're alone here?"

She shrugged. "Why? No one's going to come barging in on me."

"You, of all people, should be aware of the number of home burglaries. Do you mind?" He went to the window and pulled the draperies shut. "See you tomorrow. How will you get to work?" "The service-station people are going to lend me a car. They'll drop it off in the morning." "Okay." For a moment he stood with his hand on the knob of the door, then in a highly credible brogue said, "I'll be leavin' ye,

Katie Scarlett. Lock your door now. I wouldn't want anyone tryin' to break into Tara." He bent down, kissed her cheek and was gone.

Smiling, Katie closed the door. The clock chimed musically. After Richard's bear-warm presence, the room seemed hollow. Quickly she turned out the lights and went upstairs.

The phone rang just as she got into bed.

"Mrs. DeMaio?" It was a man's voice.

"Yes."

"This is Dr. Highley. I hope I'm not calling too late, but I've tried several times to reach you this evening. The fact that you were in an accident and were in our hospital overnight has come to my attention. How are you feeling?"

"Quite well, Doctor. How nice of you to call."

"How is the bleeding problem?"

"I'm afraid it's about the same."

"Well, it will all be behind you by this time next week. But I do want you to have another transfusion to build you up for the surgery, and I also want you to start in on some pills. Can you come to the hospital tomorrow afternoon?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact, I was planning to come anyhow. You've heard about Mrs. Lewis?"

"I have. A terrible situation."

"I'd like to discuss her emotional and physical states with you."

"Fine. Call in the morning to arrange a time."

"Thank you, Doctor," Katie said. As she hung up, she reflected that Dr. Highley hadn't really appealed to her at first because of his aloof attitude. It shows how you can misjudge people, she decided.

BILL Kennedy rang the bell of the Lewis house. Tall, prematurely white, and scholarly, Bill was an orthopedic surgeon at Lenox Hill Hospital. He had not heard about Vangie Lewis' death until he returned home.

Briefly Molly had told him about it. "I called and asked Chris to come to dinner. He doesn't want to, but you go drag him here."

As he walked between the houses, Bill considered what a shock it would be to come home and find he had lost Molly. But no one in his right mind could think that the Lewises' marriage had been anything like his and Molly's. Bill had never told Molly that one morning when he was having coffee at a drugstore in Manhattan he'd seen Chris with a very pretty girl in her early twenties.

Chris Lewis opened the door, and Bill saw the sadness in his eyes. He gripped the younger man's arm. "I'm terribly sorry."

Chris nodded woodenly. The meaning of the day was sinking in on him. Vangie was dead. Had their quarrel driven her to kill herself? He felt lonely, frightened and guilty. He allowed Bill to persuade him to come to dinner. Numbly reaching for a jacket, he followed Bill down the street.

Bill poured him a double Scotch. Chris gulped it. Calm down, he thought, calm down. Be careful.

The Kennedy kids came into the den to say good night. Nice kids, all of them. Well behaved too. Chris had always wanted children. But not Vangie's. Now his unborn child had died. Another guilt. His child, and he hadn't wanted it. And Vangie had known it. What had, who had driven her to kill herself? Who? That was the question. Because Vangie hadn't been alone last night.

He hadn't told the police. They would start an investigation. And where would that lead? To Joan. To him.

The motel clerk in New York had seen him leave last night. He'd gone home to have it out with Vangie. Let me go, please. I can't spend any more of my life with you. It's destroying both of us.

He'd arrived at the house sometime after midnight. He'd driven in, and the minute he opened the garage door he knew something was up. Because she'd parked the Lincoln in his space. No, someone else had parked her car in his space. Vangie always used the wider side of the garage. And she needed every inch. She was a lousy driver. But last night the Lincoln had been expertly parked in his spot on the narrower side.

He'd gone in and found the house empty. Vangie's handbag was on the chaise in their room. He'd been puzzled but not alarmed. Obviously she'd gone off with a girl friend to stay overnight, taking a suitcase and leaving her heavy purse behind.

The house had depressed Chris. He'd decided to go back to the motel. And then this morning he'd found Vangie dead. Somebody had parked the car for her before midnight. Somebody had driven her home after midnight. And those shoes. The one day she'd worn them she'd complained endlessly about how the right shoe dug into her ankle.

For weeks now she'd worn nothing but those dirty moccasins. Where were they? Chris had searched the house thoroughly. Whoever had driven her home might know.

He hadn't told the police any of this. He hadn't wanted to involve Joan. Besides, maybe the shoes really weren't that important. Vangie might have wanted to be fully dressed when she was found. That swollen leg embarrassed her.

But he should have told the cops about his having been here, about the way the car was parked. "Chris, come into the dining room. You'll feel better if you eat something." Molly's voice was gentle.

Wearily Chris brushed a hand over burning eyes. "I'll have something, Molly," he said. "But I'll have to leave pretty quickly. The funeral director is coming to the house for Vangie's clothes."

"When is the funeral?" Bill asked.

"The coffin will be flown to Minneapolis tomorrow afternoon, and the service will be the next day." The words hammered in his ears. Coffin. Funeral. Oh, Vangie, he thought, I wanted to be free of you, but I didn't want you to die.

At eight he went back to his house. At eight thirty, when the funeral director came, he had a suitcase ready with underwear and the flowing caftan Vangie's parents had sent her for Christmas.

The funeral director was quietly sympathetic. He requested the necessary information quickly. Born April 15. He jotted down the year. Died February 15-just two months short of her thirty-first birthday, he commented.

Chris rubbed the ache between his eyes. Something was wrong.

"No," he said. "Today's the sixteenth, not the fifteenth."

"The death certificate clearly states that Mrs. Lewis died be tween eight and ten last night, February fifteenth," the man said.

"You're thinking the sixteenth because you found her this morning. But the medical examiner pinpointed the time of death."

Chris stared at him. Waves of shock swept over him. He had been home at midnight and the car and Vangie's purse had been here. He'd assumed that Vangie had come in and killed herself sometime after he drove back to New York.

But at midnight she'd been dead two to four hours. That meant that after he'd left, someone had brought her body here, put it on the bed and laid the empty glass beside it. Someone had wanted to make it seem that Vangie had committed suicide.

"Oh, Lord," Chris whispered. At the last moment Vangie must have known. Someone had forced that poison into her, viciously killed her and the baby she was carrying.

He had to tell the police. And there was one person they would inevitably accuse. As the funeral director stared at him, Chris said aloud, "They're going to blame it on me."