Family Practice (8 page)

At this point in an investigation, she'd be high on adrenaline and bad coffee, caught up in the crazy tension and energy of the team. Homicides averaged out to one every three days in San Francisco. She'd already have a backlog; a new one would feel like overload, and she'd want to wrap it up immediately and have it out of her way.

Dropping her pen, she leaned back and rubbed her eyes with a thumb and forefinger. When she opened her eyes, Parkhurst was sitting in the wooden armchair in front of the desk. She sat up straight. “Didn't your mother ever teach you to knock?”

“From her I learned it's never advisable to let your presence be known.”

Whatever that meant. “You have anything for me?”

“Bits and pieces. Let's get something to eat, and I'll tell you.”

Yes. Good. Why not? She hadn't eaten since breakfast. Build up a little blood sugar.

He stood. “Coffee Cup Café?”

She nodded and slung the strap of her bag across her shoulder. “I'll meet you there.”

“What have you got?” she asked when they were seated in a booth in the rear.

“The patients, those scheduled in the morning, have all been questioned, and—” He broke off as the waitress handed them each a menu and continued when she left. “They saw the good doctor, got whatever it was attended to, and have nothing useful to say. Except for Mrs. Clinkenbeard, who's ninety-three and suffers from arthritis. She claims she had a feeling in her bones. Now, you might just put this down to arthritis flareup, but she knows it was a premonition of impending death.”

When the waitress returned, Susan ordered a turkey sandwich and coleslaw. Parkhurst asked for chicken-fried steak.

Susan closed the menu and handed it back to the waitress. “No weapon?”

“Not yet. Not the right one, anyway. Carl owns a handgun. 9-mm Browning. It's not the murder weapon. Nothing useful in the Barrington house. Although that place is so large, it'd take a month and even then we couldn't be sure.”

“Prints at the office?”

“Sure. Latents all over the place. Probably none of them helpful. You ever get a lock on a case with fingerprints?”

“Once. Made me feel like a real detective.”

“According to Dr. Willis Barrington, no drugs missing.”

“There wouldn't have been time. Couldn't have been more than five seconds before I was chasing him, and then I found Jen. The shooter barely had time to scoot out that rear door.”

The waitress brought the food, and Susan kept her eyes averted from the chicken-fried steak, a piece of midwestern cuisine that was right up there with fried brains when it came to appeal.

“None of the nearest and dearest have what you might call an alibi,” Parkhurst said when the waitress left. “Dr. Willis was home alone most of the afternoon, although he did go out to the post office to pick up some stamps. Wife Vicky was shopping. We're tracking down clerks or whoever who saw her, but even so she could have nipped in, shot Dorothy, and rushed back to fingering lingerie.” He cut a bite of steak.

Susan picked up a fork and poked at the coleslaw.

He chewed and swallowed. “That goes for all of them. Dr. Marlitta was home alone except for a trip to the grocery store. These people spend a lot of time home alone. Her husband—whose name is Brent Wakeley, by the way; Barringtons like to hold onto that name—claims he was at Emerson.”

“Why at Emerson?”

“The brilliant physician is also a dedicated teacher.”

“On Saturday?”

“Mostly dedicated to the pursuit of female students, if the rumors are correct. Dr. Carl, home alone. Except when he went out to run some errands. There's a man not happy with his life.”

“If he's not happy, why doesn't he change it?”

“Something we might want to find out. The husband, Taylor, in his perusal of new cars could have slipped in and iced his wife between the BMW and Mercedes.”

“Any motive for any of them?”

“Money.” Parkhurst gave her a wolfish grin. “Always a good one. More on that when I get the scoop on wills. As in last and testament.” He speared a French fry, dipped it in catsup, and popped it into his mouth.

“Not one of them knows why she asked them all to come to the house this evening?”

“So they say, and not one would hazard a guess. I'll wager they've all thought on it. And come up with reasons. Maybe different for each one. And maybe none of them right. I'll set Osey on them. Maybe he'll ease out a speculation or two.”

She nodded. Detective O. C. Pickett, slow-talking country boy with an engaging grin, was one of those loose, relaxed people whom everybody liked. He could walk up to a group of strangers and in ten minutes they'd all be joking and carrying on like he was an old buddy.

Parkhurst slid his plate to the corner of the table, set his coffee mug in front of him, and wrapped both hands around it. He studied her. “You all right?” he asked softly.

“Fine,” she said, self-consciously aware of him: high-planed face, straight nose, penetrating brown eyes, thick dark hair, full lower lip, arched upper lip. Air of icy arrogance. Hard-edged, giving a sense of violence barely contained. When he softened, like now, she got nervous. They'd worked together for over a year, had started out with distrust and thrown barbed darts at each other, but had gradually moved toward a grudging respect; she'd become appreciative of his worth and learned to rely on him.

Then, while she wasn't paying attention, this stupid adolescent attraction popped up and slapped her in the face. After Daniel's death, she'd vowed, never again. Too much potential for pain. The trouble with love was the hole it left when it was gone. If she were so foolish as to get in an emotional entanglement, it wouldn't be with Parkhurst. That would be disaster. He wasn't her type. He had too many hard edges. She outranked him—hell, was top of the line in authority.

And there was her position as police chief. Hokey as it sounded in today's social climate, the good citizens wouldn't take lying down—so to speak—their chief of police cavorting around without benefit of matrimony. Hampstead's climate was several degrees below the modern world.

She didn't like the awkwardness between them. Things floated around in it that made her twitch like a scared rabbit. She didn't know what to do about it. And right now she didn't want to think about it. She had all she could handle with Jen's precarious situation.

“It's not your fault.” He smiled, which was itself unusual and put her on alert.

“I know that.” Right about now, she and Jen should be settling in their seats after intermission, waiting for the ballet to continue. “If Jen doesn't recover, I'm going to resign.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Susan—”

She shook her head, found bills in her wallet, tossed them on the table, and stood up.

Before going home, she stopped at the hospital to see Jen. No change.

When she snapped on the kitchen light, Perissa came in nattering pleasure at her arrival. Susan scooped up the little cat, who climbed onto her shoulder and bit her ear. She dumped the cat and squatted in front of a cabinet, found a flat can of liver, and stuck it under the can opener. Perissa waited patiently, sitting tall, tail curled around her front paws, while Susan spooned liver chunks into a bowl.

After a quick shower to wash away the sticky feeling, she pulled on one of Daniel's white T-shirts and opened the windows wide to encourage any stray breeze to wander in. It was just dusk; the air was like velvet, the trees made moving shadows in the soft wind. Fireflies glowed and winked out, glowed and winked out. Crickets sang. A dog barked.

She propped pillows against the headboard and stretched out on the bed to study her notes. Maybe something would leap up at her. Perissa jumped on the bed and industriously kneaded Susan's hair. “Well, cat, we're left here with the night terrors and the dreams and the regrets. What do you think? We gonna get through this?”

Perissa gave her an inscrutable look.

*   *   *

Here they all were, just as Dorothy had told them to be. Ellen toed off her cruddy Nikes, pulled up her socks, and leaned against the arm of the sofa to tuck her feet up under her.

“She must have said something to somebody.” Willis, with a clink of bottles, slid the crowded tray onto the oak chest against the wall and poured out a splash of bourbon.

At least I've had a shower, Ellen thought. And washed my hair. Life is better, right? Sure. Everything's the same. I sit here like somebody else's dog, like I don't belong, like what am I doing here anyway. Life is the shits. Dorothy's dead. Nothing's the same.

They were in the music room, where they gathered to play Bach or Mozart or Strauss waltzes, Dorothy on piano, Willis with cello, Marlitta and Carl violins. Ellen played the flute, except she usually got kicked out because she never practiced enough.

The enormous room was crammed with furniture: upright piano against one wall, wing chairs, small tables, two Victorian sofas. Crystal lamps all over the place and all of them lit. The windows were open, and periodically a tepid breeze stirred the lace curtains.

It was easy to see they were all related: light hair, blue eyes, pale complexions and lookalike features, lookalike mannerisms. Except me. The cuckoo in the nest. Looking like Daddy with dark hair, dark eyes. All by myself too. The others came in pairs. Dorothy and Willis. Marlitta and Carl. Here's me, long time later, all alone.

“Taylor.” Willis turned to Dorothy's husband. “Why did she want us all here? She must have said something to you.”

“She didn't.” Taylor, in one of the wing chairs, sat leaning forward, elbows on his knees, chin propped in one hand. His face looked stiff and pale. If he resented Willis taking over as lord of the manor, he stomped on it.

He had to know what the family thought of him, figure he'd be tossed out as soon as decency allowed. He wasn't that much of a dimwit.

“I didn't even know she'd asked you to come,” he said.

“Scotch, please, Willis,” Marlitta said. She was a younger, softer version of Dorothy; like a photocopy that hadn't come out quite right. Even her voice was softer, giving an impression of uncertainty where Dorothy always sounded decisive. “And water. Make it weak. She must have wanted to discuss something about the practice.”

Not so, Ellen thought. Or I wouldn't have been ordered to present myself.

“There is no trouble with the practice.” Willis handed Marlitta a glass.

She took a sip, sat the glass on the side table, crossed her legs, and adjusted the pleated blue skirt over her knees.

Willis looked fit and prosperous in his summer-weight suit, white shirt and tie, freshly barbered, hair showing a little gray. Without asking Vicky what she wanted, he handed her a rum and Coke.

“There's Ackerbaugh fuming and threatening because the baby's not any better.” Carl got up to fix himself a drink.

Winslow Ackerbaugh? He was the one putting in all her expensive new pipes. She hoped fumes and threats didn't seep through into leaky pipes.

In contrast to Willis, Carl looked rumpled in baggy brown pants and open-collared tan shirt with the shirttail hanging loose. Everything looked loose on Carl, because he was so thin. He had the narrow, ascetic face of a monk in an old book of medieval tales. Or a fanatic. “Whatever the reason, Dorothy was pissed about it,” he said.

Willis frowned. Decorum, please. Let us not forget we're Barringtons. He was doing his best to take over as head of the family, but he didn't have the stuff of which Dorothy had been made. He'd managed to get them all here, but Ellen thought only because Dorothy'd already arranged it. They bitched and griped about Dorothy, but none of them quite knew what to do now she wasn't here to tell them.

Me too. I'm just like the rest. Such pride that I got away, did my own thing. Ha. How far did I get? A few miles out of town, where I get to lie awake all night worrying how I'm going to pay bills. And just how much of my ersatz escape was my determination? Maybe Dorothy just thought I wasn't real bright and not worth the effort, I'd end up like Daddy anyway.

“The police have been asking me questions,” Willis said. “I don't like it. Obviously, it was someone who broke in, looking for drugs or items to steal.”

“The police have talked to all of us,” Carl said. “And it's going to get a lot worse before they're through.”

“They should be chasing down suspects.”

“They are,” Carl said. “
We
are suspects.”

“That's absurd.” Willis glared at him. “What's the matter with you?”

“Tired, I guess. Makes me forget the rules and open my mouth. Communication! Good God. Haven't we all thought about it, big brother? Fantasized about what we could do if she wasn't standing over us holding the whip. And the money. Now we can add substance to dreams, right? What are you going to do, Willis?” Carl looked over at Vicky. “Go on to bigger and better things?”

Vicky smiled uncertainly at Carl. Automatic. Whenever anyone looked at Vicky, she smiled. In a sundress with narrow straps and gathered skirt, she'd been sitting quietly on a sofa with a pulled-tight look as though trying not to be visible. She held the glass Willis had handed her, but, Ellen just realized, had yet to take a sip. That wasn't like Vicky.

Ellen had to admit Vicky was decorative and assumed that was why Willis had married her. What other reason? As far as Ellen knew, all Vicky ever did was apply makeup and change clothes.

Barringtons weren't smart when it came to choosing a spouse. Marlitta's husband was total scum. Brent came in a great package: a visage to swoon over, dark hair drifting across his forehead just asking for feminine fingers to brush through, dark brown eyes that seemed compassionate and wise. Ha. He sat there in the wing chair looking as though every word everybody said had some deep significance and he was the oracle who understood all. Marlitta loved him. You didn't tell your sister her gorgeous husband was garbage and ought to be dumped over the side.