Deaths of Jocasta (33 page)

“I see.”

“I have to go babysit,” she said, explaining her hurry. “Betty’s locking up.”

“Hurry on. I’ll see you later.”

She waved and headed for the door. I entered the office. Nurse Peterson was there.

“Oh, hello, Miss Knight,” she said when she saw me.

“Hello,” I replied. “Noble of you to close up as often as you do.”

“I don’t mind. Bernie does so many extra things for the rest of us.”

“Yeah, she’s a good kid. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Of course. I’ve certainly asked you enough.”

“The women Cordelia’s accused of killing. Do you remember any of them?”

“I only started here recently, about two months ago. I know that one of the women was a patient here. The one you found…in the basement.”

“Beverly Sue Morris?”

“Yes, her. I think she was one of Jane’s patients.”

“Did Cordelia ever see her?”

“She might have. I don’t really know.”

“Was she here Friday afternoon?”

“I honestly don’t remember.”

“What about Faye Zimmer? Alice Janice Tresoe? Vicky Edith Williams?”

“Who?” she asked. “Could you repeat those names?”

“Faye Zimmer, Alice Janice Tresoe, Vicky Edith Williams.”

“I think…I remember Faye Zimmer. She seemed awfully young…she came in here for birth control pills. I guess now that she’s…gone, privacy doesn’t matter much.”

“It’s lost once you’re dead. For murder victims, it’s stripped away,” I told her in a quiet voice. “Do you remember any of the other women?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. I usually work with the kids. My specialty is pediatric nursing.”

“Do you like working here?” I asked, gently probing.

“Oh, yes.” She smiled, her face becoming animated.

“Even with your views about abortion?”

“This isn’t an abortion clinic. Most of what we do here has nothing to do with abortion. I’m here because I’ve always wanted to do this kind of medicine. I can get to know my patients, not just hand them a pill. I can make a difference. When I worked in a hospital, at times I felt like I was just another white uniform. Cordelia said the only rule here is to be a kind, compassionate, responsible adult.”

“How about the people? Do you get along with the rest of the staff?”

“Yes, everyone is nice. Kind. Even though we disagree about things, I feel like, well, I’m in a family here. It makes me…I don’t know.”

“Makes you what?”

“Sometimes I wonder about things. I mean, Millie lives with a man. They’re not married. And she’s made it clear that…”

“That they have sex.” Millie would, I thought.

“Yes. I was taught that that was wrong. But I can’t look at Millie and see a sinner, or some evil harlot. That’s what my father calls women like her. And Cordelia…”

“And Cordelia?” I prompted.

“She’s very smart. Very dedicated and hardworking. One day we were talking and—I’m twenty-three now. I’ve had the same boyfriend for two years and everyone expects me to marry him. I’m not even sure that I like him. Cordelia told me that she had almost married someone to please her family. She didn’t say it like that. She said, ‘To meet expectations that had been handed down from generation to generation, to the point that I imposed them on myself. But then I realized that their expectations didn’t equal my happiness, wouldn’t make up for love that wasn’t really there.’ Then she told me—” Betty abruptly halted.

“Told you about her personal life?” I suggested.

“Yes, I guess you would know,” Betty said with a rueful smile. “I was taken aback. And I think I said something stupid like I thought she was pretty enough to get a man.

“She replied that what mattered was that she was finally strong enough to know who she was and what she wanted. That the hardest thing she’d ever done was to give herself the right to her own life.”

I nodded, suddenly wondering what it had been like for Cordelia to struggle against what everyone thought she should be, those generations of expectations.

“I asked her why she told me,” Betty continued, “She replied that she was tired of lying. That even silence can become a lie. Like Millie, I can’t put her into the category I’ve always been told to put people like her into.”

“No,” I answered. “Cordelia’s a hard woman to categorize.”

“Can I ask you a question?” Betty asked, her voice changing. I nodded. “What if, well, there is something you believe in, but to achieve it, you do things you don’t like?”

“The end justifies the means?”

“Yes, I guess that’s a better way to put it.”

“If you use means that are repugnant to you, what kind of person do you become by the time you gain your end?”

“What about bombing abortion clinics to prevent abortions? If you believe abortion is wrong.”

“Kill people to protest killing?”

“No. You make sure the buildings are empty. Civil disobedience, I believe you call it.”

“I’d call it blowing up a building. Even at two in the morning, you can’t guarantee a passerby won’t get hurt or killed in the explosion. Civil disobedience is a nonviolent form of protest in which the protester risks the consequences.”

“Is it wrong to destroy a building to prevent murder?”

“At the risk of committing murder?” I asked.

“But to save a life…”

“We’d ban guns and cars if existence were the only standard. We, as a society, have chosen to sacrifice lives for certain freedoms, such as driving a car at highway speeds,” I noted sardonically. “An unwanted pregnancy that a woman is forced to carry to term is, in my opinion, nothing less than involuntary servitude. Nine months of slavery, if you will. That is why she must have the choice. Why we must be willing to accept the loss of lives—if that is what you believe a fetus is—for this basic freedom.”

“I guess it is not an easy question,” she replied, probably wanting to avoid another lecture on my part.

“No. I don’t think we’ll solve it tonight.”

“No. But thank you for talking to me, Miss Knight.” She turned off the lights.

“Call me Micky. It’s what I answer to best.”

“I must go. It’s late.”

“Yeah, I just came by out of habit,” I said, following her into the hall.

“Please call me Betty,” she said as we walked to the door. “Is Micky short for something?”

“Michele.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

“Oh, I guess. I never thought about it.”

We reached the parking lot.

“Good night, Micky,” she said as she got in her car.

“Good night, Betty,” I answered. I watched her as she started her car and drove away. Betty Peterson was asking a lot of questions, as if desperately seeking answers. But to what? I wondered if her questions were as theoretical as she wanted them to seem. My recital of the murdered women’s names had jarred Betty. I was sure of that. But why? What questions could I ask that would get her to tell me? I got in my car and drove home.

I’d supped and showered and was sitting reading when the phone rang. About time, I thought, wondering which of my long-absent friends had finally remembered my existence.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Hi, Micky, this is Alex.”

Alex? “Hi, what’s up?”

“An invitation and a party. The invitation is for you and the party is for us. A good-bye old apartment, hello, two bedrooms. Joanne and I are moving in together.”

“Oh. Congratulations.”

“I’m not calling you to brag. Well, not much. Joanne’s going to invite you, too. But I wanted to call and do my Melanie Wilks imitation. Now, Scarlett—or should it be Lavender?—ah don’ care what you were doin’ with my woman, but y’all come to my party. There, how’s that?”

“Next, please.”

“Ah, well, I was never destined to be a Southern belle. It’s this Saturday. Will you come?”

“Uh…sure, Alex. If you can stand to have me there, no one else should object.”

“Good. It’ll be the scandal of the summer,” she bantered. Then her tone changed. “Micky? Joanne told me everything.”

“Oh,” I said, then repeated, “Oh.” There didn’t seem much else to say.

“Joanne said she finally went too far. And it wasn’t pretty.”

“I had something to do with that. Me and my smart mouth.”

“Sticks and stones…”

“Sometimes I think words do the most damage.”

“No, Micky, not words. Apathy and hatred do the most damage. Words just convey the message.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. So what do I wear to this party? Can I bring anything?”

“I think something red and outrageous would be appropriate, don’t you? Just bring yourself. We’ll supply the rest. We can afford to throw a real party with the money we’ll be saving on rent.”

“Red and outrageous. Just for you, Alex.”

She gave me directions to her place and we got off the phone.

I called Torbin and left a message on his machine. “Red and outrageous. Saturday night.” He would know what to do with it.

Then I went to bed.

Joanne called the next day, seconding Alex’s invitation. Torbin left, “Scarlet and blasphemous. But you’ll have to bring your own shoes, dear.” Those were the messages on my machine when I got home.

I called him back, insisting on merely red and outrageous. We haggled for a bit. He finally lured me to his way of thinking by promising to provide two more-than-decent bottles of champagne for me to take to the party. It was, he said, the traditional other-woman gift.

Having exhausted my title searching, I went to the clinic in the morning. Keeps me off the streets, I thought as I entered the building.

“Hi, Bernie,” I said as I sauntered across the waiting room.

“Hey, Micky.” She grinned at me. “The gang’s all here.”

I started to ask what gang, then I saw what she meant. Cordelia was coming down the hallway.

“Bernie,” she said, “when you’re scheduling, leave a little extra time between patients, I have to tell them—” Then she saw me and broke off. “Micky. Hi.” She smiled at me, as if she were really glad to see me.

“Hi.” I couldn’t help smiling in return. “How are you?”

“Okay. Considering,” she replied, with a shrug. Then she awkwardly put her arm around my shoulder and leaned in to kiss me. Our lips brushed. I don’t know if it was intentional or not, I had been turning my head toward her. She might have been aiming for my cheek. But she didn’t remove her arm from my shoulder, even when I put my arm around her waist. I did notice that none of this was lost on Bernie. Oh, well, she had to learn somewhere. Just what, I wasn’t sure.

“What are you doing here?” Cordelia asked.

“I was about to inquire the same of you,” I replied.

“Good lawyer. I can see patients provided I inform them of the charges pending against me and that I have someone with me at all times. Also, that I perform no abortions.”

“I’m being a detective. That’s why I’m here.”

“How do you feel about being a witness? Betty called in sick today. Or are you shy about being in an examining room? Elly said she can be here around lunchtime, so it’s only until then.”

“Sure,” I agreed, not adding that there wasn’t much I felt shy about. Cordelia found a white lab coat for me to add a patina of respectability to my presence.

So I spent the morning ensuring that Cordelia did inform the patients about her arrest and that she didn’t perform any abortions. I even made myself useful by noting some of the basics, like name and address. I could handle that. I found myself increasingly impressed by Cordelia’s compassion and gentleness with her patients. This, in spite of the difficulty of having to tell every one of them that she was out on bail for manslaughter. A few people refused treatment, but I noticed the patients who had been with her for a while shrugged off her arrest as some bizarre miscarriage of justice. It was reassuring to have their reactions confirm my own.

Elly relieved me at lunchtime. I willingly left her to the world of urine samples and shots and got back in the detective business. I returned to my place and made phone calls. Neither Joanne nor Danny could do more than confirm what Cordelia had told me. No new news of the murders. I went down my list and called Jane Bowen.

“So whose side are you on?” was her response after I identified myself and told her what I wanted.

“Cordelia’s. I’d like to find out the truth,” I answered.

“What if the truth never comes shining through? If all you get is a muddled and dirty version?” she said, then added, “That incriminates Cordelia?”

“I’m not the police. I won’t be content with the muddled and dirty version.”

“All right,” she said, making a decision. “I performed an abortion on Beverly Morris on Friday morning, the day she died, at the other clinic I work for out in Metairie. Everything went well, no complications. She was fine when she left.”

“So what happened?”

“Nothing should have happened. What the police want to hear—and I can’t tell them this didn’t happen—is that Beverly developed complications, couldn’t reach me because I was gone by then, and went to see Cordelia on Friday afternoon. And that Cordelia let whatever complication Beverly developed kill her.”